Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

“On what grounds?”

“Causing a disturbance. The sheikhs didn’t like that, I can tell you.”

“The sheikhs? You threatened to arrest the sheikhs?”

Oh Christ, thought Owen.

“It was a bluff. And then I cunningly said that all I wanted to do was make sure that nothing untoward was happening, so I would be quite satisfied if they just brought me a chair and let me watch for a bit and satisfy myself on that score. In the end they agreed, provided I just listened-the music was marvellous, Owen, cymbals, you know, dubertas, timbrels. I agreed, of course, but then-”

He looked shamefaced.

“I peeped.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I did. And, you know, Owen, it was most interesting, for what I saw-”

“How did you come to get drugged?”

“They brought me drink. They brought everyone in the courtyard drink. It was part of it, you see-”

“Who brought you drink?”

“A most charming girl. Dressed in white virginal robes-”

“Yes, yes. Was she part of the, well, witch’s entourage?”

“Yes. She came out with the bowl and took it round.”

“She gave everyone a drink?”

“Yes. Which is why, Owen,” McPhee said with emphasis, “the drug must have been administered on a different occasion.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I can’t actually think-” McPhee admitted.

“Unless, of course, she put something special in just before she got to you.”

“Oh, no, Owen. Really! A girl of integrity.”

Owen was beginning to see an argument for Gavin’s position.

“And then you fell asleep?” he said.

“Yes. You know, Owen-”

“Yes?”

“I was very tired that night. You don’t think I could have just fallen asleep in the ordinary way and that afterwards someone administered-?”

“While you were asleep? That strength? No,” said Owen.

“You see, I feel sure the lady was genuine.”

“Well,” said Owen soothingly, “perhaps, in her way, she was.”

McPhee looked pleased.

“You think so? I must say, I’ve had doubts myself. Could it be a genuine survival, I’ve asked myself? Or-”

“I shall want to know about the people in the courtyard,” Owen said.

“Hangers on,” McPhee said, “excluded from the real mysteries.”

“All men?”

“Yes. They’re fascinated, too, of course. Can’t keep away. But frightened! The Aalima is a pretty compelling figure.”

“Could you identify any of them?”

“I might be able to recognize them. They’ll be local, of course.”

“If you could just give me a start…”

McPhee nodded.

“I’ll do my best. But, Owen,” he said sternly, “there must be no messing about with the ladies. The Zzarr is a remarkable institution. It is, I am sure, pre-Islamic. I wouldn’t be surprised if it owed something to the Greek mysteries. I thought I caught some Greek words. Some Roman influence, too, perhaps. After all-”

“Yes?”

“ Bacchantium instar mulieres vidimus.”

“Quite,” said Owen.

“I protest,” said Sheikh Musa.

“I quite agree,” said Owen heartily, “and I join myself in your protest.”

“Wait a minute,” said the Sheikh, “you’re the man I’m protesting to.”

“If the subject of your protest is what I think it is,” said Owen, “the deplorable assault on the Bimbashi a couple of nights ago, then we are on common ground.”

“It’s not the assault I’m bothered about,” said the Sheikh. “It’s his presence there in the first place.

“At the Zzarr?”

The Sheikh winced.

“We don’t like to use that word. The ceremony, you know, is not entirely regular. It’s not something that’s, well, officially recognized. We know it goes on, of course. There are people who, not to put too fine a point on it, are drawn to such things. I dare say you know the kind of people I mean?” Owen, thinking of McPhee, said he did.

“I wouldn’t want to encourage them by letting them think they have my approval. So I would prefer, if you don’t mind, not to use the word. To do so would be to admit that I know about such things.”

“Well, yes, but…then why are you here?”

“I have come to lodge a formal protest at Bimbashi McPhee’s presence.”

“At what?”

“An unspecified event in the Gamaliya district.”

“You can’t protest at his presence if you’re unable to say what he was present at!”

“From my point of view,” said the Sheikh, “the protest is the important thing, not the event.”

“I see.”

“There’s a lot of feeling in the Gamaliya about the incident.”

“I see.”

“Which might boil over.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

The Sheikh looked surprised.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just wanted to lodge a protest, that was all.”

Owen understood. The Sheikh was anxious to guard his back in terms of relations with his flock.

He thought for a moment.

“I don’t know that I can accept a formal protest,” he said. “If there wasn’t an event, there can’t have been a presence at it.”

“Oh!”

“I don’t think I could offer an apology. Formal, that is. However, I might be willing to issue a general statement deploring recent events-unspecified, of course, — in the Gamaliya. Would that help?”

“From my point of view, yes.”

“And from my point of view? Would that be enough to head off trouble?”

“I doubt it,” said Sheikh Musa.

Owen felt like kicking McPhee’s backside.

Owen still had hopes it would all quietly fade away. The heat would surely dissuade potential troublemakers from causing a riot and by the time the hot spell was over, with luck they would have forgotten about it. As for Garvin and McPhee, Garvin would soon be departing on leave. He usually liked to return to his old haunts at Alexandria and go duck shooting. With luck, he would return in a less savage frame of mind. Perhaps McPhee, too, could be induced to take a break: go and look at some of the monasteries in Sinai, for example. In heat like this people tended to get things out of perspective.

He had better watch that this didn’t happen in his own case. Perhaps he should take a holiday, too? The trouble was that Zeinab would insist on going to Paris. She regarded everywhere else as boringly provincial. The Government, on the other hand, insisted that its employees take their leave locally. Perhaps, on second thoughts, it might be best not to take a holiday. Besides, if Garvin and McPhee were away, someone had to look after the shop.

However, he must certainly guard against getting things out of perspective. He ought to take it easy for a bit. Working on this theory, he stepped out of the office midmorning and went to his favourite cafe, taking the next day’s newspapers or, at least, the Arabic, French and English ones with him. He could always pretend that it was work. One of the Mamur Zapt’s duties was control of the press, a necessary function (in the view of the British) in a city of more than a dozen religions, a score of nationalities, a hundred different ethnic flavours and over a thousand sects, half of which at any given time were at the throats of the other half. To this end, he received advance copies of all publications.

Control, though, was another matter. Debate in the Arab world tended to be conducted at voice top anyway, and in the press the normal temperature was feverish. Cairo had taken to newspapers late but with gusto and there were hundreds of them. Each faction had at least two newspapers (two, because any group in Cairo could be guaranteed to split at least two ways) and they vied with each other in the extremity of their views and the vehemence with which they expressed them. Even the weather reports were fiercely disputed.