Michael Pearce - The Donkey-Vous

Mahmoud had had several possibilities in mind. First, he tried to get an arabeah to the foot of the steps. This proved quite impossible, given the crowd. Indeed, for some time no arabeah had been able to leave its rank at all and the arabeah-drivers were complaining loudly. Then he had envisaged the kidnapped Moulin being smuggled away through the crowd somehow bundled up in a cloak. The little clerk recovered at this point and struck out feebly with his arms, which made wrapping him up difficult. The constable produced his truncheon again but was restrained by McPhee, to the detriment, however, of the realism of the scenario. Eventually the protesting form was concealed but then another problem presented itself. So tightly packed was the crowd that the kidnappers were wedged in, quite unable to move. After a few abortive efforts they stood there looking blankly at Mahmoud.

Mahmoud came down the steps and tried to force open a path for them. As fast as two people were prised apart, however, someone else stepped into the breach. The kidnappers left Monsieur Moulin standing and joined their efforts to Mahmoud’s. Unsupported and unable to see, Monsieur Moulin slowly toppled over. One of the kidnappers made a despairing effort to save him and was pulled over on top of him as he fell.

“Don’t remember this bit at all,” said the donkey-boys, straightfaced.

One of the constables abandoned his part in the defensive ring and came to help. Immediately, the ring caved in. The people who had been leaning against it fell into the space too on top of the kidnappers. One of the more public-spirited of them, finding himself up against one of the kidnappers and believing the whole incident to be real, not simulated, grappled with him in an attempt to prevent his escaping. Fighting broke out.

In the middle of all this the outrunners of the wedding, who had been patiently forcing their way through the crowd, arrived at the foot of the steps.

“Make way for the wedding!” the donkey-boys called ironically to the mass of people struggling on the ground in front of the steps. The leading camel of the palanquin broke through the crowd and sniffed, astonished, at the recumbent forms. The little Greek clerk, who had all this time been struggling to free himself from the wrappings which enveloped him, at last succeeded. As his head emerged he found himself gazing straight into the eyes of the camel. He gave a scream and burrowed back beneath the wrappings. The camel, startled, retreated with a loud jingle of bells. “By God!” said the snake charmer. “That’s it!”

The palanquin threatened to capsize and the bride joined her screams to the general uproar.

Owen suddenly became aware that Lucy’s captive subaltern, Gerald Naylor, was standing beside him. He was watching with fascinated disgust.

“What a shambles!” he said. “What a shambles!”

"Madame Chevenement?“ said Zeinab. ”But I’ve met her!”

“You have?” said Owen, astonished.

“She dresses at Jacques Griffe’s. That’s the one, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that she’s Moulin’s protegee.”

“I don’t know about Moulin,” said Zeinab, “but she’s certainly the sort of woman who would be someone’s protegee.”

“How did you come to meet her?”

“She was at Samira’s. She’s been there several times in the past month.”

“Samiras!”

“What’s wrong with Samira’s?” inquired Zeinab, taking umbrage. “She may be fashionable but she is still-” Zeinab hesitated, searching for the word, and then used the French version-“ intellectuelle.”

“No, no. It’s not that. It’s just that it’s a bit, well, high. Higher than I expected. Socially, I mean.”

The Princess Samira was a cousin of the Khedive’s. She had been married off at the age of twelve to an eminent official at the Ottoman court and had lived for many years in Constantinople. When her husband died the independent-minded Samira seized the opportunity to marry how she wished. Her choice fell on an elderly Bey living in Algiers. He continued to live in Algiers after their marriage; but one of the conditions of the marriage settlement was that for most of the year Samira could maintain a separate establishment in Cairo. She thus achieved both status and independence, two things difficult for a woman to achieve in an Islamic society, and was able to live her life pretty much as she pleased.

Zeinab, who wanted the same things, was impressed and instructed her father, whenever he raised the issues of marriage, to find her an elderly Bey permanently resident in Tunis; but not yet.

Nuri Pasha, one of the old, near-feudal landowners of Egypt, moved in the same society as the Princess Samira and, although Zeinab was an illegitimate daughter not even by someone in her harem but by a famous courtesan, this conferred on her something of the same standing. Samira welcomed her at her soirees, and Zeinab was glad of the opportunity to meet men, especially the intelligent, sophisticated men whose society Samira enjoyed.

Samira’s house had much the same role in Cairo society as a Parisian salon. At her soirees or afternoon teas one would meet people from the major Embassies, up-and-coming politicians, senior civil servants and interesting foreign visitors. One even, on occasion, met the Consul-General; certainly one met his bright young men. One also met members of the Khedive’s own family and entourage.

Although the criteria for being asked a second time to Samira’s were personal rather than social-Samira couldn’t stand dullness-there was a certain exclusiveness about her guests; and so Owen was a little surprised to find Madame Chevenement achieve so easy an entree.

Zeinab considered the matter.

“She is agreeable,” she said, “but not original. I don’t think Samira would have invited her for her own sake. She must be doing someone a favor.”

“I didn’t think Samira needed to do anyone a favor.”

“She doesn’t. But sometimes it is politic to do one.”

“When the person who asks is important?”

“If they are important enough.”

“You mean…?”

“I don’t mean anything,” said Zeinab. “I’m just guessing.”

“Could you try and find out?”

“Why don’t you try and find out? I’ll be there this afternoon. You could come too.”

Owen walked in past the two eunuchs, named according to custom after precious stones or flowers, across a crunching gravel courtyard where cats dozed in the shade of the palms and in through a heavy wooden outer door. When he came to the inner door which led directly into Samira’s apartment he stopped and called out “ Ya Satir — O Discoverer”-(one of the ninety-nine names of God), the conventional warning to ladies that a man is coming and they must veil. He heard scrambling inside and as he opened the door saw a female slave disappearing up the stairs to “warn” the Princess. He realized he must be the first male guest to arrive.

By the time he reached the drawing-room the ladies were already veiled. He saw Zeinab’s eyes sparkling at him from the other side of the room.

“I came early,” he explained to the Princess, “so that I could interrupt your merciless dissection of your male guests.”

“Why should you think that would interrupt it?” asked Samira. “However, I’m glad you came early. I haven’t seen you for such a long time and I want to talk to you. Come and sit beside me and make Zeinab jealous.”

The Mamur Zapt’s liaison with Zeinab was well known. In a place like Samira’s they could be a couple. When it came to entertaining within the British community, however, he was usually invited alone; which was one reason why he seldom went.