The Mingrelian Conspiracy
Michael Pearce
A classic historical mystery from the award-winning Michael Pearce, set in the Egypt of the 1900s. When gang violence strikes the city, the inimitable Mamur Zapt is called in to investigate.In 1908, the city of Cairo lives – and dies – by its cafe culture. But for restaurant businesses, the protection rackets pose a problem. And the city’s cafes are experiencing a sudden upsurge in threats from various gangs.When one cafe proprietor is attacked, his legs broken for noncompliance, everyone is worried. Then the Russian Charge files a complaint – the Mingrelians may be targeting a Russian Grand Duke. Now the Mamur Zapt, Head of the Secret Police, must find a way to prevent an international incident…
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1995
Copyright © Michael Pearce 1995
Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008259426
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2017 ISBN: 9780008257255
Version: 2017-08-31
Contents
Cover (#u6f054194-3318-5055-9d75-efc25d429bc9)
Title Page (#ued27ee8e-672c-52e4-a286-ae2c61f4c1e8)
Copyright (#ud63fa177-c168-5a02-aa8b-cf218adb1d5a)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_17386b82-26a7-50bd-a83b-2c2e5f5155d9)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_b08be88e-cba0-54ac-9e49-e4e21f249c1c)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_b9cfa046-41a8-50e8-9247-b4c3e17e1812)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Michael Pearce (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#ulink_fb9749e9-2f8c-5db1-a3c1-28292dff3b60)
‘Once upon a time there was a woman called Rice Pudding and –’
‘One moment,’ said the Chief of the Secret Police: ‘Rice Pudding?’
‘Yes. And one day she was sitting at her window –’
‘Rice Pudding?’ said the Chief of Police warningly.
‘It was a long time ago,’ said the storyteller defensively.
‘Very well. Proceed.’
‘And suddenly she saw, down in the street below, a dervish looking very important and wearing round his neck a huge necklace made of the spouts off clay water jars strung together like beads. “What do you have for sale?” she called down to him. “Names,” he said. “How much does a name cost?” “A hundred piastres.” Now –’
‘Perhaps you could just tell me,’ suggested the Chief of Police, ‘where you had got to?’
‘He had got to the bit,’ said one of the bystanders helpfully, ‘when she had lost her new name and a blind man had found it and tied it up in a sack –’
‘Hey!’ said the storyteller angrily. ‘Who’s telling the story? You or me?’
‘And was just about to carry it up the stairs –’
‘When Mustapha cried out,’ said the constable excitedly, unable to keep quiet any longer.
‘Mustapha?’ said the Chief of the Secret Police, who was having difficulties.
‘From inside the café! I heard him!’
‘Mustapha is the man who was injured?’
‘That’s right, Effendi! While we were listening to the story.’
‘And I heard the cry,’ said the constable. ‘Oh, Effendi, it was a terrible cry! So I rushed at once into the café –’
‘No, you didn’t!’ objected someone.
‘Ahmed, are you looking for trouble?’
‘I’m only saying you didn’t rush in. You stayed right where you were.’
‘We all did,’ said someone else. ‘It was a terrible cry.’
The crowd was pressing forward, eager to help.
‘And then Leila called for help!’
‘And we all rushed in –’
‘Led by me,’ said the constable swiftly.
‘And found Mustapha lying there.’
‘Right!’ said the Chief of the Secret Police. ‘So we’re not in the story now; we’re in what really happened?’
‘Yes, Effendi, that’s right. And there was Mustapha, lying in a pool of blood –’
Owen sighed. ‘What really happened’ was always a relative matter in Cairo. There had been, for instance, no pool of blood. The proprietor of the café had had his legs broken, which was the usual penalty for noncompliance when the gangs made their initial request. He glanced back over his shoulder.
‘Where is Mustapha now?’ he asked.
‘Upstairs, Effendi. The hakim is with him.’
‘Right. Well, I am going in to have a talk with him. In private. So you can all go home. There’ll be nothing for you to see. No more excitement.’
He knew, however, that his words were wasted. The crowd would stay on in the hope of further drama at least until he left and probably long after.
‘Keep them out,’ he said to the constable. ‘I don’t want any company.’
‘Right, Effendi!’ said the constable, taking out his baton with alacrity. When Owen had arrived, the first thing he had had to do was clear the café of all sightseers, which meant the whole neighbourhood. They were all now packed in the street outside, which was jammed from one end to the other.
The constable stationed himself in front of the entrance and swung his arm.
‘Oy!’ said someone indignantly. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘That’ll teach you, Ahmed!’ said the constable, grinning.
Owen gave him a warning look and then went inside. The café had obviously started life as a traditional Arab one and there were still stone benches round the walls with low tables in front of them and a rack of hose-stemmed bubble pipes in one corner. An attempt was being made, however, to take it up market. The central part of the floor was occupied by standard wooden European chairs and tables and scattered around were various European fixtures and fittings: a large gilt mirror, for instance, which might have strayed out of an East London pub. The density of the chairs and tables, and the fact that the café could afford a storyteller, suggested that it was popular. Just the kind of place, thought Owen, to attract the attention of the gangs.
A flight of stairs led upwards to the family’s living quarters. In one of the rooms Owen found a cluster of people around a rope bed on which a man was lying. He had his trousers off and a man in a dark suit and fez was bending over him. A woman, unveiled, was wiping his face with a cloth.
‘You wouldn’t listen, would you?’ she said.
The man ignored her. The doctor saw Owen and straightened up.
‘Another one,’ he said.
‘Just the legs?’
‘A smack or two in the face.’
‘They broke my nose,’ the man on the bed said, putting up his hand to feel his face. ‘The bastards!’
The doctor inspected him critically.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, ‘when the swelling goes down. Your mouth will want some repair work, though. A couple of teeth have gone.’
The man felt gingerly inside his mouth with one finger and then sat bolt upright.
‘It’s the gold one! Leila, look in my mouth. It’s the gold one, isn’t it?’
The woman wiped the blood away and peered.
‘It looks like it,’ she said.
‘Then where is it?’
‘It’ll be on the floor somewhere.’
‘Go down and look for it! At once! Before any of those other bastards finds it and makes off with it!’
The woman hurried out of the room.
‘Bastards!’ said the man, lying back.
Owen moved forward.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘Bad!’ said the man, without opening his eyes.
‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow,’ said Owen, ‘and we can talk more. But there’s something I need to know quickly. The men; what were they like?’
The man was silent.
‘You must have seen them,’ insisted Owen.
The man looked up, as if registering his presence for the first time.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I saw them, all right.’
‘Recognize any of them?’
‘No. As soon as I saw the clubs I knew what I was in for, though.’
‘Can you give me a description?’
‘What’s the use?’ said the man.
‘Scars?’
‘Sudanis, you mean? Well, it might have been. We’ve got enough around.’ He reflected a moment, then shook his head. ‘It all happened so fast.’
‘Were they wearing galabeeyahs? Or trousers?’
Some of the gangs were westernized. It might help to narrow the field.
‘Do you know,’ said the man, ‘I can’t remember. I really can’t remember.’
‘Another one who won’t talk?’ The army major pursed his lips. ‘We need to take a tougher line.’
‘It’s the only way.’
The speaker was new to the committee. Paul, in the chair, raised his eyebrows.
‘Captain – ?’
‘Shearer,’ said the major, introducing. ‘Just joined us. The Sirdar thought he might be useful. Experience with Arabs. The Gulf. Knows how to handle them.’
‘Bedouin?’ said Paul. ‘I think you may find the urban Egyptian a little different, Captain Shearer.’
‘They’re all the same.’
‘I bow to your experience. And how long is it that you’ve been in Cairo?’
‘I arrived last week,’ said Shearer, flushing slightly.
‘It’s true, though,’ insisted the major. ‘They are all the same. Stick a knife through you as soon as look at you. I mean, that’s what this meeting is about, isn’t it? Stopping them getting hold of guns.’
‘It’s true that we have reason to suppose that some of the money the gangs collect through their protection rackets finds its way to the purchase of guns,’ said Paul.
‘Well, there you are, then. And we know who they’ll be used against!’
‘Armed uprising,’ said the third member of the Army team loyally.
‘Armed uprising?’ said Owen incredulously. ‘Do you know what the scale of this is?’
‘Bloody vast,’ said the major.
‘Infinitesimal. There are less than a dozen gangs and fewer than twenty men in each. Two hundred men. Out of a population in the city of eight hundred thousand!’
‘If there are so few,’ said the major, ‘why don’t you get on top of them?’
Paul sighed.
‘Operating in a city is not quite like operating against a few armed tribesmen in the desert,’ he said.
‘There I have to disagree with you,’ said the new man, Captain Shearer. ‘I think some of the lessons we’ve learned in the Gulf are very applicable in Cairo.’
‘Quite right,’ said the major approvingly.
‘What had you in mind?’ asked Owen. ‘Machine guns?’
‘Not quite that,’ said Shearer. ‘Although I do think you shouldn’t underrate the part machine guns could play in dealing with mass disturbance in the squares. No, what I was thinking of was armed patrols on the streets –’
‘There’s hardly a need for that,’ said Owen. ‘It’s a peaceful city.’
‘People getting their legs broken?’ said the major. ‘I’d hardly call that peaceful.’
‘You’ve got to see it in proportion.’
‘The trouble is,’ said Shearer, ‘the proportion can very soon change if you don’t stamp on this kind of thing at once.’
‘Armed patrols?’ said Owen. ‘For God’s sake!’
‘From what I’ve seen,’ said Paul, ‘especially on the nights after they’ve been paid, it’s the soldiers who are responsible for half the trouble!’
‘I won’t deny there’s been the odd spot of bother recently,’ said the major defensively.
‘Actually, sir,’ said Shearer, turning eagerly towards him, ‘that rather supports the point I was making last night.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said the major vaguely.
‘About unifying the policing of the city. The need to deploy more Military Police and bring security under a single command, preferably military –’
‘What are you suggesting?’ said Paul. ‘Putting Cairo under military law?’
‘Well –’
‘Or are you merely saying that since the Army is responsible for most of the criminal violence that there is in the city, it should do something about it?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that –’
‘He’s right, though,’ said the major doggedly. ‘There ought to be a crackdown.’
Paul began to gather up his papers.
‘Well, thank you, gentlemen. It’s always a pleasure to hear the views of the Army. And most helpful to have a new contribution! I’m sure you’re right, Captain Shearer, we all have much to learn. I’m afraid you’ll find, though, when you’ve been here a little longer, that the situation in Egypt is not quite as straightforward as you suppose. Nor is Egyptian police work.’
No, indeed. To start with the question of what the British were doing in Egypt anyway: they were there, they said, by invitation of the ruler of Egypt, the Khedive, to help him sort out the country’s chaotic finances. True, the invitation had been nearly thirty years before and they were still there; but then, the finances were very complicated. True, too, that their help now extended very widely. There was a British adviser alongside every minister. There were Englishmen at the head of the police and the Army. And the British Consul-General was always there to advise the Khedive. But then, it was hard to separate finance from the general running of the country, as the Khedive soon sadly discovered.
It was true, however, that a number of people in Egypt, and most certainly the Khedive, had come to feel that the help was no longer necessary. But then, as Nationalist newspapers frequently observed, a growing number of Egyptians felt that the Khedive was no longer necessary either.
The situation was indeed not straightforward. Egypt had in effect two governments, the formal one of the Khedive and the shadow one of the British administration. In these circumstances a certain dexterity was required of administrators.
It was particularly required of the Mamur Zapt, a post traditional to, and peculiar to, Cairo. Broadly, Owen was responsible for what was coming to be known as security. In England the nearest equivalent was Head of the Political Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department. In Egypt the Mamur Zapt was traditionally thought of as Head of the Sultan’s Secret Police. There was now no Sultan and, as a matter of fact, no Secret Police either; but views were slow to change.
Owen was, then, answerable for security. But answerable to whom? It was a question asked frequently by the Khedive and occasionally by the Consul-General and Owen never quite found the right answer. Khedive and Consul both agreed, however, that his duties should be carried out so discreetly as not to cause trouble. Owen was in favour of this, too, very much so, only it was not always easy to achieve in this city of sixty nationalities, most of whom were always at each other’s throats, one hundred and twelve different ethnic groups, ditto, two hundred plus sects of a variety of religions, even more ditto, and growing Egyptian nationalism. Not to mention the fact that there was not one but three legal systems, each with its own courts, among which agile criminals could slip with eternal impunity.
No, indeed, policing in Egypt was not straightforward, thought Owen, as he sat benignly in a café at that corner of the Ataba-el-Khadra where the Musky debouches into the square. That stupid meeting with the Army had taken up so much of the morning that he had been obliged to go back to his office in the afternoon, which, at this time of the year, very few people did. Throughout the morning the heat built up so that, despite the closed shutters and the whirling fans, by noon everybody was wilting. They clung nobly on till about one o’clock, or, in the case of the British, eager to demonstrate both the heaviness of their workload and their superiority to the elements, two o’clock, and then thankfully packed it in for the day and went home for their siesta. Owen could never sleep during the day and usually went to the baths at this time to have a swim while the pool was empty. Not infrequently he then went back to the office and stayed there until the twilit hour when the day suddenly cooled and all the cafés came alive. Then he headed for a nearby one, along with half the population of Cairo.
There were, he had long ago decided, two stages. In the first, people woke up from their siesta, stretched themselves and thought that a little air would do them good. They went out into the street and found by some strange coincidence that everyone else was doing the same. They strolled along together, every few steps stopping to greet acquaintances, until the sun dropped below the minarets and suddenly the thought struck them how pleasant it would be to step aside for a moment and take a little coffee in one of those tiny cafés that, conveniently, cropped up every few yards in Cairo. Indeed, Cairo seemed at times one continuous café. They would sit there chatting and watching the world go by – since most of the tables were outside – until the time came for dinner, when they would rise, shake hands with the entire café, and depart.
The second stage followed immediately afterwards, when people would arise from their evening meal, feel the need for a breath of air, go outside and in no time at all finish up in a café, where they would remain for the rest of the evening. Life in the hot season was best lived out of doors, Cairenes were naturally sociable people, and the café world took over.
There, if you sat long enough, you would meet everyone you wanted to see. Take that fat Greek, for instance, about to drop into a chair a few tables away; Owen had been wanting to talk to him for days.
He waved a hand. The Greek came over and joined him.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Checking out possible places.’
‘It’s a bit hit-and-miss.’
‘You get a feel.’
‘Any particular feels?’
‘Well –’ said Georgiades, looking round evasively for the waiter.
‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe the best chance we’ve got is catching them at the start of the process. You know, after the first visit.’
‘After they’ve left their visiting card? It’s a bit late then, isn’t it? People might be even less inclined to talk.’
‘At least we’d have something to go on. Now, in fact, there was a place yesterday –’
‘Jesus!’ said Georgiades, scrambling up. ‘It’s Rosa!’
A very young, thin slip of a girl was standing beside them, arms akimbo, eyes blazing.
‘I thought you were supposed to be meeting me?’
She gestured towards a pile of packages on the pavement.
‘On my way! I was on my way!’
‘You were sitting here. He spends all his time these days,’ she said to Owen, ‘sitting in cafés.’
‘I was working!’ protested Georgiades.
‘In a café? Since when is sitting in a café work?’
‘It’s what all the bosses do,’ said Georgiades. ‘As soon as they gel anywhere, that’s what they do. Sit down in a café all day.’
‘Yes, but you haven’t got anywhere yet.’
‘I’m anticipating,’ said Georgiades.
Owen felt the need to intervene on his behalf.
‘It’s my fault, really,’ he said. ‘I caught his eye –’
‘He was going to sit down anyway,’ said Rosa. ‘Before he saw you. I was watching.’
‘You were watching?’ said Georgiades. He turned to Owen. ‘Hey, she ought to be in this business, not me!’
‘Why don’t you join us?’ suggested Owen. ‘You must be tired after carrying all that lot. Tell you what, you sit down and have a cup of coffee, and I’ll pay for an arabeah to take you home.’
‘Well –’ said Rosa, weakening.
But only for a moment.
‘Take us both home,’ she stipulated. ‘I don’t want to carry all these damned packages up the stairs. Besides,’ she said generously, ‘he’ll be tired after all this work he’s been doing.’
Owen held a chair for her. Rosa sat down, pleased. She had a soft spot for Owen. In fact, she told herself, she might well have decided to marry him, not Georgiades, at the time of the wretched business of her father’s kidnapping, had she not known about him and Zeinab. Rosa stood rather in awe of Zeinab, not because she was a great lady, the daughter of a Pasha, no less, but because she had somehow solved, or seemed to have solved, the problem of being an independent woman in a man’s world. She took Zeinab secretly as her model. Zeinab, for instance, would have made no bones about sitting down in this café, populated as it was entirely by men. Rosa sat and lifted her chin.
She could only, Owen thought, be about sixteen even now. She had married Georgiades (and this was exactly the way to put it, since he had not had much say in the matter) when she was only fourteen. Rosa had sworn blind that she was fifteen, although her parents had been equally convinced that she was fourteen. Fourteen was, in any case, quite allowable in Cairo and Rosa had received unexpected support from her grandmother, who was a little vague about when she herself had married but thought it was young and thoroughly approved Rosa’s following tradition. This was exactly what Rosa had no intention of following. Her grandmother would certainly not have approved of her sitting here; which made it, of course, all the more enjoyable.
‘He really is working, you know, when he’s in these cafés,’ said Owen, determined to do his best for Georgiades.
Rosa nodded, and then thought. She was as sharp as a knife, an implement which she had threatened to use on Georgiades if she caught him straying, and it didn’t take her long to work out that two and two make four.
‘It’s protection, is it?’ she said. The cafés?’
Rosa knew all about the protection racket. Her family had a business. They dealt in such things as lacquered boxes, old jewellery, Assiut shawls and ancient Persian amulets. One day the gangs had called.
‘You’re going about it the wrong way,’ she said. ‘Sending him round the cafés. They’ll be too frightened to talk. You’ve got to be able to offer them something.’
‘We are offering them something: defence.’
Rosa shook her head.
‘It’s too risky,’ she said. ‘You might catch the gang, you might not. If you don’t, and they’ve talked to you, then they’re in trouble. Why take a chance?’
‘Because otherwise they have to pay. And go on paying.’
‘You ought to go about it in a different way. Don’t let them think they’re talking to you. Why don’t you have him go round pretending to sell insurance? Insurance against loss? They’ll all be interested in that. They’ll want to know what it covers. It would at least get them talking. And then he might be able to lead them on. He’s good,’ said Rosa, looking unforgivingly at the pile of packages beside her, ‘at leading people on.’
Owen sent them off in an arabeah, the universal one-horse cab of Cairo, and settled down to wait for the bill. You could wait a long time for that and meanwhile his eyes wandered relaxedly over the scene in front of him. The Ataba-el-Khadra was the meeting place of two worlds. The Musky led straight up from the Old City and you went down it if you were a European wanting to visit the bazaars, or came up it if you were a native intending to visit the shops in the European quarter or, more likely, catch a tram. The Ataba was the terminus for most of Cairo’s tram routes and at any hour of the day or night the square was full of trams, native horse-drawn buses, arabeahs and camels bringing forage for the horses. It was also full of street hawkers selling brushes (why?), ice-cream, lemonade, water, sponges, loofahs, canes (no young effendi from one of the big offices was properly dressed unless he carried a cane), hats (the pot-like tarboosh of the Egyptian) and sugar for instant consumption. The two biggest industries, however, were selling pastries and selling Nationalist newspapers. Cairenes, lacking confidence, perhaps, in their public-transport system, believed in stocking up before embarking on a journey. But they also believed in not making a journey at all but just sitting around, and when they sat around, they liked to sit in a café and read scurrilous Nationalist newspapers. Just behind the Ataba were the big offices of Credit Lyonnais and the Mixed Tribunals and beyond them the headquarters of the Anglo-Egyptian Bank, and the countless young men who worked in them were all avid Nationalists.
Owen looked around at the crowded café and thought: if other cafés, why not this one?
He knew the proprietor of the café and beckoned him over.
‘Tell me, Yasin,’ he said. ‘Do you pay protection?’
‘Not yet,’ said the proprietor.
‘Is that because they have not asked? Or because you have not agreed?’
‘If they asked,’ said Yasin, diplomatically but evasively, ‘I would reply: I need no protection, for the Mamur Zapt sits every night at my tables.’
The first stage of the café evening was coming to an end and at several tables people were standing up and shaking hands. It was time to be firm about that bill. Or perhaps, just before he left, an apéritif?
‘How about an apéritif?’ said a familiar voice, and Paul dropped into a chair beside him.
‘I reckon you owe me one,’ said Owen, ‘after that meeting this morning.’
‘Bloody awful, wasn’t it? It’s high time the Army went on manoeuvres. Preferably at the bottom of the Red Sea.’
‘What’s all this business about unifying the policing? I don’t like the sound of it.’
‘It won’t get anywhere. The Old Man will kill it dead.’
Paul was one of the Consul-General’s aides and frequently, as this morning, chaired meetings on his behalf.
‘Will he, though? If they really push?’
‘They’ll only get his back up. He’ll see it as trespassing.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘It won’t get anywhere. At the end of the day, the Old Man’s a politician, and the one empire politicians will really fight for is their own. You can go back to sleep.’
Paul sipped his apéritif.
‘All the same,’ he said reflectively, ‘on something like this it might be best if you didn’t.’
‘The gangs?’ Owen was surprised. ‘I really don’t think, Paul, you need worry too much about the guns. It’s pretty small –‘
‘Guns?’ said Paul, so steeped in the ways of the city that he considered himself a born-again Cairene. ‘Who the hell cares about guns? It’s the cafés I’m thinking of.’
2 (#ulink_d6b3701a-82c5-532c-99c0-c6d104506109)
Later the same day Owen had moved on to the second stage of the café evening and was comfortably enjoying an after-dinner coffee outside a crowded Arab café when an orderly, who knew his habits, brought him a hurried message from the Deputy Commandant of Police. It said:
Can you get down to the Ezbekiyeh quick? Trouble at a café. I’ve got my hands full at the Citadel. McPhee.
Trouble at a café, thought Owen. Christ, they’re keeping on the go. But when he got to the place he found it was nothing to do with protection but just an ordinary common or garden incident such as disfigured Cairo’s streets most weekends. The Ezbekiyeh contained a number of houses of ill repute and was much frequented by British soldiers. Opposite the balconies from which scantily dressed ladies suggested their all were some very low-class cafés in which yet insufficiently aroused clients could sit and gaze.
And drink. Which was exactly what a bunch of Welsh Fusiliers had been doing until they had spotted at the next café a group of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light. Relations between the regiments were not cordial, a matter, apparently, of the condition in which the DCLI had once left some barracks when the Welsh were due to move in, and merry banter was exchanged. As the evening wore on, and more drink was consumed, the banter became less merry. Remarks were made which, the Welsh considered, reflected on their nation (‘Couldn’t kick a ball near the posts, never mind through them’) and they had risen to defend theirs and their country’s honour. In the ensuing fracas a surprising number of bottles had been broken and a considerable amount of furniture damaged; so, too, had been a considerable number of soldiers.
The police had been summoned and a constable had indeed arrived but had wisely confined himself to the role of a spectator. When he saw Owen he fell in – behind him – with considerable relief.
Owen had no great desire to get involved in a brawl either. He doubted very much if the contestants were in a condition in which they could respond to the voice of command, much less a civilian voice of command; and then what would he do? He advanced slowly down the street towards them.
The fighting seemed, fortunately, to have reached a slight lull. Those still on their feet paused for a moment, breathing heavily. They were just about to resume, however, when a voice came sharply from the other end of the street: ‘Stop that at once!’
The combatants looked up, surprised.
A slight, smartly dressed man came out of the darkness towards them.
‘Stop that at once! Stand apart!’
‘Blimey!’ said one of the soldiers incredulously. ‘A Gyppie!’
‘Bloody hell!’
“Ere,’ said another voice, ‘what do you think you’re doing? Ordering us around?’
‘He needs bloody straightening out.’
‘He bloody does!’
They began to move towards him.
Owen, in a fury now, and forgetting himself, started forward.
‘Cut that out! None of that! Get back! Get back at once!’
‘Christ!’ said one of the soldiers. ‘Here’s another one!’
‘He’s bloody British, though.’
‘I am bloody British,’ snapped Owen, ‘and tomorrow morning I’ll have you bloody lot on jankers. I’ll have you bloody running round and round the parade ground until your bloody balls drop off –’
‘He speaks a bit like an officer,’ said one of the men doubtfully.
‘What’s he in civvies for?’
‘Must be off duty.’
‘– and drop on the ground and lie there till they fry – ‘raged Owen.
The men, impressed, stopped fighting.
‘That was lovely!’ said one of the Welshmen. ‘A bit poetic!’
A group of men in uniform suddenly appeared at the end of the street.
‘Christ!’ said one of the soldiers. ‘We’re for it! It’s the jelly-babies!’
‘What’s going on?’ shouted a voice that was vaguely familiar.
The Military Police came down the street.
‘What’s going on?’
Owen recognized the voice now. It was Shearer.
‘These men have been disturbing the peace,’ said the Egyptian.
‘Oh, have they? We’ll soon see about that! Get their names, sergeant!’
‘I would like a copy, please,’ said the Egyptian.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It would save me having to do it for myself.’
‘I’m handling them,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s no concern of yours.’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ said the Egyptian.
‘Oh?’ said Shearer. ‘And who the hell are you?’
‘Can I introduce you?’ said Owen, stepping forward. ‘Mr Mahmoud El Zaki, Captain Shearer. Mr El Zaki is a member of the Parquet and is, presumably, the officer investigating this case.’
If so, it would be very speedy. In Egypt the police had no powers of investigation. They merely reported a case of suspected crime to the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, which then assigned one of its lawyers to conduct the investigation.
‘There is no case,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s an internal matter for the Army.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Since the incident has been formally reported a file will have been already opened.’
‘I suggest you close it, then.’
‘That will not be possible.’
Shearer looked at Owen.
‘I’m afraid he’s right. Once the process has been formally initiated it rolls on until it’s formally closed.’
‘How do I go about getting it formally closed?’
‘A request has to go in from the administration. Get your people to contact Paul Trevelyan.’
Shearer made a note of the name.
‘He’s the chap who was chairing the meeting this morning,’ said Owen.
Shearer frowned.
‘Meanwhile,’ said Owen, pointedly, ‘you are obliged to cooperate with the Parquet.’
‘The names, please,’ said the Egyptian.
Shearer gave in with an ill grace.
‘Give him a copy when you’ve finished,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘You lot,’ he said, turning on the soldiers, ‘had better get back to barracks. You’re a bloody disgrace. I’ll deal with you in the morning.’
‘Better send them separately,’ advised Owen. ‘Otherwise they’ll start fighting again.’
‘They’d better bloody not! You’re right, though, it’s best to make sure. You lot,’ he said to the DCLI, ‘get started. Sergeant, take half your men and go with them. You shower,’ he said to the Fusiliers, ‘start in ten minutes. Corporal, see they don’t cause any more trouble.’
‘The list, sir,’ said the sergeant, giving it to the Egyptian. He did not normally reckon to say ‘sir’ to Egyptians but this situation seemed a bit complicated, and then there was the other funny bloke standing by whom Shearer seemed to listen to.
‘Thank you.’ The Egyptian hesitated. ‘Are you not going to take the names of witnesses?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘You spoke of Army legal processes.’
‘Not necessary, I think,’ said Shearer.
The Egyptian raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. He took out a notebook and went over to the owner of the Fusiliers’ cafe.
‘Will you want to talk to me?’ asked Owen.
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said the Egyptian, over his shoulder.
Shearer frowned.
‘I don’t think that’s right,’ he objected. ‘You ought not to be called on to give evidence against our own people. It puts you in an awkward position.’
‘Ah!’ said Owen. ‘I’m used to that!’
Shearer hesitated and then, as the Egyptian did not appear to be disposed to go at once to Owen, which was what Shearer half expected, said good night and went after the departed DC LI.
Owen found himself standing next to the Fusiliers.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said one of them, recognizing a countryman. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Machen.’
‘Are you, indeed, sir? I’m from Caerphilly.’
‘And I’m from Llanbradach, sir,’ put in another of the Fusiliers.
‘I know it well,’ said Owen.
‘And I know Machen, sir. My aunt is Mrs Roberts, of the Post Office, sir.’
‘Mrs Roberts?’ It was a hundred years since Owen had been in Wales. But vague memories of his childhood began to stir. ‘I remember her, I think. How is she?’
‘Not very well, sir. She’s getting on a bit now. She’s more or less given up the Post Office. She leaves it mostly to Blodwen now.’
‘Blodwen?’
‘Her daughter, sir. You remember her?’
‘I think I do. A tiny little thing?’
‘Not so tiny, now, sir.’
‘She’s married, sir,’ said another of the Fusiliers.
‘Heavens! Well, it was a while ago. I left for India when I was eighteen.’
‘We thought you’d been in the Army, sir. It was the way you spoke.’
The corporal came up.
‘All right, you lot,’ he said. ‘On your way!’
‘Sorry about the bother, sir,’ said one of the Fusiliers as they left. Those English bastards called us Welsh bastards!’
‘Well, there’s no need for you to rise like a fish!’
‘No, sir.’ They sounded, however, unconvinced.
‘Nice fishing at Machen, sir!’ one of them called out as they left.
The Egyptian came across to Owen as soon as they were gone.
‘Have I got it right?’ he said. ‘They are also from the Pays de Galles?’
Professional Egyptians, as well as upper-class Egyptians, tended to speak French more readily than they did English. Many of them had been to France for their education. Mahmoud El Zaki had not. He had done all his training in the Khedivial School of Law. The Egyptian legal system, however, was heavily based on the French and the whole legal culture was strongly French.
‘That’s right,’ said Owen. ‘It’s a Welsh regiment.’
‘I’m surprised you keep them together,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Isn’t there the risk of rebellion?’
‘No, no, no. It’s not like that. The English conquest of Wales was so long ago that most people have forgotten it. Well, almost.’
The Egyptian was not entirely convinced.
‘There seemed to me to be animosity,’ he said. ‘Those other men were English, yes? An English regiment?’
‘Some Cornishmen might dispute it, but yes. The conquest of Cornwall was even longer ago than the conquest of Wales.’
The Egyptian shook his head in wonderment.
‘I thought the British were all the same,’ he said. ‘Of course, I knew that you were from the Pays de Galles. You had told me. But I had thought that you were an exception. British is not English, then?’
‘Oh, no. It is Welsh and Scottish and Irish and –’
‘Cornish?’
‘If you go far enough back. And other things as well.’
The Egyptian looked thoughtful.
‘It sounds like Cairo to me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I won’t take up your time now. Why don’t we have a coffee somewhere? Sidi Hassim’s, in an hour’s time?’
The trouble with the Cairo late-night café culture was that after the evening came the morning. Sleeping outside in the garden, because of the heat, Owen habitually awoke with the sun, no matter what time he’d gone to bed the night before. The result was that he’d normally passed his peak for the day by about nine, which was, of course, when the committees usually began, and after that it was all downhill. This morning he was present in the flesh but fragile in the spirit.
‘We’re always having meetings,’ he complained to Paul.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Paul, ‘and we could do without this one. However, a formal request has come in, or is about to come in, from Captain Shearer which, I think, needs discussion.’
‘Hasn’t it come in yet?’ said the major, equally fed up at having to be present. ‘If it’s not come in, why not wait until it does?’
‘Because that would rule out some of the options open to us.’
‘Such as?’
‘Not putting in a formal request.’
‘The Army does not change its mind,’ said Shearer stiffly.
‘Keeping it informal, you mean?’ asked the major. ‘Well, that’s usually best. Keep things off paper.’
‘I agree with you in principle, sir,’ said Shearer. ‘In fact, that’s exactly what I tried to do last night. Only this other Johnny said that things had already got past that stage.’
‘Who is the other Johnny?’ asked Paul.
‘Mahmoud,’ said Owen.
‘Mahmoud El Zaki? The Parquet’s already involved? This makes it more difficult.’
‘Presumably there was a complaint,’ said Owen.
‘Actually,’ said McPhee, Deputy Commandant of the Cairo Police, present this morning, ‘there were two.’
‘And they’ve assigned an officer already? That’s pretty quick off the mark!’
‘I think they’ve got a duty-officer system,’ said Owen, ‘and Mahmoud was probably the lawyer on duty. Anyone else would have left it till morning.’
‘It had to be Mahmoud!’ said Paul, vexed.
‘Difficult man, eh?’ said the major.
‘That was certainly my impression last night, sir,’ said Shearer.
‘Difficult?’ said Paul. ‘No. Conscientious.’ He turned to Owen. ‘You know Mahmoud,’ he said. ‘It was only last night. They can hardly have got started. Do you think that there’s any chance – ?’
‘No,’ said Owen. ‘He’ll see it as a matter of principle.’
‘Well, it is a matter of principle,’ said Shearer. ‘Does the Army come under Egyptian law?’
‘Can’t have that!’ said the major, aghast.
‘I absolutely agree, sir,’ said Shearer. ‘And therefore I think the issue must be faced. Settle it once and for all. That was exactly my thinking last night. If the Johnnies want it formal, then let them have it formal; and see if they like the consequences!’
‘Hear, hear!’ said the major.
‘Look,’ said Paul, ‘the only way we get by in Egypt is by not facing issues. We take damned good care to see that issues are not faced.’
‘Chickening out!’ said Shearer contemptuously.
‘Damned shillyshallying!’ said the major.
‘And this is for a very good reason,’ said Paul; ‘the ground we stand on is shaky.’
‘Not while the Army’s here!’ said Shearer.
‘By God, no!’ said the major.
‘I’m thinking of the formal, legal grounds by which we justify our presence here.’
‘Well,’ said Shearer, ‘I don’t think we need to think too much about that. We’re here, aren’t we?’
‘It’s a question of how we appear in the eyes of other countries.’
‘Other countries!’ said the major dismissively.
‘I agree, sir,’ said Shearer. ‘The Army will look after that!’
‘One of the complaints,’ said McPhee, ‘came from the Russian Chargé.’
‘Russian Chargé!’ said Paul.
‘Apparently the soldiers assaulted him.’
‘God Almighty!’ said Paul. ‘It’s already an international incident!’
‘Gentlemen. We should not lose our heads –’ began Shearer.
‘Heads?’ said Paul. ‘Heads? And what do you think will happen to yours when the Commander-in-Chief, the Prime Minister back in London, learns that the country’s been committed to war through the actions of a junior captain?’
‘Perhaps we should think again,’ said the major. ‘Maybe it would be best after all if the whole thing was handled informally.’
‘Too late,’ said Paul. ‘It’s in the hands of the Parquet now. The Nationalists will have us over a barrel. They’ll exploit it internationally. Even your ambassador can’t walk along the street without being bloody jumped on by British soldiers.’
‘We’ll confine them to barracks,’ said the major. ‘Keep them off the streets for a time. Can’t we hush this thing up?’
‘Not a chance!’ said Paul, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘The Parquet’s Nationalist. It’s rubbing its hands at all the trouble it’ll be able to cause.’
‘It wouldn’t be possible – would it – to get the Chargé to withdraw his complaint?’ said the major desperately. ‘I mean, they wouldn’t be able to go ahead then, would they? They’d have to, well, drop it.’
Paul affected to consider.
‘I could go and grovel to the Chargé, I suppose,’ he said unwillingly.
‘Well, look –’
‘I could give it a go. There’d have to be a written apology, of course.’
‘You could manage that, couldn’t you?’
‘It wouldn’t have to be from me. It would have to be from you.’
‘The Army?’ The major swallowed; swallowed again. ‘I think that could be arranged.’
‘And Captain Shearer withdraws his request?’
‘In the circumstances,’ mumbled Shearer.
‘Right, then!’ said Paul, triumphant, beginning to gather his papers. ‘We –’
‘Excuse me,’ said McPhee, the Deputy Commandant, with his usual slightly anxious old-world courtesy, ‘haven’t you forgotten something? There was another complaint.’
‘My God!’ said Paul. ‘It’s all Europe now!’
‘No, no,’ said McPhee seriously. ‘It’s not from the Diplomatic this time.’
‘Who is it, then?’
‘The leader of the Mingrelian community.’
There was a little silence.
‘What did you say?’
‘Mingrelian.’
‘Oh, Mingrelian, Mingrelian!’ said Paul, starting up. ‘My God!’ he said, catching Owen’s eye, ‘Mingrelian!’
‘Mingrelian!’ responded Owen loyally, seeing that something of the sort was required but not, however, having the faintest idea what it was all about, never, indeed, having heard of anything Mingrelian before. ‘Mingrelian!’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Them above all!’ said Paul, all dejection.
‘Look,’ said the major apprehensively, ‘if they’re a particularly difficult lot –’
‘Difficult!’ said Paul. ‘Difficult! Not content with having provoked a world war, you bring out on to the streets the most bloodthirsty, intransigent –’
‘Armed uprising?’ said Shearer. ‘We can handle them!’
‘Both of them?’ said Paul. ‘At once?’
‘We’ll cope,’ said the major. ‘We’ll cope.’ He looked, however, distinctly worried. ‘Two fronts,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Don’t like it,’ he said.
‘None of us like it,’ said Paul bravely. ‘We have to look issues in the face, though. There may be still time, however. I’ll go straight to the Russian Chargé and grovel. Oh, no, wait a minute. First, we need a letter of apology.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said the major.
‘Right. Then keep your men off the streets –’
‘Lie low for a bit. Right, I get the picture,’ said Shearer.
‘And persuade the Army to refrain, at least for a time, from assaulting the minority of the population it hasn’t so far assaulted.’
‘Right,’ said the major.
Paul looked pleased.
‘That’s it, then?’
The complaint from the Mingrelians,’ McPhee gently prompted.
‘Ah, yes. Well,’ said Paul, looking at Owen; ‘something for the Mamur Zapt, isn’t it?’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Owen.
‘Paul,’ he said worriedly, as they walked away together. ‘Who the hell are the Mingrelians?’
Don’t ask me,’ said Paul. ‘Never heard of them.’
‘Just bring me the Mingrelian file, will you?’ said Owen casually, glancing up at Nikos as the Official Clerk entered the room.
‘The what file?’
‘Mingrelian.’
Nikos stood for a moment, stunned. He liked to claim he had a file on everything. He believed he had the universe under control. Now the earth had moved.
‘Mingrelian. Oh yes, Mingrelian,’ he said, recovering quickly. He stopped in the doorway. ‘It may take a bit of time,’ he warned.
‘I’ll bet,’ said Owen.
Nikos went out grim-faced.
‘Do you realize what you’ve done?’ demanded Georgiades.
‘He hasn’t got a file!’ chortled Owen.
‘He’ll have one soon. Those people were happily getting on with their lives unknown to the world. Now you’ve dragged them into history!’
‘Ever heard of them?’
Georgiades rubbed his chin. There was a faint rasp. It was difficult to shave close in the heat.
‘The name seems vaguely familiar. Something to do with the Church?’
‘The Church!’ said McPhee, shocked. ‘Really, Owen! And you the son of a minister! It is true that they are members of the Orthodox communion at one remove, so to speak, since the Georgian Church is autocephalous –’
‘Georgia? Is that where they come from?’
‘The Caucasus, rather. They are a separate linguistic community. Linguistic, not religious. How could you think, Owen – ?’ said McPhee reproachfully.
Later in the morning Owen took pity on Nikos.
‘There’s been a complaint, apparently, about the behaviour of some British soldiers last night. It came from the leader of the Mingrelian community. Can you get me the details? At least the name.’
‘The Parquet?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll go directly to them,’ said Nikos, straight-faced. ‘It’ll be quicker than finding the file.’
Owen guessed that he was getting near the place when he began to see increasing numbers of Albanians and Montenegrins standing about at street corners wearing national dress. It was not that the Caucasus was part of the Balkans, just that in Cairo certain groups of communities tended to stick together and the nationalities of the Eastern Mediterranean constituted one such group. Not all of them, however, insisted on wearing national dress. That was a peculiarity of the Albanians and Montenegrins, adopted, Owen thought, chiefly because it was a lot less strenuous to stand about all day in picturesque dress in front of the tourists’ hotels charging for photographs than to work for a living. Anyway, they looked splendid chaps in their high boots and their billowing trousers and with a whole armoury stuck in their belts.
‘The house of Sorgos?’
The Montenegrin thought for a moment and then took Owen familiarly by the arm and led him down a narrow alley and out into a small close of very old houses, so old that they were threatening to slide into each other and their heavy, wooden meshrebiya windows bowed down almost to the ground. The Montenegrin stopped before the door of one of them.
‘The house of Sorgos,’ he said, saluted and left.
Owen knocked on the door.
It was opened by one of the most beautiful women Owen had ever seen.
He was quite taken aback, firstly because he had expected the door to be opened by a servant – few houses were so poor as to be without a servant of some sort – and secondly because she was unveiled. He had grown so used to women being in veils that now he was disconcerted to see one without one. What sort of woman would come to the door without a veil on?
Not that sort of woman, he realized at once. This one was soberly dressed and serious looking.
Yes?’
‘The house of Sorgos?’
She nodded.
‘Is he at home?’
‘No. What is your business?’
‘I am the Mamur Zapt. I would like to talk to him.’
‘He is not at home,’ she said, ‘but he will be back soon. Would you like to come in?’
She led him into a small room sparely furnished in the Eastern style, with marble tiles on the floor and carpets on the walls. He sat down on a low divan with various bits of brassware on a table before him.
‘I will bring some coffee.’
Unusually, there were books. They were scattered everywhere, on the tables, on the floor, in the little niches where there should have been pots, in piles against the walls.
‘My father collects stories,’ she said, pulling up a brazier and putting the pot down beside him.
‘Collects them?’
‘Yes. The original manuscripts if he can, early printed versions if he can’t.’
‘And they are to do with what?’
‘Folk stories, epics, wonder tales.’
‘The Arabian Nights?’
‘He would like to think so. My father is in Paris now.’
‘Buying?’
‘Selling.’
‘Oh!’
‘He hates it. He hates parting. But obviously we have to live. And anyway, we have the story.’
‘In what language?’
‘Any language.’
‘It was just that – you are Mingrelian, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She was a little surprised. ‘How did you know? Oh, my grandfather!’
‘You don’t confine yourselves to stories of the Caucasus?’
‘The Caucasus was long ago,’ she said, ‘and my grandfather does not like to talk about it. We have been in Cairo now for thirty years. Longer, even, than the British!’
The serious face suddenly dissolved. Owen was enchanted. But still uncomfortable.
‘You are Christian, of course?’
‘Of course.’
‘I was missing the veil.’
‘I do wear a veil when I go out. It saves trouble with the neighbours. But not at home.’
‘Your grandfather allows you considerable freedom,’ he observed.
It wasn’t just the Muslims who liked to keep their women private. It was the Italians, the Greeks, the Levantines, the Albanians, all the Balkan countries. You could live in Egypt forever and never meet a single woman socially. Until he had met Zeinab, Owen had felt very deprived.
‘He believes in freedom,’ she said. ‘That, of course, is why we left Russia. As they call our country now.’
‘I hadn’t realized there was such a community of you here.’
‘Well, it isn’t such a community really. There are only about sixty families. When you are as small as that you have to fight very hard in order to survive. Marriage becomes important. Children become important. You must not let the language die out.’
‘And you? Are you married?’
She laughed.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘The problem is, you have to marry a Mingrelian.’
‘The trouble with freedom,’ said Owen, ‘is that it broadens the outlook.’
He heard someone come in through the outer door and rose to his feet.
‘You have a visitor. Grandfather,’ said the girl. ‘The Mamur Zapt!’
An old man came into the room. Owen knew, of course, that he must be old; but that was not the immediate impression he gave. He had the same handsome features as the girl and his hair still retained some of the same striking black. He strode vigorously across the room and clasped Owen by the hand.
‘The Mamur Zapt! To what do I owe this honour?’
‘I have come to apologize,’ said Owen, ‘for the boorish behaviour of some British soldiers.’
The old man started to wave the issue away but then his hand stopped.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it was an insult, and the Mingrelians cannot accept insults. The Mingrelians above all! When you are a small community you have to fight. Otherwise they will break you down.’
‘There is no desire in any way to do that. The Mingrelian community is much respected. The Sirdar and the Consul-General’ – this was stretching it a bit – ‘have asked me to present their personal apologies. Those responsible will be sought out and punished.’
‘It is the slight to our honour that must be redressed.’
‘Quite so.’
‘We are a small nation but we have our pride.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Some would say we are not even a nation!’
‘Oh, surely no one would say –’
‘Well, they do. They do. They say, how can you be a nation when you haven’t got a country? And I say, we had a country once, only it was taken from us. But, in any case, I say, a nation is more than land. It is spirit. And that spirit we, in our small way, must keep alive even in Cairo!’
‘Absolutely!’
‘And so,’ said the old man, ‘we must defend our honour!’
‘Quite so,’ said Owen, and then, more cautiously: ‘up to a point.’
‘No!’ roared the old man, hammering his fist on the end of the divan. ‘No! On honour there are no half measures!’
‘It is right to resent an affront,’ said Owen, ‘but wrong, after an apology, to nurse a grievance. All that honour requires, surely, is recognition?’
‘Surely courtesy requires recognition, too,’ said the girl. ‘And what has become of hospitality?’
The old man smote himself on the temple.
‘She does right to remind me!’ he said.
He went to sit down on the divan but then, with an apology, left it to Owen and sat down on another divan opposite him. The girl stirred the coffee and poured out two little cups, one for her grandfather, one for Owen.
‘Both courtesy and hospitality,’ said Owen, ‘require thanks.’
The girl smiled at him and went out to replenish the coffee.
‘A good girl,’ said the old man, watching her fondly, ‘and with a mind of her own! Just like her grandmother.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A disappointment, though!’
‘Oh, come –’
‘No, no. It’s true. Twenty-one and not married! In no time at all she’ll be past child-bearing –’
‘Plenty of time for that, surely?’ said Owen.
‘Well, yes, you’re quite right. In theory. But the years soon go. You know that when you’re as old as I am. And you’ve got to manage more than two. Two only replaces; you’ve got to do better than that if you want to expand. Four! Four children is what we’ve got to aim for. At least!’
‘Anyone as beautiful as your granddaughter should have no difficulty.’
‘Oh, there’s plenty of men who want to marry her. That’s not the problem. The difficulty is on her side. She won’t have them. Mind you,’ the old man conceded, ‘I can’t say I blame her. A spineless lot! No spirit! I’ve been looking at younger ones,’ he said, ‘the fifteen-year-olds, but it’s hard to tell at that age. They’re all so well behaved! Maybe one of them –’
‘For heaven’s sake. Grandfather!’ said the girl, coming back with the coffee. ‘Do we have to bore the Mamur Zapt with our intimate details?’
‘She’s quite right!’ said the old man. ‘She’s right again. You ought to have been a boy, Katarina; in fact, you ought to have been your father. A nice, gentle, loving man, but he hasn’t got your spirit!’
‘Grandfather! There you go again!’
‘She’s right! I’m getting too old, that’s the trouble. I must concentrate. Now, about these soldiers –’
‘Again, I must apologize.’
‘Well, men must be men, I suppose. If they were not, where would we be? Better that than the reverse. There are too many youngsters these days –’
‘Grandfather!’ said Katarina warningly.
‘Yes, well, as I was saying, men must be men. They were soldiers, after all. I was a soldier once –’
There was a faint sigh from Katarina.
‘Not only that,’ said Owen quickly, ‘the fighting started, or so I understand, over a question of honour. National honour.’
‘Really?’ said the old man.
‘Yes. Some of these soldiers are Welsh. That is to say, they come from the Pays de Galles. It’s part of Britain, a separate country, you understand, only we were taken over by England –’
‘A separate country? Taken over?’
‘A long time ago, of course. A very long time ago. Centuries.’
‘You said “we”.’
‘Well, I have to confess, I’m Welsh myself.’
‘You are? Well, that is most interesting. Most, in fact, encouraging. And these soldiers were Welsh?’
‘Half of them. Something stupid was said, whether it was by the Welsh or by the English, I don’t know, but exception was taken to the remark – they were looking for a fight, anyway, I imagine – and then the stupid idiots –’
‘Not stupid at all! Quite proper. One must defend one’s nation’s honour. And some of these were Welsh you say?’
‘Yes –’
‘There are mountains in Wales? I heard them singing of valleys and where there are valleys there must be –’
‘Hills, rather. Yes, the Welsh are very attached to their valleys.’
‘A mountaineering race?’
‘Well, no, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.’
‘You are too modest. Mountaineers and fighting men!’
‘Look, Wales is not exactly like the Caucasus –’
‘Too modest, too modest! But then, you don’t have to assert yourselves like us. We are only a small country.’
‘Wales, actually, is not that large.’
‘A small country tool!’ The old man almost rubbed his hands. Then there are affinities between us. Language? Now what is your language?’
‘Welsh. Look –’
‘A separate language? Distinct?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Threatened?’ the old man said significantly.
‘Well, yes, there’s a danger of it dying out –’
The old man sat back.
‘Perhaps this is the answer to our prayers,’ he said.
‘I don’t quite –’
‘So many things in common. Perhaps we could stretch a point: Mingrelians and neighbouring countries.’
‘Neighbouring? They’re about a million miles apart.’
‘I was talking spiritually. Neighbouring in spirit. It’s reasonable. Sometimes we used to go out and capture a woman from a neighbouring tribe and there was never any difficulty about that. She soon became assimilated. Of course, that was a man taking a woman. It would be different if it was a woman taking a man. Of course, times are different now. More liberated. I see no reason why a woman shouldn’t take a husband from a neighbouring tribe, neighbouring spiritually, I mean –’
‘Grandfather!’ said Katarina, scandalized. She took him by the arm. ‘Come on!’ she said. ‘It’s time you went up for your nap!’
‘Yes, yes.’ He stood up shakily. Owen realized that he was far older than he appeared. ‘I accept your apology,’ he said suddenly.
‘Thank you. I can only repeat –’
‘But I’m not withdrawing the complaint.’
‘Not withdrawing the complaint? But –’
‘We have to stand up for ourselves. Even against our friends. We must not back down.’
‘But surely an apology –’
‘No. I feel half inclined, I must say, to accept it from the Welsh but not from the English, but that would hardly be fair. Anyway, what does it matter? What is a complaint? In Egypt?’
‘Well, we don’t like to leave complaints unanswered –’
‘Think nothing of it. Now that you have apologized, we shall not take military action.’
‘Thank you. But couldn’t you withdraw your complaint as well? The fact is, well, there was another complaint too, and it’s a bit awkward –’
‘Another complaint?’
‘Yes, from the Russian Chargé, actually, and we’re a bit afraid there might be international –’
‘Russian? Did you say Russian? The soldiers insulted him as well?’
‘Well, yes, I’m afraid so –’
‘Brave men! Magnificent men! There, what did I tell you?’ he said fiercely, snatching his arm from Katarina’s hold. ‘Men of spirit! God, that’s the way to treat the Russians! Our allies! Didn’t I tell you they were our natural allies? God, if only I was young again –’
Katarina dragged him towards the door.
‘Complaint?’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘No complaint at all. Far from it! The Russians? Oh, no complaint at all!’
3 (#ulink_2b7e140f-189b-542e-bc17-28d9fd652c51)
‘It’s an affront!’ said the Chargé.
‘Which we deeply regret,’ said Paul, ‘and shall do something about.’
‘Have already done something about,’ supplemented Owen. Paul had asked for support in his grovel and Owen had agreed to accompany him.
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the Chargé. ‘The men have been flogged?’
‘Well, not exactly –’
‘Yet,’ said Owen quickly. ‘There are a few processes to go through first.’
‘A military court, you mean? Well, there is something to be said for letting criminals experience the full majesty of the law. It inculcates respect for authority.’
‘Quite so.’
‘All the same,’ said the Chargé, ‘the sooner they are flogged, the better. It’s like a dog. The longer the gap between crime and punishment the harder it is for the creature to understand. Soldiers are animals and should be treated as such.’
‘Well, yes, but –’
‘Believe me. I was in the Army myself, the Russian Army, that is. I know. They’re all peasants, you see, and as stupid as oxes. The only way you can drive anything into their thick heads is with the whip. Even then it’s difficult. Being peasants, they’re used to it. They don’t feel it as we would. It’s got to follow sharply after the event. And no half measures, either! How many lashes?’
‘How many – ?’
‘I’d advise at least sixty. Some say forty, but I think you’ve got to allow for the sun –’
The sun?’
‘Hardens the skin. They don’t feel it as much. No, in my view sixty should be standard. Of course, in a case as serious as this the standard is hardly good enough. No, on second thoughts it should be more. Eighty, perhaps. A hundred for the ringleaders.’
‘We’ll bear your advice in mind.’
‘Do. Do. Glad to share my experience with you. You’ll let them drink, of course?’
‘Well, I rather think they’ve been doing too much of that already –’
‘No, no. Just before they’re flogged. A glass or two of vodka. It makes it easier for them. I used to give them a bottle. I’m a humane man, you know.’
‘Well, of course, each country has its own practices –’
‘It doesn’t have to be vodka. Whisky would do. Or rum. You used to use rum, I believe, in the British Navy?’
‘I believe so, yes. A while ago.’
‘It’s better if they’re drunk. Mind you, some would say they’re drunk all the time.’
‘Yes, our soldiers have much in common.’
‘Discipline. That’s what they need.’
‘They certainly do. And I’m sorry you should have suffered because of a lack of it on the part of our soldiers.’
‘It’s nothing, it’s nothing. If it were just myself I would say no more. But, of course, an affront to my country – well, I am bound to resist that. Especially with the Grand Duke’s visit so imminent.’
‘Grand Duke?’ said Owen.
‘Yes. Only two and a half weeks away. I tick off each day on my calendar. Between you and me, it will be a great relief when it’s all over. If anything goes wrong, it’ll be my head on the block. Not literally, of course. We’re not a barbarous people.’
‘I must apologize once again,’ said Paul, beginning to rise from his chair.
‘Say no more about it. A mere bagatelle. A few drunken muzhiks, that’s all it was. Of course, I cannot formally withdraw my complaint.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Paul, sitting down again. ‘I was hoping –’
‘If it was me, that would be the end of it. But, of course, when it’s my country –’
‘No insult was intended, Chargé!’
‘Of course not. They were too drunk to know what they were doing. But one was received, and since it was in public, and in view of the forthcoming visit –’
‘But, Chargé, precisely because of the forthcoming visit, mightn’t we hush things up? We don’t want a diplomatic incident, do we?’
‘We don’t,’ said the Chargé, ‘but back at home they might.’
‘I must confess this is a blow. Chargé. I had hoped for a quiet run-up to the Grand Duke’s visit.’
‘Me too,’ said the Chargé.
‘You don’t think you could postpone your complaint? Say, till after the visit was over?’
‘It’s already with the Parquet. It wouldn’t look good if I was to withdraw it and then put it back in.’
‘True, true. All the same – the fact is. Chargé, this stupid incident comes at a most awkward time.’
‘I can see that. Any other time, the British wouldn’t pay any attention.’
‘Well, that’s exactly it. Go on. Chargé, be a decent chap and I will send you round a bottle of Château d’Yquem.’
‘Well – ‘said the Chargé, weakening.
‘You’re the only one who’s left now.’
‘There were others? Other countries are involved?’
‘No, no! It’s just that the Mingrelian community –’
‘Mingrelian!’ The Chargé shot upright. ‘They were behind it?’
‘No, no! They were on the receiving end, actually –’
‘Assaulted?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
The Chargé leaped up from his chair and threw his arms around Paul.
‘The Mingrelians? Assaulted? But this is excellent news, excellent!’ He folded Owen, too, in a deep embrace. ‘My government will be delighted! Oh, that’s the way to do it! First we give it them back at home, now you give it them here! Excellent!’
He pressed the bell on his desk.
‘Vodka!’ he shouted. ‘Vodka, to celebrate! A toast! Undying friendship between our countries!’ He pressed Paul emotionally to him once again. ‘That is the way allies should behave! I will let my people know at once. The Mingrelians! Thrashed! And that’s even before Duke Nicholas gets here –’
He stopped suddenly.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Why not? I’ll put it to him. Those fine, brave men! A medal! For service to the Tsar! I’ll do it! You can rely on me!’
‘And the complaint? You withdraw the complaint?’
‘Complaint?’ said the Chargé. ‘What complaint? I have no complaint. Oh, no! Far from it!’
‘The Grand Duke’s visit?’ said Owen.
‘I was going to tell you about it. It’s just that I didn’t want to bother you when your mind was on more important things, like the cafés. The Khedive has invited him. In about three weeks’ time.’
‘A State Visit?’
‘Semi-State. Duke Nicholas is only the heir. He’s supposed to be on an informal tour of the Mediterranean. Well, actually, he’s so unpopular at home that the Tsar wanted to get him out of the country before someone threw a bomb at him.’
‘And the Khedive invited him here?’
‘That’s right. You, of course, will be responsible for security.’
‘There’s going to be a ball,’ said Zeinab.
‘It’s not been decided yet.’
‘And that, of course,’ said Zeinab, disregarding him, ‘creates a major problem: what am I going to wear?’
‘It’s not been decided yet. The meeting’s not till tomorrow. Look, I know. I’m going to it.’
‘And then there will be the opera as well. I’ll need two dresses. The trouble is, there isn’t a decent dress in Cairo. Anton says he might be getting some in, but everyone will be fighting for them and, besides, they’ll all have seen them. So I thought I would cable Paris direct. Now here’s the problem: I don’t want to do it through Posts and Telegraphs in the ordinary way, or else people will get to know about it. So – look, are you listening, this is important – can you send a cable for me? Using the diplomatic channel?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
‘I’ll bet the Consul-General’s wife is.’
‘What she does is her own business.’
‘You don’t love me,’ said Zeinab.
‘Of course I love you. Now –’
‘You don’t love me. Not in the way he loves her.’
‘I should bloody hope not,’ said Owen, an image of the Consul-General and his stately lady coming vividly before his mind.
‘I know what it is. You don’t want me to go. You are ashamed of me. There will be all those lords and ladies, those petty princelings from petty little countries, Wales, I wouldn’t be surprised, and you say: what is an Egyptian woman doing among that lot? Well, let me tell you, the daughter of a Pasha, especially the illegitimate daughter of a Pasha, has got more love and life and passion in her little finger than any of them have in their whole body!’
‘I think that’s more than likely,’ said Owen.
‘Wasted!’ said Zeinab dramatically. ‘On you!’
‘Not wasted; I greatly enjoy it.’
‘In private, yes, but not in public.’
‘Well, what the hell do you want us to do? Make love in the middle of Abdin Square?’
‘Take me to the ball.’
‘I am taking you to the ball. If there is one.’
‘You know I can’t come if I’m not properly dressed.’
‘You will be properly dressed. You’ve got lots of dresses. They’re all there on the rack. Look, bloody hundreds of them –’
‘You want to see me in rags!’
‘Rags! This one cost more than a year’s pay! You told me. Afterwards.’
‘I passed the bill to my father. He will not want to see me dressed like some parvenue. He has pride. We are like that in Egypt. Proud people. We know what is fitting. Unlike the boring, bourgeois British.’
‘Look, I am not going to use the Diplomatic Postbag just to send a cable to your couturier.’
‘Just?’ said Zeinab.
Even the flies in the committee room seemed stupefied by the heat. This was unusual, thought Owen, since flies were normally the most active part of the population. Perhaps it was not the heat that was getting to them but committee life. The shutters of the committee room were kept closed in a vain attempt to keep the temperature down and perhaps the flies could never get out. They spent their lives in eternal committee. My God, thought Owen; what a life! For a second or two he felt quite indignant on their behalf but then the heat had its effect on him, too, and he settled back gloomily in his chair.
‘The itinerary first,’ said Paul. ‘Duke Nicholas will transfer to the Khedivial Yacht at Alexandria, pass through the Canal to Suez and then take the overland train to Cairo. He will spend three days in Cairo as the guest of His Royal Highness, the Khedive, and then go upriver to Luxor to view the antiquities. He will then return to Cairo and spend two days at the Palace recovering from the rigours of his journey. Then he will travel by train to Alexandria, spend a day there and depart by boat on the Thursday evening. The whole visit will last twelve days, including the two to be spent on the Royal Yacht.’
‘That bit should be all right from the point of view of security,’ observed the major.
‘He’ll be spending a good time on the water, what with the river trip,’ said McPhee.
‘I’ll turn to security later,’ said Paul. The first question, though, is what we’re going to do with him while he’s here. The Khedive would like to reproduce as far as possible the visit of Duke Nicholas’s uncle, the Crown Prince, when he came here to open the Suez Canal.’
‘Out of the question!’ said Finance Department immediately. ‘Cost too much!’
‘“As far as possible”,’ said Paul. ‘Those are the key words, I think. Surely we can accede to His Royal Highness’s wishes to that extent? Of course, we may not be able to go as far as he would like –’
‘As long as we bear in mind budgetary constraints,’ said Finance Department.
‘Just so. Now, Mr Abd-es-Salem is here representing the Court, and I wonder if he could tell us what His Royal Highness has in mind with respect to the programme?’
‘Well, last time the Khedive commissioned an opera –’
‘No!’ said Finance Department quickly.
‘– and built the new Opera House.’
‘My God!’ said Finance Department.
‘After consideration, the Khedive would not, perhaps, wish to go so far this time. But he does feel that, in view of its centrality on the previous visit, opera should have at least some part in the programme –’
‘Does he now?’ said Paul, sitting up.
‘Out of the question!’ said Finance Department. ‘Too costly!’
‘Oh, come!’
‘That was what bankrupted Egypt in the first place,’ said Finance Department.
‘What better thing to be bankrupted by?’ murmured Paul.
‘Actually, I must support the Khedive,’ said Owen, who thought there was a chance of getting a performance of Aida out of this. ‘I feel that since His Royal Highness has expressed the wish to reproduce as closely as possible the original arrangements, we ought to do the best we can to oblige him.’
Mr Abd-es-Salem flashed him a grateful glance.
‘If you’re thinking of Aida,’ said Finance Department smugly, ‘you can think again. Aida wasn’t actually performed on the original visit. It was commissioned for the opening of the Canal but wasn’t ready on time. It was performed some time after.’
‘All the more reason for the Grand Duke to be able to see it now,’ suggested Paul.
‘Aida is completely out of the question,’ said Finance Department with emphasis. ‘I have this straight from the Treasury in London.’
‘They actually specified there was to be no Aida?’
‘Certainly. Opera is something they really know about in the Treasury.’
‘We could dispense with the animals,’ said Paul temptingly.
‘Animals?’ said the major.
‘Live animals were a feature of the original production,’ said Finance Department. ‘Lots of them! Actually, it wouldn’t be a good idea,’ he said to Paul. ‘Suppose the Grand Duke got eaten?’
‘We could keep him away from them. Owen could see to that –’
‘No animals,’ said Finance Department firmly. ‘And no Aida, either. Of course, there is no reason why you shouldn’t choose another opera. The Treasury is not opposed to opera in principle. Far from it.’
‘Well, that is a helpful suggestion,’ said Paul. ‘Now –’
The Army had been fidgeting for some time.
‘Could we get on to the real business?’
Paul raised his eyebrows.
‘I thought that was the real business,’ he said.
‘What about security?’
‘We’ve got to agree on the programme first, haven’t we? Right, let’s move on. There will be a Grand Ball, of course …’
‘There could be difficulties,’ said Owen.
‘What difficulties?’
‘Well, dresses. That kind of thing.’
Paul glanced at his notes.
‘No, this has already been decided. The Consul-General’s wife –’
‘A March Past?’ suggested the Army, some time later.
‘March Past?’
‘The Khedive reviewing his troops.’
‘There may be international observers,’ said Paul. ‘I don’t think we should make our military presence too obvious. We could have a jolly procession, I suppose.’
‘The Khedive would like that,’ said Mr Abd-es-Salem. ‘In fact, he would wish to take part in it himself. He could ride at the head with the Grand Duke in an open landau.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ asked Owen.
‘Why not?’ said Mr Abd-es-Salem, surprised.
‘Because it would make it easy for someone to take a pot shot at him.’
‘The Khedive feels safe with his people,’ said Mr Abd-es-Salem reprovingly.
‘I was thinking of the Grand Duke,’ said Owen hastily and untruly.
‘Surely there is no risk of that?’
‘Cairo is a city of many nationalities. And not all of them are sympathetic to Russia.’
‘Even so –’
‘The Balkan countries, for instance.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Abd-es-Salem thoughtfully. ‘The Balkans!’
‘The Mingrelians!’ added Owen, for the benefit of the Army.
‘My God, yes!’ said the major. ‘The Mingrelians!’
‘Round them up,’ said Shearer. ‘Round them all up!’
‘All of them?’ said Owen. ‘There are over twenty thousand people from various Balkan countries in Cairo alone. The place is like a miniature Balkans. It’s a potential powder keg, I can tell you. I think this visit is crazy. Why don’t we call the whole thing off?’
‘Call it off?’ said Mr Abd-es-Salem, aghast. ‘His Royal Highness has set his heart on it!’
‘I’m afraid we’ve gone too far down the road to call it off now,’ said Paul. ‘Although I agree with you about the potential threat.’
‘Threat?’ said Mr Abd-es-Salem, with considerable- asperity. ‘Are you saying that the British can no longer maintain order? Even with an Army?’
‘Certainly not!’ said the major indignantly.
‘We can handle it,’ said Captain Shearer.
‘Can you?’ said Owen quickly. ‘Well, there’s a lot to be said for –’
‘No chance!’ said Paul firmly. ‘It has already been decided that the Mamur Zapt has overall responsibility for the security arrangements. But a good try!’ he added, turning to Owen.
‘You again?’ said the café owner. He was sitting with his legs heavily bandaged and propped across a chair in front of him.
‘I like coffee,’ said Owen.
‘You don’t think you could enjoy it somewhere else?’
‘I especially like it here.’
‘You get in the way, you know.’
‘You mean, the men won’t come while I’m here? Isn’t that a good thing?’
‘I don’t know. They’ll come again when you’re not here.’
‘I could leave someone with you.’
‘They’re big blokes.’
‘This is a big bloke.’
‘Hanging around all day drinking coffee?’
‘He could work for you. In fact, it would be better if he did. You could say he had come up from the country.’
‘Why don’t you just go away?’ said the café owner.
‘I’m like the other lot. I’m never going to go away.’
The café owner cursed softly.
‘You get me down,’ he said. ‘You really do.’
‘I’m your only way out,’ said Owen. ‘You’ll be glad of me. Later.’
‘A lot later,’ said the café owner. ‘When I’m in heaven.’
‘Even before. It’s just the next bit that’s hard.’
‘Why pick the hard way?’
‘Because if you pick the other way, it never ends. You don’t just pay once. You go on paying. You pay all the time. They come more often. And after a while they ask for more. And then more. And then more still. In the end you’re working only for them. All you’ve built up is theirs. Look, I know what it takes to build up a place like this, what it costs you. It costs you years of your life and you’ve only got one life. Going to give it all away, now, are you?’
‘I’m not giving anything away,’ said the café owner. ‘But I’m still thinking.’
‘Think on. Take the long view. You’ve had to take the long view, haven’t you, all your life? Otherwise you’d never have got where you are. Think long now. My way is hard at first but then there’s an end to it. The other way is easy today and hard tomorrow. And tomorrow goes on for a long time.’
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