Michael Pearce - The Donkey-Vous

“And a coffee for my friend,” he added.

He led them over to an alcove.

“Sorry about this,” he said. “I can assure you it was necessary. Absolutely necessary.”

“Why?” asked Owen.

The Charge hesitated.

“Well,” he said, “it’s like this. We heard the wife was coming. The old lady. Madame Moulin. I ask you: would it be proper for her to find…? Well, you know.”

“You did this out of a sense of propriety?”

The Charge looked at him seriously.

“Yes,” he said. “We French are very proper people.”

“Monsieur Moulin too?”

“Sex doesn’t come into it. That’s quite separate.”

“Well, where have you put her? Can we talk to her?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the Charge. “She’s on her way home. With a diplomatic passport.”

“For reasons of propriety?”

“For reasons of state.”

“Reasons of state?”

“Madame Moulin’s a cousin of the President’s wife. That’s quite a reason of state.”

“Come on!” said Owen. “Why did you do it?”

“That’s why we did it. I’ve just told you. We couldn’t have the French President’s wife’s cousin coming out and finding some floozie in her husband’s bed. It wouldn’t be decent. The President would get to hear about it and we’d all get our asses kicked. The last thing I need just now, I can tell you, is a posting to the Gabon. I’ve a little friend of my own here.” Mahmoud fumed.

The Charge patted him on the knee “Don’t worry about it! These things happen.”

“That’s why I worry about it,” said Mahmoud sullenly. The Charge signaled to the waiter. “Another two cognacs,” he said. He looked at Mahmoud’s coffee. “I wish I could put something in that.”

“No, thanks,” said Mahmoud.

The Charge sipped his cognac and put it down.

“Didn’t I know your father?” he said. “Ahmed el Zaki? A lawyer?”

“Yes,” said Mahmoud, surprised. “That’s my father.”

“I met him in a case we had when I first came out here. He acted for us.”

Owen was surprised too. Mahmoud had never spoken about his father.

“How is he?” asked the Charge.

“He died three years ago.”

“Ah. Pardon. These things happen.” The Charge shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man. You’re very like him in some ways.” He finished his cognac.

“I’ve got to go. Look, I’m sorry about all this. We’re thinking of the family. That’s all. Reasons of the heart, you might say.”

“You might,” said Owen.

The shop was in the Khan-el-Khalil, the part of the bazaar area most familiar to tourists. Some of Cairo’s best-known shops were there, places like Andalaft’s or Cohen’s. The Greek’s shop, however, was not in their class. It was one of dozens of smaller shops all catering in their different ways for the tourist trade. Most of them sold a mixture of old brassware, harem embroideries, lacework, enamels and pottery. In the height of the season the Khan-el-Khalil would be packed with tourists, though the extent to which they made their way to a particular shop would depend on the extent to which the proprietor had greased the palms of the dragomans with piastres. It was now past the peak of the season but there were still plenty of small parties of tourists, each guided by a knowing dragoman. Traffic was growing less now, though, and this was the time when greasing was all important. Some of the shops were almost deserted while others still hummed with business.

The Greek’s shop was one of the latter. As Owen ducked through the bead curtain he almost collided with an English couple, a mother and daughter, who were just emerging.

“Why, it’s Captain Owen!” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley delightedly.

Her mother looked at Owen with less pleasure and would have gone on if Lucy had not firmly stopped.

“Look what I’ve bought!” she said, and showed Owen her purchase. It was a small heap of turquoise stones. “Aren’t they lovely? I’m going to have them made up when I get back. Or would I do better to have them made up here?”

“Here, but not in one of these shops. Get Andalaft to advise you.”

“I like them because they’re such a beautiful Cambridge blue. Daddy went to Cambridge. Did you, Captain Owen?”

“No.”

“Gerald didn’t, either. He’s rather sore about it.”

“Lucy, dear, we must not detain Captain Owen. He has business, I am sure.”

“Business among the bazaars. What is your business, Captain Owen? It’s obviously something to do with the police, but Daddy says you’re not a proper policeman. Gerald says you’re not a proper soldier either. So what are you, Captain Owen?”

“Obviously not proper.”

“He is the Mamur Zapt,” said the dragoman, who had just followed them out of the shop.

“So I gathered,” said Lucy. “But what exactly, or who exactly, is the Mamur Zapt?”

Owen hesitated.

“I see,” she said. “You don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that it would take some time.”

“Which just now you haven’t got.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then you must tell me some other time,” she said. “This evening, perhaps?”

Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley turned determinedly away and Lucy was obliged to follow her. She gave Owen a parting wave over the dragoman’s shoulder.

“Tonight at six,” she called.

The shop was dark and cool and full of subtle smells from the lacquered boxes, the sandalwood carvings, heavy embroideries and spangled Assiut shawls which lined its walls. As Owen’s eyes became used to the light they picked out more objects: flat, heart-shaped gold and silver boxes set with large turquoises and used to hold verses from the Koran, old Persian arm amulets, Persian boxes with portraits of the famous beauties of Ispahan and Shiraz, old illuminated Korans. The precious stones and jewelry were kept in an inner room, better lighted and down a step. A gentle-faced Copt looked up as Owen entered.

“ Ou est le propietaire?”

“ Elle est en dedans. ”

Elle? A silver-haired woman came out of an inner recess. “Madame Tsakatellis?”

“ Oui. ”

“Are you the owner?”

“Yes.”

“I was expecting to speak to your husband.”

“He is dead.”

“Dead? I am sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

Light began to dawn.

“Of course! You are the elder Mrs. Tsakatellis. I am so sorry. I think the person I am trying to see is your son.”

“My son is dead too.”

“The Monsieur Tsakatellis who owned the shop?”

“Both have owned the shop.”

“The second one stopped owning the shop only a short time ago?”

“That is correct.”

“I am the Mamur Zapt. I have come about your son.”

“It is a little late.”

Owen acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head.

“I am sorry. I did not know. Did not the police come?”

“They came,” said the woman dismissively, “and did nothing.”

“I am sorry.

“Now you have come,” said the woman. “What is it you wish to know?”

“I want to know what happened.”

“Why do you want to know? It is not,” said the woman bitterly, “for Tsakatellis’s sake.”

“It has happened again. And it may be the same people.”

“So now you take an interest. How many people have to be taken,” the woman asked scornfully, “before the Mamur Zapt shows an interest?”

“There are, alas, many such cases in Cairo. I cannot follow them all. I had thought Tsakatellis might have been restored to you.”

“Why should he have been restored?”

“Have you not paid?”

“No.” The woman looked him straight in the face. “I do not pay. Even for my son.”