The Spoils of Egypt

by Michael Pearce

  ‘Both.’

  ‘You are interested in antiquities, Monsieur?’ asked Signor Seppi.

  The girl laughed.

  ‘Captain Owen’s interest is, I suspect, purely professional,’ she said.

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Owen. ‘I am fond of things Italian.’

  The girl smiled.

  ***

  The Khedivial Sports Club, or Gezira, as it was known, was the principal social centre for the British Administration in Cairo. It would have been charming anyway even if it had had no sports because it was like an English park and reminded people of home. It had broad stretches of turf, lovely southern trees and marvellous flowers.

  But it had also all kinds of sport going on within its precincts: cricket and polo at the usual hours and golf, tennis and croquet while daylight lasted.

  It had also a clubhouse, run on much the same principles as those at Ranelagh, the home-from-home of young English officers when they were based in England. Young officers when they were posted in Egypt, and there were a lot of young British officers posted to Egypt, found it easy to transfer their allegiance. They were able to carry on their sport, drinking and betting on horses exactly as they had done in England.

  It was, Owen supposed, the British equivalent of the Italians importing their Opera.

  Anyway, it was a very nice place to go and picnic beneath the trees and watch the races and the sport, and on afternoons when there were major engagements most of the British community in Egypt could be found there.

  The engagement this afternoon, however, was a little out of the ordinary and had attracted an even larger crowd than usual. The usual racing fraternity were there and all the young officers. But there was, too, a considerable sprinkling of notables. The Consul-General himself was present, most of the foreign diplomats, many of the great Pashas and even, it was whispered, Royalty.

  There was, too, on the far side of the trees, where the sand crept up to and touched the green, what was even more unusual: a considerable crowd of Arabs, many of them Bedawin on camels.

  For this was, actually, a camel occasion. Garvin, the Commandant of the Cairo Police, was putting a camel over the steeplechase course.

  Ordinarily, camels do not jump. Some, after training, will stumble in their gallop over a two-foot obstacle. But this particular camel jumped like a horse.

  Garvin had recently acquired him from a member of the Sudan Survey. The camel came from the Bayuda desert to the south of the Fourth Cataract in the Sudan and no one had yet seen him up in these parts.

  They had, however, heard of him. The fame of Abu Rusas, ‘father of bullets’, had spread far and wide. The camel owed his name to having been hit as a colt by the bullet of some raiding Dervishes who were trying to capture him, and which had left him with a hernia that stuck out like a tennis ball from his belly and made him difficult to girth.

  Abu Rusas was famous for his running but now it appeared he had developed a new talent: steeplechasing. Garvin had been fostering it in secret for some time and was now prepared to go public.

  There was a steeplechase course of natural hedges alongside the flat course at the Gezira and it was over this that Garvin now proposed to put him.

  When Owen arrived with Zeinab, Garvin was just taking Abu Rusas down the course to have a preliminary look at the obstacles. Garvin was riding the camel himself. He was a very good rider, both of horses and camels, having ridden a lot of the latter in his days in the Camel Patrol.

  Owen had ridden camel and horse in his time in the Army but did not reckon himself a rider in the sense that Garvin was. Garvin was the son of a country ‘squarson’, squire-parson, and had grown up to huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’.

  Owen was the son of a clergyman, too, but his father had been a poor, bookish Anglican vicar in a Welsh, predominantly Nonconformist parish. There was no hunting and shooting round there! The young officers had Garvin’s background rather than his. It was one of the things that had made him feel out of place in the Army in India, one of the things that had led him to transfer to the civil administration in Egypt.

  He was present on this occasion chiefly as a fellow-policeman, giving Garvin moral support. Zeinab was there not because she was interested in horses and racing—like Owen, she was very much a city person—but because the freakishness of the spectacle had caught her imagination. In this almost exclusively European context she had discarded her veil; and her Arab features attracted some curious glances from the English families as she walked past with Owen.

  They arrived at the course at the same time as Paul and Miss Skinner.

  ‘You will find this very interesting, Miss Skinner,’ Paul was saying.

  ‘Bizarre, certainly,’ said Miss Skinner. She looked round and saw Zeinab.

  ‘Why, Miss Nuri,’ she said, putting out her hand and cheering up, ‘this is fortunate. Now that I am back in Cairo I was thinking of giving you call.’

  ‘A pleasure!’ beamed Zeinab. She placed Miss Skinner in the same exotic category as jumping camels.

  The two ladies stood together as Garvin brought Abu Rusas back to the starting-line.

  Over on the other side of the course, in front of the assembled Arabs, a few motorcars had drawn up on to the grass. They were still unusual in Cairo and attracted almost as much attention as Abu Rusas. Their owners, wealthy Pashas for the most part, sat on folding chairs in front of them. Several had brought massive hampers. This was clearly a festive occasion.

  One of the chairholders waved his hand.

  ‘It is my father,’ said Zeinab. ‘Perhaps we will go and talk to him afterwards.’

  For the event was about to begin. Garvin touched the side of the camel’s neck with his heel and the great beast moved off at the trot. As they came up to the first obstacle, the trot accelerated to a gallop and then Abu Rusas was flying over the hedge like a bird.

  The onlookers broke into loud applause.

  ‘Incredible!’

  ‘Bravo!’

  ‘Bismillah!’

  ‘Inshallah! God is mighty!’

  And then Abu Rusas was speeding down the course, taking the hedges with the aplomb of the favourite at the Grand National.

  At the far end Garvin pulled up in triumph and then came trotting sedately back, acknowledging the cheers. Even Miss Skinner was impressed.

  ‘My goodness!’ she said.

  The people who were most impressed, however, were the Arabs on camels opposite, who thought they knew something about camels. Several of them were known to Garvin from his earlier days patrolling the desert and when he reached the end of the course he rode over to them to exchange expert notes.

  ‘Shall we go over to your father?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Do come,’ Zeinab said to Miss Skinner. ‘My father will be glad to see you.’

  That appeared an understatement as Nuri rose from his chair, clasped Miss Skinner’s hand in his and led her to a chair hurriedly put beside him, giving Zeinab merely an acknowledging gleam of his eye.

  ‘We will have a picnic!’ declared Nuri, waving one hand enthusiastically. The other continued to hold Miss Skinner’s hand firmly.

  Servants spread a car rug for Zeinab, Owen and Paul and opened a bottle of champagne. Nuri, still loosely Moslem, in public at any rate, was not a great drinker but he believed in coming provided.

  Paul raised his glass to someone in front of a neighbouring car.

  ‘Marbrouk,’ he said, ‘the old scoundrel.’

  ‘The Pasha Marbrouk?’ said Miss Skinner.

  ‘I will introduce you to him,’ said Nuri.

  The Pasha Marbrouk, equally well provided, joined his campsite to Nuri’s. They were old Government colleagues, which meant, of course, that they were rivals.

  ‘Chère Madame!’ said Marbrouk, raising Miss Skinner’s hand to his lips.

 
Nuri looked displeased. Hospitality was not intended to extend so far.

  Once or twice during the conversation Marbrouk’s eyes strayed in Zeinab’s direction. Zeinab, caught without her veil, stirred awkwardly.

  Owen felt displeased also. Between old politicians, even rivals, there was always the possibility of attempts to strike unexpected deals and family alliances were sometimes the cement.

  ‘We have only just returned from your estate, Mr Marbrouk,’ said Miss Skinner.

  ‘My estate?’ Marbrouk raised his eyebrows. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Der el Bahari.’

  ‘Ah, that!’ Marbrouk dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘But that is nothing. Backward! And so hot at this time of year! Come to El Howeini, Miss Skinner. That is far nicer. Yes, do come. I would be delighted to show you my orange groves.’

  ‘I would be more interested,’ said Miss Skinner, ‘in seeing your famous collection of antiquities.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Marbrouk. His eyes hooded, just for the moment, so that he seemed suddenly like a great, sleek bird of prey. ‘But for that,’ he said, smiling, ‘we don’t need to go all the way to El Howeini. Many of my treasures are in my house here, in Cairo.’

  ‘I would be most interested,’ said Miss Skinner.

  ‘Although, of course, the majority are at my house in Heraq.’

  ‘Heraq?’ said Miss Skinner. ‘Is that on the river?’

  ‘Almost everything in Egypt is on the river,’ said Marbrouk, smiling.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Skinner, ‘yes, I should like to come to Heraq.’

  ‘I have treasures, too,’ said Nuri, giving her hand a squeeze.

  Miss Skinner gave him an encouraging smile.

  ‘I would love to see them, too.’

  ‘Then that is settled,’ said Marbrouk. ‘In a day or two, perhaps?’

  Nuri was relieved to see him go.

  Garvin brought Abu Rusas over to them.

  ‘Congratulations!’ said Miss Skinner. ‘A most remarkable spectacle.’

  ‘The grass was a bit slippery,’ said Garvin. ‘That was the only problem, really.’

  He walked Abu Rusas round them, drawing admiring cries from the Arabs behind.

  ‘May I stroke him?’ asked Miss Skinner, disengaging her hand from Nuri’s.

  ‘Probably best not. They’re not used to that sort of thing.’

  As if in confirmation, Abu Rusas stirred slightly.

  Garvin looked up at the line of Arabs on their camels and said something in Arabic. The Arabs laughed and the line parted. A camel backed out.

  It was a huge camel, as big as Abu Rusas himself. It seemed to be blowing a bubble, a disgusting, large, pink bubble as big as a balloon, hanging like chewing-gum, bubblegum, from the side of its mouth.

  Abu Rusas lurched threateningly and the rider of the other camel hastily turned it away.

  ‘Is something wrong with it?’ asked Miss Skinner.

  ‘Not at all, my dear Miss Skinner,’ said Nuri, shocked. ‘Rather the reverse! It means that it is in rut. Ready,’ he said, seizing her hand happily, ‘to mate.’

  ***

  ‘But where,’ asked Miss Skinner, ‘is the leopard, the dear little leopard?’

  ‘Leopard?’ said Tomas, taken aback.

  They were at the Museum, in the large room downstairs. All around them were what Miss Skinner kept referring to as ‘the Spoils of Der el Bahari’. There were the boxes Owen had watched being loaded on to the carts, there the lotus-wreathed pediments and there the pieces of façade.

  ‘You remember?’ Miss Skinner said to Owen. ‘The Expedition to Punt. The dear little leopard being led on board? At least, I hope it was a dear little one and not a big one.’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Owen, ‘I remember.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It must be here somewhere,’ said Tomas.

  He had arrived with the packages that morning. Owen had asked to be kept informed as to when the packages were being delivered. He had wanted to see the whole process. The under-keeper had told him they were being delivered that day. He had gone along first thing and had been a little surprised to find Miss Skinner already there.

  And in form. She had, it appeared, taken matters out of the under-keeper’s hands and was checking through the items herself.

  ‘Something missing?’ said the under-keeper.

  ‘No,’ said Tomas. ‘I checked it all through yesterday.’

  ‘Perhaps it was left at Heraq?’

  ‘No,’ said Tomas. ‘I counted everything on to the boat. And then again at the docks. And here.’

  ‘Well, where is it, then?’ asked Miss Skinner.

  Tomas began checking the individual pieces of façade.

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Skinner. ‘Apes, yes, but not a leopard.’

  ‘Here is a leopard!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Skinner, inspecting it, ‘but not the leopard. A dear little baby cub being led on board. Captain Owen remembers it clearly.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Owen, ‘I do.’

  ‘You said you had brought the complete façade,’ the under-keeper said to Tomas. ‘We could try fitting the pieces together and see if one is missing.’

  ‘It’s not the complete façade,’ said Tomas touchily. ‘It’s only a part of it. The part that covers the Expedition.’

  ‘Well, we could still see if it fitted.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tomas, rather surlily, ‘we could.’

  ‘I don’t think any other piece has gone missing,’ said Miss Skinner, ‘apart from that. But I remember the leopard cub particularly.’

  ‘It will be somewhere,’ Tomas said to the under-keeper. ‘Why don’t you carry on with the other pieces and then we can look for that afterwards.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the under-keeper. ‘We’ll be able to see what we’ve got left.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Miss Skinner. ‘Only don’t forget about it at the end. I am particularly anxious to see what happens to my little leopard.’

  ‘It’s obviously impressed you,’ said the under-keeper. ‘I’d like to see it, too.’

  ‘It will be here somewhere,’ said Tomas.

  However, it wasn’t.

  ‘Fallen off the back of a cart?’ suggested Miss Skinner, her face expressionless.

  Chapter Nine

  Or off the back of a boat, Owen said to himself. Where was that port Tomas said he took the things to before assembling them together to go to the Museum? Wasn’t that Heraq, too? It was time he went to Heraq.

  There were several small ports on the southern side of the city, but Heraq, if he remembered rightly, was several miles further on upstream, not part of the city at all. It would take about half a day to get there and he would have to go by boat.

  His day brightened at the thought. He would take a felucca, one of those small, graceful river craft which skimmed over the surface of the Nile like a bird and would do the journey in a couple of hours. He would loll back in the stern and enjoy the river breeze.

  That seemed a particularly good idea this morning as he sat in his airless office in the sweltering heat. Normally, Der el Bahari was so much hotter than Cairo that on his return to the city he would have found it pleasantly mild.

  He seemed, however, to have brought the heat back with him. The temperature in Cairo had suddenly risen and the cabmen, as he had left the station, were complaining bitterly. He had arrived in the evening, which was fortunate as otherwise he wouldn’t have found any cabmen at all. By about ten in the morning the heat was so overwhelming that the streets were deserted. Everyone downed tools and returned to the shade and complained.

  Except, of course, in the Bab el Khalk, where the British affected to be impervious to the heat and the great fans whirled continuously and the sweat ran
down your arms and on to the papers on your desk, making them unpleasantly soggy. The ink ran and the edges of the papers turned and within about half an hour you needed to change your shirt.

  Yes, it would be nice to be on the river.

  ‘I shall be going to Heraq,’ he informed his clerk, hesitated between sun helmet and tarboosh, chose the sun helmet—the tarboosh was a thing of the city—and went out.

  What he had overlooked in his pleasant vision was that for the first four miles of the journey upstream the river ran between steep levees, mudbanks of silt which over the centuries had built up to such an extent that it was like sailing between walls.

  If you were sitting on the top deck of one of Mr Cook’s new steamers you might be able to see something of the surrounding countryside. Down on the waterline, as you were in a felucca, all you could see were the tops of the palms.

  Still, there was the breeze and he happily made the most of it.

  After a while the levees dropped and he was able to see something. Over to his left was a mountain of white stone on which he could see the occasional puff. This was the quarry of Tura, which produced the fine limestone which faced Chephren’s pyramid. In Chephren’s time it had been on the river. Now it was half a mile away.

  The river began to pass through plantations of date palms and lines of delicate green tamarisks. There was a huge dove-cote with massive mud walls and domes and minarets and little ledges for the birds. There were donkeys and women washing clothes and men moulding mud bricks.

  And then the trees fell away and there was a cluster of mud brick buildings and a brickyard beside a wharf. The felucca turned in.

  ‘Heraq,’ said the boatman.

  Owen was a little surprised. He had expected a working port—that, after all, was why he was there—but he had also expected something a bit more rural. Hadn’t Marbrouk said his estate was there? This was almost industrial. There were piles of mud bricks waiting to be loaded and on beyond the main wharf another one for loading the limestone from the quarry.

  He stepped out of the felucca and asked one of the men working where the main warehouse was.

  ‘Warehouse?’ said the man. He pointed to the bricks and the stone. ‘We don’t need one.’