Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

“How much?” said the boy practically.

Owen mentioned a sum.

The boy turned away disappointed.

“It is not worth us talking.”

“It is always worth talking,” said Georgiades, flipping his coin in the air.

“Not for that it isn’t.”

“No?”

Georgiades continued to flip.

After a little while the boy said: “For two such coins I might be willing.”

Georgiades was so shocked by the suggestion that he missed his catch, almost, and had to fumble to stop the coin from falling on the ground, where it might have rolled away to join the lost treasures of the pharaohs; but fortunately he recovered.

“Three piastres I might manage,” said Georgiades grudgingly, “if the information is good. The fourth piastre-well, who knows, you might be able to tell me something later on.”

The boy accepted three piastres; one paid in advance, one paid when he came close enough for Georgiades to catch hold of him, and one to be paid after he had given his information. The fourth piastre was to be a bonus depending on the extent and quality of the information.

The story in outline was the same. The men had come into the necropolis late at night and had made their way towards the house of Andrus joking uneasily and talking loudly among themselves. They had quietened down as they approached the tomb and the last part of the journey had been covered in silence. They had stopped when they were some way short of their objective. The boy said it was because several of the men were afraid there might be spirits lingering about the tomb who might be hostile towards them because they weren’t Christian. They had succeeded in infecting the others with their fear and in the end no one had wanted to go on. Then one of them had said that it would be a shame to go back again without having done anything now that they had come so far, and that he was not afraid, especially as the spirits would be bound to be weak ones, being Coptic. He would go by himself if no one would go with him. No one would go with him and the man became angry, saying they were cowards and weaklings and feeble of faith. Still no one would go with him and in the end he had taken the bundle himself. He had gone to the tomb alone.

Alone? Yes, said the boy, alone. Not with the others? No, not with the others. They had watched from afar.

Owen was inclined to believe him. His account was more circumstantial than the old man’s. He reported conversation, too, which suggested that he or his informants had gone closer to the men. It might all be invention, the sort of stuff that he thought the Mamur Zapt would like to hear, but on the whole the account rang true.

What happened then? While the man was delivering the bundle a door had scraped along the stone making a loud, grating sound. The man had come rushing down the steps in a fright and all the men had run off into the darkness. They had scattered and some of them had lost their way and had not been able to get out of the necropolis till morning. The boy reported this with a trace of contempt in his voice, as of a professional speaking about amateurs.

Owen asked the boy if he had seen the nature of the bundle.

The boy said no, but left little doubt that then or later he had learned what it contained. Had he seen the men? Again the boy said no. He hesitated slightly, however, and Owen got the impression he was holding something back. He pressed him but got no response.

The boy tugged at Georgiades’s arm.

“Can I have my money?” he said.

Georgiades fumbled in his pocket and produced the third piastre.

“What you have told us is certainly worth three piastres,” he said. “The question is, is it worth four?”

He looked at Owen.

“In itself it isn’t,” said Owen, “but if we give it him perhaps he will remember us and come to us again.”

Georgiades found a fourth piastre and gave it to the boy.

“This is how I became poor,” he said.

The boy, released, moved a little further off, out of reach, but did not go away. He was looking at Owen.

“I have heard of you,” he said.

“What have you heard?”

The boy did not reply directly.

“My mother’s brother works for you,” he said suddenly.

“His name?”

“Yussuf.”

Yussuf was one of the office bearers.

“I know him well,” said Owen.

“Too well,” added Georgiades.

“How is your mother?” asked Owen politely.

“She is angry with Yussuf.”

“Why?”

“He has put away his wife. Now he has no woman and he expects her to clean for him.”

“I will speak to Yussuf.”

“For God’s sake, don’t add to his problems,” Georgiades counselled, “or the coffee will get even worse.”

“Do not tell him I spoke with you,” said the boy.

Owen promised he wouldn’t.

“It shall be a secret between us,” he said, “as with all else you have told me. And anything further you tell me,” he added, watching the boy.

“I am afraid,” the boy said.

“The holy one?”

The boy did not reply.

“Are you afraid he might punish you if he hears you have spoken with me?”

The boy glanced over his shoulder at the other boys behind him in the stones.

“They need not hear. They need not know.”

“They will tell him that I have spoken with you.”

“He will ask, and you will tell him all that you have told us.”

“That is right,” said the boy.

“And he will not mind because so far you have not told us anything that touches him.”

The boy was silent.

“He need not know,” said Owen, “if you tell us a little more.”

The boy was torn.

“I would tell you-”

“Tell us,” said Owen. “It is a dangerous thing to have powerful friends. But sometimes it is a good thing.”

“They were his men.”

“The holy one’s? The men who came to the Place of the Dead?”

The boy nodded.

“Who is this holy one?” asked Georgiades.

The boy did not reply at once. He seemed to be studying the marks his toe traced in the sand. Owen thought at first that they might be intended as a message, but of course the boy could not write.

Then he lifted his head and looked Owen straight in the eye.

“The Sheikh Osman Rahman.”

“Did he send them?”

The boy pulled away.

“I can say no more. I must go. They will suspect.”

“Very well. You have helped me,” said Owen, “and I shall not forget.”

The boy stepped back towards them.

“Offer me money,” he said to Georgiades.

Georgiades took out another piastre.

“That is not enough. Two.”

Georgiades obliged.

“Not like that,” said the boy impatiently. “As you did.” Georgiades cottoned on. He took the large double piastre coin between forefinger and thumb and showed it to the boy in exaggerated fashion. The boy looked at it as if mesmerized and allowed himself to be drawn slowly forward. Then, as Georgiades reached out a hand for him, he kicked Georgiades smartly on the shin, knocked the coin out of his hand, scooped it up in a flash out of the sand and sprang away laughing.

For a moment he stood there trilling triumphantly. Then he disappeared into the stones with his fellows.

Georgiades rubbed his shin and cursed. Even though the kick had been delivered with the bare foot it had still hurt. “Little sod,” he said. “Smart little sod,” he added admiringly.

“Who is this woman, anyway?” demanded Zeinab.

“I told you. She’s the niece of this MP who’s visiting us.”

“What is she doing here?”

“Keeping him company, I suppose. Having a holiday.”

“She’s come here to get a husband. Like all the others.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. She’s not like them.”