Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Donkey-Vous

He turned luminous, slightly protuberant eyes on Owen. The Bimbashi had spoken of kidnapping. Did Monsieur think—

No, no, no, no. Monsieur did not think. There was probably some quite simple explanation.

That was what he kept telling himself. He was sure Monsieur was right. Only … He suddenly buried his face in his hands.

They were in one of the alcoves of the grand central hall of the hotel. It had once been an open courtyard but had been roofed over with a magnificent glass dome. Traditional Moorish arches, painted and striped, gave on to recesses and alcoves screened off with heavily fretted arabic panelling. Inside the alcoves and scattered around the floor generally were thick Persian rugs, the predominant colour of which, cardinal red, matched the deep red of the comfortable leather divans and chairs. Beside the divans were low, honey-coloured alabaster tables and backless pearl-inlaid tabourets. Suffragis in spotless white gowns and vivid red sashes moved silently through the hall on errands for guests. Owen found the opulence rather oppressive.

McPhee stirred slightly and the young man jerked upright.

A thousand apologies! He was delaying them, and when there was so much to be done. Was there anything else the messieurs wished to know? No? Then …

As they left the alcove Monsieur Berthelot said, almost wistfully, that his uncle had always preferred the light of the terrace to the dark of the hall. ‘He came from the South, you see—the bright sunshine.’ And then there was always so much to see on the terrace!

A smartly-dressed young Egyptian ran up the steps.

‘Parquet!’ he said briskly.

The manager hurried forward.

‘Monsieur …’

‘Mahmoud el Zaki, Parquet.’ He caught sight of Owen and his face broke into a smile. ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Are you on it, too?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Owen. ‘McPhee thinks it might be a kidnapping.’

‘A kidnapping? Here?’

‘I know. But there are some odd features.’

‘They don’t usually take foreigners.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Odd!’ He turned to the manager. ‘I shall need a room.’

‘My office.’ The manager hesitated. ‘I hope it won’t be necessary to—to disaccommodate the guests.’

‘As little as possible. However, I may have to ask them a few questions.’

The manager looked doubtful. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course, I was hoping—would you not prefer to talk to my staff?’

‘Them too.’

The manager shrugged but still looked worried. He led them to his office.

‘I will send you some coffee,’ he said.

‘How is it that Mr McPhee is involved?’ asked Mahmoud. ‘Surely they didn’t send for you directly?’

‘They did. A foreigner. They thought it important,’ said Owen.

He listened intently while McPhee brought him up to date. Then they went out on to the terrace. The tea-things had all gone from the tables now, except for the one table. In their place drinks were appearing. It was already growing dark. Night came quickly and early in Egypt. The short period of twilight, though, when it was still light enough to see and yet the heat had gone out of the sun, was one of the pleasantest parts of the day and lots of people were coming out on to the terrace to enjoy the evening air.

All along the front of the terrace was a thick row of street-vendors pushing their wares through the railings at the tourists above: ostrich feathers, hippopotamus-hide whips, fly switches, fezzes, birds in cages, snakes coiled around the arms of their owners, bunches of brightly-coloured flowers—roses, carnations, narcissi, hyacinths—trays of Turkish Delight and sticky boiled sweets, souvenirs straight from the tombs of the Pharaohs (astonishingly, some of them were), ‘interesting’ postcards.

The street behind them was thick with people, too. They could not be described as passers-by since they had stopped passing. Mostly they gathered round the pastry-sellers and sherbert-sellers, who stood in the middle of the road for the convenience of trade but to the great inconvenience of the arabeah-drivers, and just looked at the spectacle on the terrace above them.

‘With all these people looking,’ said Mahmoud, ‘you would have thought that someone, somewhere, must have seen something.’

He went down the steps into the crowd. Owen hesitated for a moment and then decided to join him. McPhee turned back into the hotel to conduct yet another search.

Mahmoud went straight to the snake-charmer and squatted down beside him. The snake-charmer had rather lost heart and was trying to find an untenanted patch of wall against which he could rest his back. From time to time he played a few unconvincing notes on his flute, which the snake, now completely inert, ignored.

The snake-charmer pushed his bowl automatically in Mahmoud’s direction. Mahmoud dropped in a few milliemes.

‘It has been a long day, father,’ he said to the charmer. ‘Even your snake thinks so.’

‘It needs a drink,’ said the charmer. ‘I shall have to take it home soon.’

‘Has it been a good day?’

‘No day is good,’ said the charmer, ‘but some days are less bad than others.’

‘You have been here all day?’

‘Since dawn. You have to get here early these days or someone else will take your place. Fazal, for instance, only he finds it hard to get up in the morning.’

‘And all day you have been here on the steps?’

‘It is a good place.’

‘They come and go, the great ones,’ said Mahmoud.

‘Yes, they all pass here.’

‘My friend—’ Mahmoud indicated Owen, who dropped into a sympathetic squat—‘cannot find his friend and wonders if he has gone without him. His friend is an old man with sticks.’

‘I remember him,’ said the snake-charmer. ‘He comes with another, younger, who is not his servant but to whom he gives orders.’

‘That would be him,’ said Owen. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘No,’ said the charmer, ‘but then, I wouldn’t.’

He turned his face towards Owen and Owen saw that he was blind.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Mahmoud softly, ‘you would know if he had passed this way.’

‘I would,’ the old man agreed.

‘And did he?’

For a long time the old man did not reply. Mahmoud waited patiently. Owen knew better than to prompt. Arab conversation has its rhythms and of these Mahmoud was a master.

At last the old man said: ‘Sometimes it is best not to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Because knowing may bring trouble.’

‘It can bring reward, too.’

Mahmoud took a coin out of his pocket and pressed it into the old man’s hand.

‘Feel that,’ he said. ‘That is real. The trouble may never come.’ He closed the old man’s fingers round the coin. ‘The coin stays with you. The words are lost in the wind.’

‘Someone may throw them back in my face.’

‘No one will ever know that you have spoken them. I swear it!’

‘On the Book?’

‘On the Book.’

The old man still hesitated. ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘It is not clear in my mind.’

‘The one we spoke of,’ said Mahmoud, ‘the old man with sticks: is he clear in your mind?’

‘Yes. He is clear in my mind.’

‘Did he come down the steps this afternoon?’

‘Yes.’ The old man hesitated, though. ‘Yes, he came down the steps.’

‘By himself or with others?’

‘With another.’

‘The young one you spoke of?’

‘No, not him. Another.’

‘Known to you?’

There was another pause.

‘I do not know,’ said the old man. ‘He does not come down the steps,’ he added.

‘Ah. He is of the hotel?’

‘That may be. He does not come down the steps.’