Michael Pearce - The Donkey-Vous

“They’re the ones with the power,” said somebody, gesticulating in the direction of the terrace, “and they’re not letting it go.”

“They’ve got the guns.”

“And the money.”

“At least we’re getting some of that,” said someone else. “You’re doing all right, are you?” asked Mahmoud.

“Not at the moment we’re not.”

“When the next ship gets in we’ll be all right,” said someone.

“When a new lot arrive at the hotel,” one of the donkey-boys explained, “the first thing they do is come down to us and have their pictures taken with the donkeys.”

“For which we charge them.”

“It’s better than hiring them out for riding. You don’t tire out the donkeys.”

“Or yourself,” said someone.

There was a general laugh.

“The children are best.”

“It’s a bit late in the year for them, though,” said someone. “Not too busy, then, today?” suggested Mahmoud.

“Busy enough,” they said neutrally. The donkey-boys did not believe in depreciating their craft.

“There’s been a lot of excitement up there today,” one of them said.

“Oh?”

“They’ve lost someone.”

All the donkey-boys laughed.

“It’s easy enough for these foreigners to lose themselves in the bazaars,” said Mahmoud.

“Oh, he didn’t lose himself in the bazaars.”

“No?”

“He lost himself on the terrace.”

There was a renewed burst of laughter.

“Get away!”

“No, really! There he was, sitting up on the terrace as bold as life, and then the next minute, there he wasn’t!”

Again they all laughed.

“You’re making this up.”

“No, we’re not. That’s how it was. One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t.”

“He just walked down the steps?”

“Him? That old chap? He couldn’t even fall down them.”

“He went back into the hotel.”

“They can search all they like,” said someone, “but they won’t find him there.”

“You’ve got me beat,” said Mahmoud. “Where is he, then?”

“Ah!”

“Try the Wagh el Birket,” someone suggested.

They all fell about with laughter. The Sharia Wagh el Birket, which was just ’round the corner, was a street of ill-repute.

“If you don’t find him there,” said someone, “you’ll find every other Frenchman in Cairo!”

“And Englishman, too!”

“But not Welshman,” said someone kindly.

“They know something,” said Owen.

“Yes.”

Owen and Mahmoud were sitting wearily at a table on the terrace. It was after eleven and the hotel manager had just sent them out some coffee. The night was still warm and there were plenty of people still at the tables. Across the road they could see the brightly colored lamps of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens but here on the terrace there were fewer lights. There was just the occasional standard lamp, set well back from the tables because it drew the insects, which circled it continuously in a thick halo. Because of the relative darkness, the stars in the yet unpolluted Egyptian sky seemed very close, almost brushed by the fringed tops of the palms. The air was heavy with the heady perfume of jasmine from the trays which the flower sellers held up to the railings for inspection. Some women went past their table and another set of perfumes drifted across the terrace. In the warm air the perfumes gathered and lingered almost overwhelmingly.

Owen watched the light dresses to the end of the terrace. There was a burst of laughter and chatter as they reached their table and the scrape of chairs. Someone called for a waiter, a suffragi came hurrying and a moment later waiters were scurrying past with ice buckets and champagne. A cork popped.

The railings were still crowded with vendors and the crowd in the street seemed as thick as ever. Every so often an arabeah would negotiate its way through and deposit its passenger at the foot of the hotel steps. Then it would join the row of arabeahs standing in the street. The row was growing longer. There were few outward journeys from the hotel now.

The donkey-boys had stopped all pretense of expecting business and were absorbed in the game they played with sticks and a board. They threw the sticks against the wall of the terrace and moved broken bits of pot forward on the board depending on how the sticks fell. The scoring appeared to be related to the number of sticks which fell white side uppermost. The dark sides didn’t seem to count unless all the sticks fell dark side uppermost, which was a winning throw.

“Yes,” said Mahmoud, “they know something. But how much do they know?”

“They know how he disappeared.”

“Yes,” Mahmoud admitted, “they might know that.”

“They said he didn’t come down the steps.”

“They didn’t quite say that. Anyway, I believe the snake charmer.”

“The charmer said the old man had been helped down. We haven’t been able to find anyone who helped him.”

“Not on the hotel staff. It might have been a guest.”

“We could ask around, I suppose. It won’t be popular with the hotel.”

“A crime has been committed,” Mahmoud pointed out. When in pursuit of his duties, he was not disposed to make concessions.

“We don’t know that yet.”

“At least we could try the ones on the tables nearest him.”

“If we could find out who they were.”

“The waiters will have a good idea. They’ll be intelligent in place like this. I’ve got them making a list.”

“Even if we knew,” said Owen, “would it help much? I mean, it might have been just a casual thing. Somebody saw him trying to get down the steps and helped him out of kindness.”

“We’d know definitely that he came down the steps. It would confirm the charmer’s story.”

“And challenge the donkey-boys.”

“Yes. We would be back to the donkey-boys.”

“But they’re not talking. Why aren’t they talking?”

“Why should they help the authorities? Especially if they’re not their authorities.”

“Well, hell, they’re the only authorities they’ve got.”

“The one thing Egyptians have learned over the centuries,” said Mahmoud, “if they’ve learned anything over the centuries, is to keep clear of the authorities, never mind who they are. Anyway,” he added, “there’s probably another explanation.”

“Which is?”

“They’ve been paid to keep their mouths shut.”

“Like the charmer?”

“No. He’s not been paid. He’s just frightened.”

“You think someone’s frightened him?”

“Possibly.”

“And paid the donkey-boys?”

“Possibly.”

“So you think it was a kidnapping, then?”

“I haven’t got that far yet. I’m waiting for the note.”

It came just before midnight. McPhee emerged from the hotel and walked slowly across to them. He was carrying a slip of paper in his hand which he laid on the table in front of them. Owen read it by the light of one of the standard lamps. It was in the ornate script of the bazaar letter writer.

Mr. Yves Berthelot,

Greetings. This letter is from the Zawia Group.

We have taken your esteemed uncle. If you want to see him again you must pay the sum of 100,000 piastres which we know you will do as you are a generous person and will want to see your uncle again. If you do not pay, your uncle will be killed. We will tell you later how to get the money to us.

Meanwhile, I remain, Sir, your humble and obedient servant.

The Leader of the Zawia Group

“Zawia?” said Mahmoud. “Have you heard of them?”

“No,” said Owen, “they’re new.”

“Taking tourists is new, too,” said McPhee.

“Yes. It doesn’t look like the usual kind of group.”