Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt

The workmen were busy repacking the cases. As each one was finished, a senior workman came forward and nailed the lid back on. The clerk examined it carefully and then applied a seal.

‘We do what we can,’ said the under-keeper.

‘What happens after this?’

‘The case gets taken away and sent to Alexandria. One copy of our valuation goes with the case. Another is sent to the Mudir of Customs at Alexandria. We keep a third.’

‘So a copy travels with the case?’

‘Yes, and is matched up against the one we send direct to the Mudir.’

‘What happens if there is no valuation statement?’

‘You’d better ask the Mudir.’

On the way out they went by a different route so that the under-keeper could check that the Cow was safely in position.

‘One of our most popular exhibits,’ said the under-keeper fondly.

Owen lingered to look.

‘Nice, isn’t it? One of the best things we’ve ever had from Der el Bahari.’

‘Why don’t we got to Alexandria for a couple of days?’ suggested Owen.

‘What for?’ asked Zeinab.

‘The sea air. Escape from the heat.’

‘Half of Cairo will be doing that,’ said Zeinab. ‘Not me.’

‘Oh, come on. I thought I’d take a look at the Customs arrangements down there.’

‘Customs arrangements?’ said Zeinab incredulously. ‘Well, that does sound tempting!’

‘We could,’ said Owen, who had anticipated this response and done his homework, ‘go to the Zizinia in the evening. They’re doing I Maestri Cantori di Norimberga, which we’ve not seen yet. And we might be able to fit in La Bohème as well.’

‘That’s different,’ said Zeinab.

And so two mornings later Owen arrived at the office of the Directeur Local des Douanes d’Alexandrie.

‘But, my dear fellow,’ cried the Mudir of Customs, ‘why did you not come on a donkey?’

Why not, indeed? To get to the Customs House he had been obliged to walk along nearly two miles of quays. The quays were paved and the stone was so hot that even with shoes on Owen stepped gingerly. The sea to his left reflected the sunlight so dazzlingly that he was almost blinded; and immediately to his right had rumbled an almost continuous train of mule carts which threw up such a cloud of dust that by the time he arrived at the Customs House his tarboosh was quite white.

The Mudir tut-tutted and wiped him down and ordered a lemonade.

‘Now, my dear chap,’ he said, ‘what is it this time? Hashish, guns or dirty postcards?’

‘Antiquities.’

‘Antiquities?’ The Mudir was surprised. ‘But they’re straightforward. Relatively!’ he added hurriedly.

‘All the same …’

The Mudir led him into a long shed. There was a large door at one end, beyond which Owen could see a queue of waiting vehicles.

‘Goods Arrival,’ said the Mudir.

Porters were bringing packing cases in through the door in a steady stream. They carried the cases high up on their shoulders, one man to a case, irrespective, it seemed, of the dimensions of the case. As each one came through the door, an official seized him, turned him round, read the label on the case and directed him to one or other part of the shed.

Sometimes the porters came clutching documents in their hands. Usually, however, the paperwork was handled separately by an effendi, be-suited and be-tarbooshed, who fussed around chivvying the porters and generally taking responsibility for the consignment.

‘They’re the Agency people,’ said the Mudir. ‘We get to know them quite well.’

‘What do they do?’ asked Owen.

‘Well, suppose you had brought some antiquities and you wanted to send them back to England: you could do it yourself or you could ask an Agency to handle it for you. Most people use an Agency. It saves a lot of work. You see, if it’s antiquities you have to send them to the Museum to be valued—’

‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘I know about that.’

‘You do? Well, you can see it’s much simpler if an Agency does it all for you. They pick up the antiquities, pack them, send them to the Museum, collect them, despatch them to Alexandria and see them through the Customs here. Much simpler.’

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