Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt

The lemonade-seller did not possess a watch; could not, indeed, tell the time. Owen tried to get him to work it out in relation to the muezzin’s call but then realized that one of the times, at any rate, he knew exactly. That was the one which coincided with Miss Skinner’s fall. He would have to leave that now, however, till the next day.

Feeling that at least he had established something, and fed up at having had to spend most of the day on this daft business, he decided he’d had enough and went in to drink coffee with the Fire Chief.

‘God be praised!’ said the Fire Chief. ‘You have come at last!’

Owen explained what he had been doing all day. The Chief, who must have seen him, affected surprise.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I suppose you’ve got to look into it if it’s a European.’

‘Not all Europeans,’ said Owen grimly. ‘Just this one.’

‘Are you going to punish the tram-driver?’

‘Well, no, it wasn’t really his fault.’

‘All the same …’ said the Fire Chief, casually conveying the centuries-old Cairene assumption that punishment was related more to the satisfaction of authority than to the desserts of offenders.

‘From what I can make out,’ said Owen, ‘it doesn’t seem to have been anybody’s fault. It was just an accident.’

‘What else?’ said the Fire Chief.

What else, indeed? Even if it had been a push, it was almost certainly an unintended one. Miss Skinner had perhaps backed into somebody and they had merely warded her off. And then perhaps they had panicked when she had fallen over and made themselves scarce. He wished he could find someone who had seen what happened. If that was all, then they could forget about it.

It must have been something like that, an accidental jostle in the crowd, someone turning suddenly. What else could it be?

A deliberate push? That was ridiculous. Who would want to do a thing like that? Miss Skinner was unknown in Cairo. All right, in her short time here she had not exactly endeared herself to people, but hardly to the lengths of provoking someone to push her under a tram!

She was a European and Europeans were not exactly popular? Well, yes, but physical attacks on Europeans were few and far between. People fancied they occurred much more often than they actually did.

And that was probably it. Miss Skinner had almost certainly imagined the whole business. She didn’t seem the fanciful sort, but you never could tell.

What else could it have been?

‘I’ve got something for you,’ said the Fire Chief.

He fished in a cupboard and produced a parasol and two or three small packages.

‘Someone brought them to me,’ he said. ‘He found them under the tram, just where she had been lying.’

One of the packages was torn and Owen could see what was inside. It was a ushapti image of Osiris, about a foot tall and made in glazed faïence. It was well made but Owen was surprised. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands.

‘She’d been out shopping,’ said the Fire Chief.

‘Yes,’ said Owen.

But why had she bought this? For this one, well made though it was, was still a fake.

The meeting with Zeinab had gone well; so well, that Miss Skinner expressed the wish to repeat it. And if possible in Zeinab’s own home.

This proved a problem, for Zeinab had taken it for granted that the meeting would be in some such place as the terrace at Shepheard’s, which was where one normally met. She had no intention of allowing anyone into her appartement other than Owen.

‘What’s the idea?’ she said to Owen.

‘I think she wants to see you in your natural habitat.’

‘Shepheard’s is my natural habitat,’ said Zeinab.

‘Yes, but she thinks you have a home.’

Zeinab considered.

‘Perhaps we could meet at my father’s,’ she suggested.

Zeinab’s father was a Pasha and possessed a town house, a fine old Mameluke building.

‘I think—I think she had in mind an ordinary house.’

‘This is an ordinary house,’ said Zeinab, in a tone that brooked no argument.

‘It will do fine,’ said Paul hastily.

When, however, Owen arrived, shortly before the appointed hour, Zeinab was not there.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ said Nuri Pasha, who had long ago given up attempting to keep track on his daughter’s movements. He admired her deeply—she reminded him of her mother, his favourite courtesan—but understood her not at all.

‘Miss Skinner will be arriving at any moment,’ said Owen, consulting his watch.

‘ Cette américaine, ’ said Nuri a trifle anxiously, fearing that he was going to have to provide the entertainment on his own, ‘ est-elle jolie ?’

Owen had not really considered the matter. He did so now. Miss Skinner’s trim form rose up before him; but also her sharp face.

‘Une jolie laide ,’ he said at last, not wishing to discourage Nuri but feeling obliged to be truthful. Ugly-pretty.

‘ Ah! C’est piquant, ça!’ said Nuri, intrigued. Like all upper-class Egyptians, he habitually spoke French.

‘Elle est formidable ,’ Owen warned him.

Nuri brushed the warning aside. So long as the other parts of the equation were all right, the more formidable the better, so far as he was concerned. He liked a challenge.

Owen felt a little worried. Nuri’s interests centred fairly narrowly on politics and sex and he was inclined to associate women exclusively with the latter. Owen felt that Nuri needed more briefing.

However, at this moment the servant came in to announce Miss Skinner’s arrival.

‘Chère Madame!’ said Nuri, rising to kiss her hand.

‘Mr Pasha!’ said Miss Skinner, surprised but not discomfited.

‘Call me Nuri,’ said Zeinab’s father, retaining her hand and leading her over to the divan.

Owen was glad that Paul was there. He had a feeling that things might be about to go wrong.

Fortunately, Zeinab appeared at this point, dressed as for a visit in discreet black, which owed, however, more to the fashion house than to Islamic tradition.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I’ve been at Samira’s. Her favourite niece was being circumcised and it went on for ages—’

‘Circumcised?’ Miss Skinner’s voice rose to a squeak. ‘Female circumcision?’

‘Barbaric,’ said Nuri. ‘Reduces the pleasure enormously.’

‘Miss Nuri, there are one or two things I would like to discuss—’

Paul somehow succeeded in detaching Miss Skinner from Nuri and leading her over to sit beside Zeinab, whose entrance, Owen thought, had not been entirely uncontrived.

He returned and sat down beside the disappointed Nuri.

‘What an opportunity!’ he said. ‘The very man to tell us all the Khedive’s secrets!’

‘Alas, my friend,’ said Nuri sadly, ‘I am no longer one of his intimates.’

‘Say not so! Why, only last week I was talking to Idris Bey and he said—’

‘Did he?’ said Nuri eagerly. ‘Did he now?’

At the other end of the room Miss Skinner was deep in conversation with Zeinab. Owen shuddered to think what she might be hearing. Zeinab’s knowledge of the life led by ‘ordinary’ Egyptians was sketchy but her imagination vivid.

Paul, meanwhile, had slid smoothly on to current politics and was now, thank goodness, giving Nuri the political background to Miss Skinner’s visit.

‘Antiquities? I’m sure I have some. Or can lay my hands on some if Miss Skinner wishes to buy—’

‘No, no. It’s the actual excavation she’s interested in. But also the export of such treasures from Egypt.’

‘An excellent thing. What good can they do here? Some clumsy peasant is sure to break them. Much better to sell them. If only,’ said Nuri wistfully, ‘I had an unopened pyramid or two on my estates!’