Michael Pearce - The Donkey-Vous

“I expect so.

Even Mahmoud could not forbear a sigh.

“Did you actually hear him?” he asked, with only the faintest hint of exasperation in his voice.

“They couldn’t have,” said the filthy-postcard-seller, “because it was another day.”

“Whichever day it was,” said Mahmoud patiently, “did you hear him?”

The strawberry-seller took one of his strawberries, put it in his mouth and then restored it to the pile glistening with moisture. It looked fresher and more tempting that way.

“I can’t remember,” he said. He turned to the flower-seller. “Can you remember?”

“Yes,” said the flower-seller unexpectedly. “But he didn’t really say anything. He just made a sign.”

“What sign was this?”

“It was to ward off the evil eye, I expect,” said the strawberry-seller.

“It wasn’t that sort of sign.”

“Abdul Hafiz always makes the sign of the evil eye when he sees Farkas.”

“So does Osman. You wouldn’t think that, would you?”

“Which of them was it?”

“Abdul?” said the flower-seller.

“Osman?” said the strawberry-seller.

“It was another day,” said the filthy-postcard-seller.

“I remember now,” said the strawberry-seller, popping another strawberry into his mouth for a few seconds.

“Yes?”

“It wasn’t the sign of the evil eye. It was another sort of sign.”

“What sort of sign was it?” asked Mahmoud wearily. “Show me!”

The flower-seller made an unlikely motion with his hand. “And then Farkas went away,” he said.

“Went away?”

“It was another day,” said Farkas faintly, as if he had given up hope of convincing anyone. “My supplier had come. He was just pointing him out.”

“There was no message from the old man on the terrace?”

“What old man?” asked the strawberry-seller and the flower-seller, turning to Mahmoud with surprise.

“Jesus,” said Owen under his breath.

People were coming out on to the terrace above. The vendors gathered their wares.

“Why!” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley’s voice suddenly from above. “There’s Captain Owen sitting in the crowd! You do look comfortable, Captain Owen. Can I come down and join you?”

“For Christ’s sake, no!” said Owen, scrambling hastily to his feet.

“Then come on up and join us! Please do. Mummy is desperate for someone to talk to. Daddy isn’t saying much today and Gerald is having a fit of the sulks.”

The vendors had all resumed their places by the railings. There was no point in going on talking to them now. Business was business.

Owen had got half way up the steps when he remembered Mahmoud and looked around for him. Mahmoud was walking off in the opposite direction.

“And you, too, Mr. El Zaki!” Lucy hailed him.

Mahmoud stopped. He half turned and then saw Naylor and Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley.

“No, thank you,” he said and continued walking.

“Damn cheek,” said Naylor.

“Do be quiet, Gerald!” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley. “He just didn’t want to talk to you, and I can understand anyone who feels like that.”

“Will you have some tea, Captain Owen?” asked her mother. She poured a cup for him. “And how are your investigations getting on?” she inquired.

The tea had the distinctive, insipid taste of tea drunk the English way with milk.

“Slowly, I’m afraid.”

“It seems bewildering,” said Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. “You would have thought-”

“They’re all in it,” said Naylor. “That’s the trouble.”

Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley raised eyebrows at him. He took it not as a sign of reproof but as a request for expansion.

“That’s why it’s hard to get anywhere. They’re all lying through their teeth.”

“All?”

“All. Or pretty damned nearly all. Work it out for yourself. That French chap was out here on the terrace, right? Now if he went back into the hotel the staff on Reception would have seen him. If he went down the steps the drivers would have seen him. And if he stayed where he was but someone came and took him the waiters would have seen it. Whichever way it happened, someone would have seen. But no one saw. That can’t be right. So,” Naylor concluded triumphantly, “they must be lying.”

“All of them?”

“Yes,” said Naylor seriously. “You see, whichever way it happened there was always the risk that someone else would see, someone who wasn’t supposed to, who wasn’t in it. They wouldn’t have risked that. So they must all be in it.”

“Yes, but-”

“Oh, not to the same extent, I grant you. I expect a lot of them were just bribed to keep their mouths shut. But they must all have known about it.”

“I find it hard to believe-”

“That’s because you don’t know these people, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. You haven’t had the advantage of being in this country for-”

“Six months,” said Owen.

“Over a year. Oh, you think they’re charming and friendly and polite and so they are: to your face. But behind your back they’re very different. Very different indeed, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. They resent us being here-”

“So they should,” said Lucy.

“Oh no. That’s-well, I was going to say it’s liberal talk, but it’s just that you haven’t been here for very long. They ought not to resent us, they ought to be well and truly grateful that we are here, for before we came they’d got themselves into a most frightful mess. They had to invite us in to get them out of the mess! Don’t forget that, don’t ever forget that: we’re here by invitation.”

“Yes, but how exactly does that bear upon the present case, Mr. Naylor, the disappearance of this poor Frenchman?”

“Well, it’s just that you can’t trust them. They resent us, you see, they all resent us. You can see it in their faces. Even that Zaki fellow. They’d have us out of Egypt in an instant if they could. Of course they can’t. We’re too strong for them. They don’t have the guts to face us directly. But behind our backs-well, as I was saying, behind our backs it’s a very different matter. Still, as long as they keep it behind our backs I don’t mind. It’s when they do it to our faces that I object. We call it dumb insolence, you know, in the army, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. And we ought to treat it in the same way. If I catch any of my fellows giving me or any of the sergeants a bit of dumb insolence, I give him what-for, I can tell you. And we ought to do the same with these fellows. We’re letting them get out of hand, that’s the trouble. We ought to put them down and keep them down! That’s what I always say.”

“Always?”

“In the Mess.”

“Very rousing, I am sure,” said Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, who sounded occasionally very like her daughter. “But how exactly would you apply it to poor Monsieur Moulin?”

“Arrest the lot of them,” said Naylor confidently.

“But how exactly would that-”

“They’re all lying, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, so we’ve got to get the truth out of them. Well, get them in our barracks for a day or two, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, and I can guarantee we’ll soon have it out of them.”

“But Captain Owen has been working hard, I am sure, and he-”

“It’s the difference between a civil administration and a military administration, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. The civilians are too soft. There! I’ve said it! It’s not what some of those at home would like to hear when you’re out on the Frontier-”

“Egypt? The Frontier?” said Owen.

“The trouble with civilians,” said Naylor, nettled and thinking he was being offensive by using the term, “is that they forget the realities of power.”

“Gracious!” said Lucy, resting her elbows on the table. “And what are they?”