The Girl in the Nile

by Michael Pearce

  “Which way?” said Mahmoud.

  The man pointed to a kind of buttress beside him. Behind it was a long, thin alleyway. It was so narrow that as they went down it Owen’s shoulders brushed the walls on each side. There was a trench running down this one, too, its contents so foul that he walked with his feet astride it. There was the soft scuttle of rats.

  The alleyway opened out into a space between four houses. The houses were linked together with heavy fretwork windows so that you could not see the sky. Although it was midday everything was pitch dark. In the shadows something moved.

  It looked like a dog. Owen thought of rabies and reached for his gun. Mahmoud sensed the movement and put out a restraining hand.

  As Owen’s eyes became accustomed to the dark he could see the dog more clearly. It wasn’t a dog, it was more—he felt prickles on the back of his neck—like a hyena. Its head was down and its back sloped up into a kind of point at the rear.

  Mahmoud spoke to it.

  “Tell him that I have come,” he said. “And that I bring a friend.”

  “Who is your friend?” asked a hoarse voice from the shadows.

  “The Mamur Zapt.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I will tell him.”

  The creature ran off on all fours.

  “What the hell is this?” said Owen.

  “Beggars. If they’re not crippled to start with, they cripple themselves.”

  The creature came scuttling back. Owen could see now that it was a man. His back was horribly deformed and rose into a kind of hump at the base of the spine. His arms had been amputated at the elbows and his legs at the knees.

  “Follow me,” it said.

  They went down an alleyway and in at a door. The room was dark but it was as if there was something fluttering in it. They went through it and on into another room where there was more daylight.

  Mahmoud gave a cry of disgust and began to beat at his legs. He was black from shoes to waist.

  Owen looked down at himself. He was black, too, as if coated with a layer of paint. And then he saw that the blackness was moving, and struck at it frantically.

  He was covered with fleas.

  There was a hoarse cackle of laughter.

  Mahmoud strode across and kicked their guide heavily in the ribs.

  “There was no need for this!” he said angrily.

  The creature gave a gasp and slipped nimbly out of the way.

  “You wanted to see the Man, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Mahmoud. “Where is he?”

  The creature pointed to a dark opening in the wall.

  Mahmoud went across and then beckoned Owen over.

  They were looking down into a long dark cellar, lit by a brazier at one end. All round the room men were lying. In the middle of the room a small circle of men were passing something round. The air was heavy with the sweet smell of hashish.

  “Who have we here?” said a deep voice.

  “Greetings, Mustapha el-Gharbi,” said Mahmoud.

  He stepped down into the cellar. The circle opened and made space for them. Owen saw now what they were passing. It was the heavy coconut shell of the goza, or waterpipe, which was the way Cairo habitués preferred to take their hashish. He saw the charcoal glowing.

  “Well, Mahmoud el Zaki,” said the deep voice. “It is a long time since we saw you here.”

  Owen was able to pick out the speaker. It was a short, immensely fat man sitting opposite.

  “It is a long time since my duties have called me here,” said Mahmoud.

  “That is because these days you are at the top of the ladder and it is other men who are sent to places like this.”

  “It is good for young men to come to places like this when they start,” said Mahmoud. “Then they know what they are up against.”

  The man opposite chuckled.

  “Still the same Mahmoud el Zaki,” he said drily. “Unbending as ever. Nevertheless, he has come here, so he must seek a favor.”

  “Not necessarily a favor. A deal, rather.”

  “That’s more like it. And,” said the man, glaring at Owen, “you have brought a friend with you with whom indeed we might be able to do business.”

  “I don’t think so. This is the Mamur Zapt.”

  “I know.”

  “Greetings, Mustapha el-Gharbi,” said Owen.

  “And to you greetings. It is a pleasure to have the Mamur Zapt with us again.”

  “Again?”

  “I used to do business with one of your predecessors.”

  Which one was that? wondered Owen. The one who was dismissed for corruption?

  He felt Mahmoud stiffen beside him.

  “It is always good to do business with friends,” he said diplomatically.

  “That is so. And doubly good where pleasure and benefit coincide.”

  “Let us hope that is the case today. I am in the market for information.”

  “Is that so?” El-Gharbi stroked his beard. “What sort of information?”

  “About a body that may have come ashore,” said Mahmoud.

  “What makes you think I might possess that kind of information?”

  “Your people work the riverbanks. They are like ants or beetles. They work all day. And they do not miss much.”

  “They are good workers,” said El-Gharbi, with the air of one making a concession.

  “The body we are interested in came ashore in the Al-Gadira district four nights ago. It fetched up on a sandbank. The watchman went to tell the local Chief and when he came back the body was gone.”

  “Well, well,” said El-Gharbi. “How puzzling for him.”

  “It puzzled me, too,” said Mahmoud. “For your people do not usually take the body. They strip it and leave it.”

  “Bodies in themselves are usually worth nothing,” said El-Gharbi.

  “This one is worth something.”

  “How much?”

  “That is what we have to determine.”

  “Tell me about this body.”

  “It is the body of a young girl. She was wearing pink shintiyan.”

  “Not a peasant woman, then. But then again, if she had been, you would not have been coming to see me. How did she come to be in the water?”

  “We do not know. She was on a boat.”

  “Ah yes,” said El-Gharbi. “Four nights ago? That would have been the Prince’s dahabeeyah. Well, of course, that does put the price up.”

  “You have information, then, that might interest us?”

  “I might. It is not straightforward, though.”

  “Would you be prepared to sell?”

  “I might. The circumstances are, however, complex. And the price would have to be right. The market is, shall I say, a live one.”

  “What do you think would be the going price in such a market?”

  “I would say that five thousand pounds, Egyptian, would attract interest.”

  “Alas,” said Owen, “I feel that the largeness of spirit for which you are famous has expressed itself in the figure you give us.”

  “On the contrary. The affection I feel for you personally has led me, if anything, to understate it. The market is, as I have said, a live one.”

  As the negotiations proceeded, Owen became more and more convinced that this was so. El-Gharbi seemed to feel under no pressure at all to reduce his asking figure, and Owen felt that this was not just a matter of negotiating tactics. He seemed to be sure he would make his price.

  The price was, however, out of Owen’s reach. He had at his discretion a sum—a considerable sum, in the view of the Accounts Department—which could be used for the payment of informers. A sum like this, though, would eat such a hole in it as to jeopardize his ordinary work.

>   El-Gharbi was watching his face.

  “Of course,” he said, “if you were able to offer me something else—”

  “Something else?” said Owen, puzzled. “What could that be?”

  “Information. Like you, I am always in the market for information. And I, too, would pay a good price.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “When wealth travels by river. Which boat. When it departs. Where it is going.”

  Owen shook his head.

  “Alas,” he said, “I do not sell that kind of information.”

  “Alas,” El-Gharbi commiserated, “then it may be difficult for you to find the price my information commands in the market.

  “There is always,” said El-Gharbi after a while, “another possibility open to you. You yourself may not be able to raise the money. But perhaps you have friends who could—if it was important to them.”

  Owen’s mind had begun to work on the same lines.

  “My friends are, I am afraid, like myself, poor. But perhaps I should talk to them.”

  “Why not?” said El-Gharbi, smiling pleasantly. “I am sure your friends will be eager to help—once you explain to them what the money is for. Why not consult them? Only do not leave it too long. The market is, as I say, live. As opposed, of course, to the girl.”

  ***

  “Five thousand pounds!” said the Prince, aghast. “That seems a lot of money.”

  “Yes. That’s what I thought, too.”

  “It must be just a bargaining price. An opening offer. Pouf, man, you’ve let yourself be scared by a figure plucked out of the clouds. Go back and offer him five hundred.”

  “I have. And he wasn’t interested.”

  “He pretended not to be interested, I daresay. But five hundred—well, that’s a lot of money, too. For these people.”

  “He just laughed.”

  “A negotiating tactic. I am afraid you’re not used to the ways of the bazaar, Captain Owen. You’ve let yourself be out-negotiated.”

  “I got the impression that the price was not negotiable.”

  “Oh, come! Any price is negotiable. It’s just that you don’t know how we do it here, Captain Owen. An Englishman—”

  “Mr. el Zaki was with me.”

  The Prince looked at Mahmoud. “Was he? Well, he certainly ought to know better. Surely—”

  “Captain Owen is as used to the ways of the bazaar as I am, Your Highness. He does, after all, negotiate daily with informers.”

  “Does he? Yes, well I suppose that’s true. All the same, five thousand pounds! Surely that is excessive? What is the going rate for bodies in Cairo, Mr. el Zaki? Much less than that, I would have thought. Much, much less. Twenty pounds? Fifty pounds at most. A hundred, very exceptionally. Yes, I would have thought this was worth a hundred only.”

  “We are not exactly dealing in bodies,” said Owen. “We are merely trying to buy information.”

  “Not even a body? And five thousand pounds! The price looks higher every time you speak, Captain Owen. I really do not think bargaining is your line. Information, you say? What information?”

  Owen was forced to admit he did not exactly know.

  “Well!” said the Prince. “Five thousand pounds is a lot of money to pay for something you do not exactly know.”

  “Before any money changed hands we would, of course, need to be satisfied that the information was worth it.”

  “I would certainly hope so! But, tell me, Captain Owen, what do you expect would be the nature of this information for which you are prepared to pay so high a price?”

  Owen was silent.

  Mahmoud was not, however.

  “Marks on the body,” he said. “How she died.”

  “I see.”

  The Prince considered the matter thoughtfully.

  “Important as that is,” he said, “I am not sure that it is worth five thousand pounds. Certainly not to me. After all, if what I think you are supposing is true, it would hardly be in my interest for such information to emerge. I speak hypothetically, of course.”

  “But look at it another way,” said Owen. “If the information did not support what you think is Mr. el Zaki’s view, would it not be helpful to know this? Would it not, as it were, clear the matter up? And might not that be worth five thousand pounds?”

  “I do see your point. But I would regard that as a matter of public, not private interest. And I think, therefore, that the public should pay.”

  Owen tried in vain to convince him. The Prince was not to be persuaded.

  He played one last card.

  “Perhaps you are right,” he said, with the air of one who had himself been convinced. “It is a public matter. The public should pay. Yes, I am sure you’re right. I’ll get on to it straightaway. It was just that—well, I thought you might have a special interest in what we found out—”

  “Oh, I do! I do!”

  “—and not wish it to be shared too widely. After all, it could be misinterpreted.”

  The Prince smiled.

  “I think I can rely on you to see that it is not. After all, in view of the Special Agreement currently being discussed between the British government and the Egyptian government—”

  “What Agreement is this?”

  “You have not heard? Not even the Mamur Zapt? Well,” said the Prince, “I do call that news management of the highest order. Obviously something there for you to study. Yes, quite a lot there for you to study, I would say.”

  He accompanied them to the door. As they parted, he clapped Owen on the back.

  “Don’t be downhearted, old fellow. It’s all for the best. You’ve been working jolly hard, I know. You and Mr. el Zaki.” The Prince’s arm reached out to enfold Mahmoud. “But you’ve both got more important things to do, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t quite follow you.”

  “Well,” said the Prince, “it’s easy, isn’t it? You’ve both been working very hard—two of the best in the Khedive’s service—and you haven’t been able to find anything. This—proposal of yours, it’s not going to come to anything, is it? I mean—five thousand pounds is a lot of money. And for what? Some highly dubious information? Not worth it. I’m sure everyone will agree. So—”

  “So what?”

  “Is not this the time to drop the whole affair? It’s really becoming rather tedious. Worse, now I come to think of it, a positive drain on resources. Yes, that’s it—a drain on the Government’s scarce resources. You see how quickly I pick up English ways of talking. We must act responsibly. Time to call a halt.”

  “I am afraid, Your Highness,” said Mahmoud stiffly, “that once a case has been opened—”

  “But has a case been opened, old fellow? A preliminary investigation, certainly. But a case?”

  “We make no such distinction.”

  “Oh, I am sure you do. A report comes in. You investigate. You find there’s nothing to it, a false rumor. So you drop it.”

  “I don’t think this is like that.”

  “You don’t? Well,” said the Prince, smiling, “I’m not sure I agree with you. No body, no case, I would have said. We’ll see, shall we?”

  ***

  Zeinab had set it up for Owen to meet her theatrical friends at their usual café and as she and Owen turned into the square, there they were, occupying their usual tables on the edge of the pavement.

  Intellectual life in Cairo was conducted, as in Paris, in open-air cafés. It was conducted, too, in French since France was the country to which most of them owed intellectual allegiance. And the latest French journals were much in evidence.

  There was one respect, however, in which it was very unFrench. There were no women seated at the tables. Emancipated as she considered herself, Zeinab would not have gone up to them alone. Even with Owe
n, she attracted some curious glances from people at adjoining tables. Women did not do that kind of thing, even in cosmopolitan Cairo.

  “Which was why Leila stood out,” said one of Zeinab’s friends, Gamal.

  Gamal was the playwright.

  “Oh yes. I remember that evening. It was the first night of New Roses, wasn’t it? It had been so successful, mon cher—the audience that first night was in rapture—that I thought it would run and run. Alas!” He sighed heavily.

  “It was the theme, Gamal,” said someone across the table. “It just wasn’t popular.” He turned to Owen. “The ‘new roses’ were the emerging flowers of nationalism in the arts.”

  “I would have thought that would have been pretty popular,” said Zeinab.

  “Nationalism, yes; the arts, no.”

  “That accounts for it,” said Owen. “The first night you had all the nationalists in Cairo. After that there was none left.”

  “Ah, my friend!” said Gamal, laughing reprovingly.

  “And how did Leila come to be there?” asked Owen. “Which of the aspects was she interested in?”

  “Neither. She was interested in Suleiman.”

  “Suleiman?”

  “He is here, I think, Suleiman! Where are you? Suleiman?”

  Someone sitting at a table at the far end of the café got up and came over to them. He and Gamal embraced enthusiastically.

  “Suleiman, there is someone I want you to meet.” He introduced Owen. “A friend of mine. The Mamur Zapt.”

  “The Mamur Zapt?” said Suleiman, surprised but, so far as Owen could tell, not disconcerted. “What friends you have, Gamal!”

  They shook hands and Suleiman pulled a chair up.

  “He wants to know about Leila,” said Gamal.

  “Leila?” Suleiman made a face. “This is a shaming thing for me, Gamal. It is not kind of you.”

  “Why be ashamed?” asked Gamal. “Is not love a thing to be proud of?”

  “It is, when it is love. But I am not sure it was love, not on my side at least.”

  “She loved you?” said Zeinab.

  “Well, yes, I think so. And at first I felt flattered—I don’t usually have an effect on women like that—and thought I loved her. But then…”

  “You fell out of love?”