Michael Pearce - The Donkey-Vous

Madame Moulin took no notice.

“Moulin dabbles too much in politics,” she said darkly. “These big contracts! I have told him time and again that one day he would burn his fingers. Perhaps this is the day.”

“We have no reason to think-”

“Moulin is a fool. An old fool, too, and there’s none worse. How many times have I told him to stop gadding around and to stay at home and look after his own business! That could do with some attention, I can tell you! He’s let it go while he’s been chasing around at the beck and call of all those big firms. On yes, they give him a commission, and a big one too, but is it worth it? That’s what I ask him. Gadding around like this all over the world, that’s the short way to finding yourself in a wooden box, I tell him. At his age! And with his heart!”

“That is something that concerns us, Madame,” said Mahmoud. “As far as we know, he is being well treated, but of course, he won’t be taking his medication.”

“He doesn’t anyway,” said the old lady. “He’s too pigheaded to take his pills. He says he forgets them but I know differently. He forgets them deliberately. Those Provencal people are all the same. They don’t trust anyone, not even their own doctors. They won’t poison you, I tell him. I’m the one you’ve got to worry about. And I will, too, one of these days, if I catch you playing around with any more of those fancy women. Did you hear that?” she asked Mahmoud.

“No,” said Mahmoud.

She laughed heartily.

“That’s the right answer,” she said. “You could have been one of our policemen at home. They know what to hear and what not to hear.”

She suddenly changed tack.

“So it’s just a question of money, is it?”

“Yes,” said the Charge.

“Well, we’ve got plenty of that. Mind you, I don’t believe in giving in to them, not as a general rule, but it’s a bit different when it’s your own, isn’t it? I don’t expect you agree with me, though, do you?” she said, looking at Mahmoud.

“No.”

She sighed. “Well, you’re right, I suppose. We could do with more men like you. All the same-”

She seemed to be thinking.

“I don’t suppose you’re getting anywhere, are you?” she asked Mahmoud. “No? Well, you wouldn’t be, and at least you’re man enough to say so. If you were, you see, I might be willing to wait, though it’d be hard on poor Moulin. At his age, too-”

“And in the heat,” said the Charge.

“Yes, in the heat.” She shook her head regretfully. “No, it won’t do. I’ll have to pay. As I said, we’ve got money enough.” She suddenly looked sharply at Mahmoud.

“How did they know we’ve got money? What made them pick on poor Moulin?”

“Anyone who stays at Shepheard’s-” began Mahmoud. She brushed his words aside impatiently.

“Someone must have told them,” she said. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have known. He doesn’t show his money around, he’s too much of an old peasant for that. Someone must have told them. And I know who. Yes,” she said, her lips tightening, “I know who.”

“Who, Madame?”

“That nephew of his. That degenerate.”

“But-”

“Berthelot,” she said.

A new party of tourists had arrived at the hotel; and as Mahmoud and Owen came down the steps a small group of them were being introduced by their dragoman to the donkey-boys.

“This Daouad, this Ali,” said the dragoman, selecting two of them not quite at random since Ali was the biggest of the donkey-boys and Daouad the richest.

“Fine donkeys,” said Daouad. “You want ride?”

They were fine donkeys. There were little white ones with gay blue and silver necklaces and saddles of red brocade. These were for women and children. And there were big Assiut donkeys for the men. These stood tall as ponies, with their forefeet on the pavement, brushing away the flies with independent motions of their enormous ears, their tails bright with henna. A triangular silver charm containing a verse from the Koran hung below their throats and somewhere about them (as on all the cab-horses) was a blue bead to keep off the evil eye. Those for hire bore a number plate in English and Arabic-“Donkey No. 153”-on their saddle pommel.

The dragoman performed one of his party tricks. He borrowed a cigar from one of the tourists and puffed cigar smoke up the nostrils of one of the donkeys. The creature closed its eyes and laid its head back in voluptuous ecstasy.

“Shame on you, Osman!” said another dragoman who was passing at that moment.

“And shame on you, Abdul Hafiz!” Osman retorted spiritedly.

Only the strictest Moslems objected to smoking and dragomans were not usually among the strictest Moslems. The donkey-boys, who had developed the trick in the first place, stood smiling broadly.

The tourists giggled. Osman, encouraged, or possibly provoked by Abdul Hafiz, went a step further. He stuck the cigar in the donkey’s mouth.

“Why, Mum, it’s just like Daddy!” said a small boy and dodged the clip on the ear his father gave him.

The dragoman offered the cigar back to its owner. The offer spurned, as he had hoped, he put out the cigar and stuffed it into the folds of his gown. The party moved off.

The donkey-boys looked up at Owen and Mahmoud as they passed.

“We’ve fallen out of favor,” they said. “You don’t come to see us these days.”

Owen and Mahmoud didn’t even need to look at each other. With one accord they dropped on to their haunches beside the donkey-boys.

“It’s being so busy,” said Mahmoud.

“Yes,” said the donkey-boys, “we’ve watched you.”

They passed them two small enamel cups and one of the boys refilled the pot.

“Let it stand for a bit,” said Daouad, who seemed to be their natural leader, if any group so anarchic could be said to have a leader.

“You’re not getting very far, are you?” one of the other donkey-boys said to Mahmoud.

Mahmoud did not reply, just smiled.

“These things take a long time,” said Ali, who as well as being big was rather indolent.

“Are they going to pay?” asked Daouad.

“They might,” said Mahmoud, “but that wouldn’t mean the end of it for us.”

“You’d go on, would you? What’s the point? It would all be over and done with.”

“Until the next one.”

“Yes,” said Daouad, “there’s always that.”

“They’ll have made a nice bit of money,” said another of the donkey-boys. “One hundred thousand piastres! That’s not to be sneezed at!”

As always, the donkey-boys’ information was accurate. In Cairo it was never possible to keep anything secret for long.

“Yes,” said Daouad thoughtfully. “Do that once or twice and it would set you up for life.”

“Get caught,” said Mahmoud, “and you’d be set up for life all right.”

They all laughed.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “The Mamur Zapt has got us frightened.”

Owen knew he was being mocked; but laughed with them. Almost shamefacedly they poured him some tea. He was a guest and under the strong law of hospitality, while a little teasing was allowable, offence should not be given.

“You haven’t found him yet, then.”

“No,” said Mahmoud, “although I’ve been all along the Wagh el Birket. Slowly.”

They roared with laughter.

“I’ll bet you saw some other interesting things, though.”

“But not him. Anyway,” said Mahmoud, “for all you say, that’s not the sort of place where one would be likely to find him. He’s too old.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“He wasn’t as old as that to start with. He just got like that through going there.”