The Girl in the Nile

by Michael Pearce

  “We don’t know that an injustice has been done,” said Owen.

  “I know,” said Zeinab, “and when I have finished, everyone else will know, too.”

  Owen, wisely, kept quiet.

  “You can arrest me if you like,” said Zeinab defiantly.

  “Good idea!” snapped Owen, and moved onto the divan beside her.

  “Keep your hands off!” shouted Zeinab, convinced for the moment that he intended to.

  Then—

  “Keep your hands off!” she shouted, as she became convinced otherwise.

  Owen pulled back, slid down on to the floor and sat comfortably on a cushion at Zeinab’s feet. After a moment he felt Zeinab’s hand ruffling his hair.

  “It’s no good,” she said calmly, “it’ll be in all the papers now.”

  “Oh, I know that.”

  “Hargazy has contacts everywhere. He’s been working night and day.”

  “Has he? Why is it so important to him?”

  Zeinab withdrew her hand.

  “Because he loved Leila. He is not,” she said pointedly, “like some men.”

  ***

  He found Gamal in his usual café. It was early in the morning and the playwright’s friends had not yet arrived. He was at his usual table, bent over, writing. This was where he did his work.

  He looked up vaguely and caught Owen’s eye. Immediately, he dropped his pen and jumped up.

  “My friend! Mon très, très cher ami!”

  “Gamal!”

  They embraced.

  “Un apéritif?”

  “Permettez-moi!”

  They settled down and Gamal pushed his writing pad away.

  “It’s all right,” he said, “I’ve finished for the day. It wasn’t going well, anyway.”

  Owen asked after Gamal’s plays. Gamal shrugged.

  “Next time, perhaps,” he said.

  He asked what Owen was doing.

  “Still working on the Leila business.”

  Gamal looked sad.

  “That was bad,” he said. “It did not show us in a good light, did it? I have been thinking about it. We did not care, my friend, we did not care enough. She was one of us and we know she was troubled and not one of us thought fit to ask her about herself. That was bad, my friend, that was bad.”

  “Was she really one of you?”

  “Well…” Gamal hesitated. “Not really. But that again is not good. Was the reason that she was not really one of us the fact that she was a woman? I ask myself this, my friend. Would it have been different in France? I ask myself.”

  “You were the only people she could come to,” Owen pointed out, “the only ones who would have her.”

  Gamal was pleased at this.

  “Yes,” he said, “you are right. We artists have our faults but social narrowness is not among them.”

  “It was a pity she did not stay with Suleiman.”

  Gamal shook his head.

  “He was working on something. It was a big commission and he was worried about it. That, I am afraid, is one of our faults. When we are working on something we become preoccupied with it. It takes us over. There is no space for anything. There was no space for Leila.”

  “So she took up with Hargazy.”

  Gamal pursed his lips.

  “Hargazy was not the right man for her.”

  “Too bitter?”

  Gamal looked at him in surprise.

  “Yes,” he said, “you are right. He is bitter. But that is not why he was the wrong man for her. He did not love her. She was a plaything, a toy. Something to be used, then cast aside. It could not last.”

  Owen remembered something Prince Fahid had said.

  “You think that it might have already ended by the time she was taken up by Narouz? That that was one of the reasons why she agreed to go with him on the dahabeeyah?”

  “Perhaps,” said Gamal. “Who knows?”

  An agitated phone call from Mahmoud.

  “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Narouz has gone.”

  “What do you mean—‘gone’?”

  “Left the country.”

  “Left the country?”

  “You haven’t heard? He was supposed to turn up at a meeting this morning. It’s to do with that Agreement they’re signing. Anyway, he didn’t arrive. The Khedive wanted to know why. Somebody said he’d left the country.”

  “Rumor!” said Owen.

  “Yes, but he wasn’t there this morning.”

  “I’ll check.”

  ***

  He went to the Prince’s appartement.

  “I am afraid, effendi, that His Highness is not at home,” said the servant politely.

  “Does that mean he will be in later?”

  The servant hesitated. But he had seen Owen at the Prince’s house before, his relations with Narouz were, as far as he knew, friendly, and, besides, Owen was an English effendi.

  “I don’t think so, effendi,” he said reluctantly.

  “Have you any idea where he’s gone?”

  “I am afraid not, effendi.”

  “His estate, perhaps?”

  “I don’t think so, effendi,” said the servant, certain of that at least.

  ***

  “Cannes, more likely,” said Nikos, picking up the phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking boats.”

  There was one leaving Alexandria the following day.

  “How do you know it’s Alexandria and not Port Said?”

  “Well,” said Nikos, “what do you think?”

  Port Said traffic went to India.

  “He’s not that desperate,” said Nikos.

  “All right, it’s Alexandria. But there’ll be other boats besides that one tomorrow.”

  “Two a week go to France. The other one left three days ago.”

  “He might have gone to Turkey.”

  “Narouz?”

  ***

  The Egyptian road system remained in a fortunate state of underdevelopment. There was only one road going to Alexandria from Cairo and cars, as opposed to bullocks and donkeys and camels, were so infrequent as to be remarkable. More remarkable still was a touring model painted vivid green. The reports soon came in.

  “Oh yes, effendi,” said the peculiarly dreamy policeman at the station on the Alexandria Road, “it flashed by me yesterday evening.”

  Admittedly, anything would flash by that particular observer but more reliable accounts came in from other points along the road: places where the drovers watered their camels, where the bullock drivers had their tea.

  Above all, the petrol stations, of which there were two between Cairo and Alexandria. They were not properly service stations, of course—the traffic did not justify it—but depots for Army vehicles, whose services were commissioned by the Prince on the grounds that as nephew to the Khedive he was nearly Commander-in-Chief.

  The Prince would have reached Alexandria that morning. Nikos anticipated no difficulty in locating him.

  “He’s not going to be staying in some flea-ridden place, is he? We’ll find him at the Windsor. The question is: What are you going to do then?”

  ***

  “Yes,” said Paul, “I had heard. Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters. He’ll catch the next boat out of Alexandria.”

  “So?”

  “He’ll get away.”

  “He’s a free man. He can go where he likes. He’s not been charged with anything.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Charging him? Is that something for you to do? Surely not. You’re always telling me that ordinary crime is no business of the Mamur Zap
t. This is ordinary crime, isn’t it? Leave it to Mahmoud.”

  “He thinks it political.”

  “Because we’re talking about a relative of the Khedive? It may be political in his terms but it’s not in ours, surely? Purely Egyptian matter. Leave it to Mahmoud.”

  “He won’t be able to get it through.”

  “Then should we help him? That would make it political, wouldn’t it, interfering with the Khedive’s direction of his own Ministries?”

  “Paul, this is political in our terms, too. It’s going to be all over the town, and people are not going to like it. They’re not going to like the Khedive, either. And how do you think they’re going to feel about any Agreement he signs?”

  “Mutinous, I’d say. Fortunately we have a Mamur Zapt to look after that kind of thing. Privately, Gareth, I’m inclined to agree with you. Publicly, though, I have to tell you we’re so far down the road with this damned Agreement that we can’t let anything stop it now. It’s being signed on Friday.”

  “Yes, I know. And that’s another thing. Friday! Hasn’t it occurred to anyone that Friday is a special day to Moslems? Couldn’t you make it another day?”

  “Lord, I’d forgotten that! It’s being signed by some bigwig and he wanted to be on his way to London by the weekend. Still, I’ll pass it on to the CG. Well spotted, Gareth! That’s the kind of thing we pay you for. Why don’t you concentrate on that sort of activity for the next day or two?”

  ***

  By noon even Zeinab’s hairdresser had heard about it.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Zeinab.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Mr. Hargazy,” said Owen, “I wonder if you can tell me something about the authorship of this article?”

  He handed him the pamphlet containing the attack on Narouz.

  “It’s the one on the front page.”

  Hargazy glanced at it, then handed it back.

  “Well written, I would say. A cut above the usual rubbish.”

  “Well informed, too?”

  “It seems to be.”

  “A trifle intemperate in tone, don’t you think?”

  “No. I wouldn’t say that. Given the subject.”

  “Of course, Leila Sekhmet was known to you, wasn’t she?”

  “And to many others, yes. She wasn’t especially close to me.”

  “Really? I thought you were very close.”

  “I slept with her, if that’s what you mean. But that does not make her close.”

  “You surprise me. I had formed the impression you cared for her deeply.”

  “You are thinking of the conversation I had with Zeinab? I care about the fact of her death. I care, deeply, about her as an example of the way our country is oppressed by those who rule her. As a symbol, that is, I care for her. But as a person? I would not say she mattered to me very much as a person.”

  “And yet you have busied yourself very much on her behalf,” Owen pointed out.

  “The symbol is important to me. Our country is a big country, Captain Owen, and it needs something to focus its anger and indignation. The only way I can see that happening is through an individual case which somehow takes on representative qualities, becomes, as I say, a symbol.”

  “And that is what Leila Sekhmet means to you?”

  “Exactly.”

  Hargazy, tieless but jacketed, seemed very much at ease.

  “You are, of course, an artist,” said Owen, “and like to deal in the symbolic.”

  “Well…” Hargazy looked deprecatingly at his shoes.

  Owen went through the papers on his desk.

  “As well as this article, you wrote the other one, didn’t you, the one that appeared in Al-Liwa?”

  “Was to have appeared.” Hargazy smiled. “I believe you were the one who censored it out?”

  “But you were the author?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “No. I’m saying that.”

  “On what basis?”

  “Handwriting. I have the original copy for the article which appeared in the pamphlet. It’s in your handwriting.”

  “Well,” said Hargazy, “it’s hardly worth bothering, is it? You’re going to hold me anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Certainly for the next few days.”

  “Until the Agreement is signed?”

  “Yes.”

  Hargazy seemed relaxed about it.

  “It’s not important now, anyway,” he said. “The news is out. Stories have a momentum of their own.”

  “I think you’ll find that momentum can be arrested.”

  “You won’t be able to seize all the copies,” Hargazy said confidently.

  “I’ll be able to seize enough of them. And then I’ll introduce another story which will take over in the headlines.”

  There was a flicker of doubt. Then Hargazy recovered.

  “It won’t work,” he said.

  “Won’t it? Is a woman that important in this country?”

  “No, but Narouz is.”

  Owen shuffled through his papers again and found the scurrilous pamphlet.

  “What have you got against Narouz?” he asked.

  “He’s one of them.”

  “Only that?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Nothing to do with Leila?”

  “Why do you keep asking me about Leila? She was something to use, that was all.”

  Owen looked at the pamphlet again. And at all the other pamphlets.

  “Well,” he said, “you’ve used her very successfully, I must admit. The story is everywhere.”

  Hargazy smiled.

  Owen closed the file. The constable at the door stirred.

  “Before you go,” said Owen, “there’s one other thing. I’m trying to find who killed Leila and you might be able to help me. Where did you get your story from?”

  “I’m a journalist,” said Hargazy. “I don’t reveal my sources.”

  ***

  “So you’ve clamped down?” said Garvin.

  Owen nodded.

  “We’re picking up anybody distributing illegal material.”

  “The Ataba will be quiet today,” said Garvin, amused.

  “It won’t last, of course. They’ll be back on the streets tomorrow.”

  “That might be just long enough. Good,” said Garvin. “Very good.”

  ***

  Nikos stuck his head in at the door.

  “There’s someone to see you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He says he’s a watchman. A ghaffir.”

  “A ghaffir? What does he want?”

  “I don’t know. All he’ll say is that he’s from the Souk Al-Gadira.”

  “Ah. In that case, show him in.”

  In came a nervous-looking Arab who seemed familiar.

  “It is Abu, effendi,” he said hesitantly.

  “Abu?”

  “You saw me down by the river, effendi. I was the one who found the girl.”

  “Ah yes. I remember you, Abu.”

  “Effendi, I have something terrible to tell you.”

  He plucked at his galabeah nervously.

  “You have? What is it, Abu?”

  The watchman tried to speak but the words would not come.

  “Do not be afraid, Abu, I know that you are a good man.”

  The words suddenly came with a rush.

  “Effendi, they tricked me! That Ibrahim! And I thought he was such a nice man! A corporal, too!”

  “How exactly did he trick you, Abu?”

  “That morning, effendi. That morning when I found the body. I went to the Chief and he told me to go back an
d show Ibrahim the body, that he might mount guard on it. But that false Ibrahim, on the way there he sent me away and while I was away—oh, effendi, you will not believe this—he took a pole and thrust the body off the sandbank. Then, when I came back, he pretended to know nothing. And I—I—the effendi came, and what could I say? The body wasn’t there.”

  “I see. And you have just found out about all this?”

  “Yes, effendi. And then I could not rest. For, I said, the effendi has been beguiled, and who knows what may befall? And then I thought: Abu, you must tell him. But I did not want to, effendi, because the Bab el Khalk is a great distance and you are a great man. And I may be beaten for my simplicity. But then, effendi, I thought: Abu, you are a ghaffir and it is your duty. And so, effendi, I have come.”

  He came to a halt, breathless, and stood, diffident and apologetic, his eyes fixed earnestly on Owen.

  Owen, at bottom another simple man, and moreover, Welsh, with all a Welshman’s emotional responsiveness, was touched. He came out from behind his desk and put his arm round Abu.

  “You are a good man, Abu. Did I not say so, and have you not shown yourself so to be?”

  “You are not going to beat me?” said Abu, a little surprised.

  “Certainly not.”

  “The Chief will.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Owen. “Not after I’ve had a word with him. Besides,” he added, stepping back, “all this is known already.”

  Abu’s jaw dropped.

  “Known already?”

  “Yes. I’ve known it for some time.”

  Abu pulled himself together. He shook his head in wonderment.

  “The Mamur Zapt knows all,” he said, impressed.

  “Not quite all.”

  Abu fidgeted.

  “Then, then—there was no point in my coming?”

  “You did right, Abu, and did your duty. Every man should do his duty,” said Owen sententiously, giving himself a mental kick.

  Abu looked pleased.

  “And it does not matter, effendi?”

  “Not now, no. You see, when Ibrahim went to push the body off with his pole, he found it had already gone. He—”

  “Gone!” said Abu, thunderstruck anew.

  “Yes, and we know how it went. Two beggars—I expect they are known to you, their names are Libab and Farag—”

  “But I know them!” said Abu excitedly.