Michael Pearce - A Cold Touch of Ice

Owen nodded.

‘The bales were brought here, then, from Assuan. How long would they have stayed in your warehouse before they were opened?’

‘They would not have been opened. We would have auctioned them as they stood.’

‘But surely buyers wish to examine the goods before bidding?’

‘The goods are taken up to our place near the Market of the Afternoon on the day before the auction. Then anyone can come in and see them.’

‘Would they open the bales?’

‘Not usually. They come and feel the cotton, Effendi, that is all they need.’

‘So that if someone knew that the goods were arriving, they would break in either to your warehouse or to your place near the Market of the Afternoon and take the guns?’

‘They could, Effendi. But our warehouse is safe. We have an interest in making it so. And at our place near the Market of the Afternoon we have a watchman.’

Owen had his own theories about the efficacy of watchmen; especially near the Market of the Afternoon.

‘But, have you thought, Effendi,’ said the foreman, ‘there is no need to break into either; provided you are prepared to pay the highest price at the auction.’

‘I really don’t think –’ began Owen.

‘I think you should,’ said Paul.

‘Appointment of a librarian? Look, I’ve got important things to do –’

‘Not as important as this,’ said Paul.

Paul, now, as Kitchener’s right-hand man, was in a position to insist, so, grumbling, Owen went.

When he entered the room he was staggered by the status of the people present. There was Paul, of course, and his opposite numbers from the principal Consulates. There was the Turkish representative, Ismet Bey. And there was one of the Khedive’s senior cabinet ministers. That was, possibly, explicable since the appointment was to the Khedive’s Library. Even so, they were only appointing a librarian, which was hardly the stuff of international disputes.

Except that it appeared to be.

‘But I am a scholar!’ said the German representative, beaming.

‘A very distinguished one,’ said Ismet Bey.

‘One who, moreover, enjoys the full confidence of the Khedive,’ declared the cabinet minister.

‘No, you’re not; you’re Number Two at the German Consulate,’ said Paul.

‘In Germany, that does not preclude scholarship,’ said the German representative easily.

Stung, Paul retorted:

‘No, but it ought to preclude taking up a sensitive senior post in His Highness’s service!’

‘Sensitive?’ murmured Ismet Bey.

‘Senior?’ said a representative of one of the other Consulates doubtfully.

‘A key post,’ declared Paul, ‘and one that has hitherto been occupied only by distinguished scholars of independent standing.’

‘A tradition I hope to maintain,’ murmured the German representative.

‘But you are not independent. You are –’

‘German?’ suggested Ismet Bey. ‘The post has always been occupied by a German.’

‘On scholarly grounds,’ put in the German representative.

‘There is, of course, an argument for appointing an Egyptian began the cabinet minister.

‘– at some time in the future,’ said Ismet Bey, ‘though at the moment –’

‘On scholarly grounds,’ murmured the German representative.

‘Britain accepts that in the past the post of Khedive’s Librarian has always been reserved to German nationals. However, –’

However, thought Owen, that was all right when the incumbent was someone as unworldly as old Holmweg, the man who had just retired. He was beginning to pick up the hidden agenda now. For some reason Paul, and, presumably, the British government, were set against having someone as politically astute as Paul’s opposite number in the post. But why? It was, after all, only a librarian.

‘– my government could not accept the appointment to the post of someone who would give it a different character.’

He turned to the German representative.

‘Not, of course, that we wish to cast any reflection upon Dr Beckmann. Nor upon his scholarship. It is just that we feel that his qualities, great though they are, are not ones entirely suited to the post, at least for the immediate future. No, gentlemen, I am sorry: I am afraid we will have to cast our net wider.’

He gathered up his papers.

‘Cheeky bastards!’ he fumed, as he and Owen walked away together. ‘Do they think we’re daft, trying something like that on?’

‘But, Paul, does it really matter?’

Paul stared at him.

‘Matter? Of course it matters. It means that he’d be able to carry on even if the Consulate went!’

The whole community turned out to watch the funeral procession. Both sides of the street were lined with people and that was so all the way from the Nahhasin to the Italian church. They bowed their heads and beat upon their chests. Many were openly crying. Used as he was to the extravagance of Arab protestations of grief, Owen could not help being moved. For this was not one of their own that they were mourning but a foreigner.

Since the funeral was that of a foreigner, there was a hearse. With Arab funerals there was no hearse; the body was carried upon a bier. Usually there was a kind of horn at one end, on which the turban was hung. The whole was often covered with a rich cashmere shawl. The bier was borne by the dead man’s friends, often, it seemed to Owen, precariously, for the feeling was intense and grief-stricken mourners would pluck at the bier, threatening to overturn it. Even today at times they pressed in on the hearse, touching the sides as if it was only through touch that they could communicate the strength of their feelings. Communicate or demonstrate? To Westerners there often seemed something histrionic in the affectation of grief. Owen knew, however, that there was nothing false about this. They were mourning someone dear to them.

Sidi Morelli was a Roman Catholic and the funeral service was being held in the Catholic church used by the Italian community. Sidi Morelli’s neighbours, as Muslims, would not go in. This public demonstration of grief and affection was therefore their way of participating. Some were no doubt there merely because they enjoyed a good funeral; but Owen was struck by how many in this most conservative of neighbourhoods were prepared to come out and display their feeling for an infidel.

Beside him, outside the warehouse, while the hearse was waiting, were Sidi Morelli’s three domino-playing friends.

The coffin was brought out of the house and laid in the hearse.

‘We ought to have been carrying that,’ said Fahmy.

‘Let each man die in his own way,’ said Hamdan pacifically.

‘Perhaps it is as well,’ said Abd al Jawad. ‘For it is a long way to the church and he is a heavy man.’

‘There would have been many to assist,’ said Fahmy.

The hearse moved forward a few paces and another carriage drew up outside the house. Signora Morelli and members of her family got in. As she came out of the house she saw the three friends and came across to them and said something. The men were openly moved.

The carriages advanced. The road filled up behind them. Hamdan, Abd al Jawad and Fahmy put themselves formally at the head of the procession.

As the ranks passed in front of him, Owen suddenly saw among them the alert figure of Ibrahim Buktari, Mahmoud’s prospective father-in-law. He was talking animatedly to the efficient young Egyptian whom Owen had noticed at the coffee house. He waved an arm when he saw Owen and Owen fell in beside them.

‘This is Kamal,’ said Ibrahim Buktari; ‘and this,’ he said to the young Egyptian, ‘is a friend of Mahmoud El Zaki’s. A soldier, like yourself.’

‘Soldier?’ said the young Egyptian, surprised. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Mahmoud would have had any friends who were –’