by John Wilcox
Simon didn’t reply, but stared ahead unseeingly at the passing throng, his elbow on his knee and his chin resting on his fist. Jenkins knew very well that he couldn’t go home. Alice Griffith, his long-time love, would be getting married at about this time, in the little parish church near her parents’ home on the Welsh-English border, only some ten miles away from his own parents’ house. Alice, with her fair hair and steady grey eyes, would be walking down the aisle at the side of her husband, Colonel Ralph Covington. This wounded hero of the Sekukuni campaign, his former commanding officer, who had long persecuted him, was marrying the woman whom Simon loved more than life itself and who loved him in return. He wouldn’t want to be even in the same country when the nuptials were celebrated.
‘No,’ murmured Simon, contemplating but not absorbing the saffron-clad hips of a dark-skinned woman walking by. ‘We can’t go home. This offer is just what we want - working for the army, doing what we do best, but on our own, not serving within that bloody institution. We’ve got to get down to see Colley as soon as we can.’
‘What? On nine pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence?’
Both had received good back pay as army scouts, working for Wolseley in the Sekukuni campaign, and Simon also had a fair allowance from his father. He had insisted some time ago, however, that he could earn his keep and that the latter should be banked at home for his return - minus the hundred pounds that he had asked his mother to use to fund a good wedding present for Alice (he had not specified what it should be, nor did he care). His pride forbade him now from requesting that his allowance should be restored. It savoured, somehow, of failure. Unfortunately, since the end of the Sekukuni war nearly four months before, he and Jenkins had lived comparatively high on the hog, going on safari to the north-west of Zululand, and then, not finding congenial employment in South Africa, making the long and expensive journey to Egypt, where Simon had felt sure they could serve the Khedive in some adventurous capacity or other. Now their funds were virtually exhausted. But not quite.
Simon turned to Jenkins. ‘You know what we could do?’
Jenkins grimaced. ‘Oh yes. But I thought we were going to keep them for a rainy day?’
‘As far as I am concerned,’ Simon looked up at the brazen sky, ‘it’s pissing down. Come on.’
With a new certainty, the pair joined the milling crowd and made their way back to their modest hotel in Old Cairo. Bourse al-Gadid Street was as unlike the wide boulevards beyond the Azbakiyya in Ismail’s new town as a Bombay bazaar was Haussmann’s Paris. It sat on the edge of the labyrinth of narrow lanes but the upper storeys of its houses leaned towards each other so that a leap, it seemed, could easily take one across the gap, and indeed, so thick was the traffic of the pedestrians below that it appeared to be the quickest way of crossing the street.
The two men climbed the stairs to the second floor of the building where the corridor opened out to a surprisingly cool and spacious reception area. Jenkins was right. The Metropolitan was indeed ‘a nice little place’, modest but clean and ideal for two ex-soldiers down on their luck. The white-gowned manager beamed at his two guests from behind his reception desk. ‘Tea, effendi?’ he enquired of Simon. He had been delighted that the slim English gentleman and his servant had chosen his hotel for their stay in Cairo, rather than any of the gilded palaces usually favoured by the Europeans. This young man was a person of taste and culture, obviously.
‘Thank you no, Ahmed,’ said Simon. ‘But you can help us.’ He looked around to ensure that they were alone. ‘We have a mind to buy a little jewellery to take home to our wives. Something - what shall I say? - ah, ethnic, perhaps, that we would not normally find in the shops near the Azbakiyya. Is there a jewellery quarter in the old part of town?’
Ahmed’s teeth flashed. ‘Oh indeed, indeed, effendi. Here. Let me show you.’
He reached below his counter and pulled out a flat board, scuffed at the edges, on which had been pasted a street map of Cairo. It had been hand-drawn with no obvious reference to scale and it was much thumbed, but Ahmed exhibited it with pride.
He jabbed a finger down. ‘We are here,’ he said. ‘Now, just here,’ he pointed to a long thoroughfare which cut arrow straight through the hatchwork of narrow alleys that constituted Old Cairo, ‘is the Musky, a very fine street indeed. It goes right the way through the city to the East Wall here at the Bab El-Ghurayib, so. But here, observe closely, you must turn right into the Ghuriya, and around here,’ his black fingernail circled a maze of little lanes leading off the Musky, ‘is jewellery quarter. Many fine shops there, effendi. You will surely find what you want, but,’ he squinted up to where light filtered through the mushraybia screen from the lane, ‘go soon because the sun will be setting in an hour.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘And it is not perhaps wise for you to be there after dark. You understand . . .?’
Simon nodded and smiled. ‘That is most helpful. We will go immediately.’
But first they had to visit Simon’s room. Once inside, Jenkins quietly turned the key in the lock and Simon reached inside the single wooden wardrobe and withdrew a dirty rolled shirt. Three of its six buttons were missing, the collar was torn and it had clearly not seen water or soap for weeks. It was no prize for even the most indigent thief, but Simon handled it with care, opening it out so that at each armpit, where the fabric of the sleeve met the body of the shirt, small patches could be seen, as though they had been sewn there to soak up perspiration.
‘’Ow many, do you think?’ enquired Jenkins.
‘Not sure. Maybe two. Certainly no more.’ Simon picked away at the stitching delicately with the end of his pocket knife, so that, eventually, one of the patches fell on to the bed, revealed as a tiny fabric bag. A moment’s more work with the knife opened one end, and as Simon shook it, two small stones rolled out on to the cotton blanket. They lay there, irregular in shape and dull-looking, though they winked now as a stray shard of sunlight filtered through the wooden screen into the room.
Simon held them to the light. ‘Let’s see what these two are worth,’ he said. ‘I would rather keep the other two in reserve.’ He looked across at Jenkins and grinned. ‘Till it really rains.’
The Welshman frowned. ‘But why do we ’ave to go into these back streets to sell ’em? Why can’t we go to a proper merchant or whatever? Get a better price, wouldn’t we?’
‘Maybe.’ Simon rubbed at the larger of the two diamonds with his thumb. ‘But I’d rather not risk it. A pukka merchant would have to ask questions about how we had acquired two uncut diamonds, and when it emerged that we had been in Kimberley, we would be bound to come under suspicion as diamond thieves. You heard what old tight-arse said about the English being unpopular here. I don’t want to end up in an Egyptian jail just when we’ve got the chance of a decent job in South Africa. No. Let’s take our chance in the bazaar.’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘All right, bach sir, but I don’t much fancy roamin’ about in these streets after dark without a bit of protection, look you.’ He walked back to the cupboard and, standing on a chair, reached to the flat top and drew down two long, thin objects, loosely wrapped in blankets and tied with cord. ‘Let’s take the rifles, eh?’
‘Good God, no. We can’t walk through the streets of Old Cairo carrying two Martini-Henrys.’
‘Suppose you’re right.’ He replaced the rifles. ‘Better be knives, then. I’ve got a spare.’
Simon shuddered. ‘Ugh. I’m no bloody back-street knife-fighter, 352. You know that. You can fight with the damned things, but I wouldn’t know where to start. We weren’t taught how to use knives at Sandhurst, only nicely polished sabres. No. I’ll do without. Anyway, I don’t want a fight. I want to keep out of trouble.’ He shot a keen glance at his servant. ‘These diamonds have enough blood on them as it is.’
Jenkins’s nose buried itself in his moustache as he made a face and nodded. ‘You’re right about that, bach sir. That you are.’
Before keeping their promise to scout for
General Wolseley in his war against the Sekukuni nation, some ten months before, the pair had risked their lives in the brutal diamond-mining town of Kimberley and then on the veldt of the Transvaal to rescue their old friend Nandi, a young half-Zulu girl, from the clutches of Mozambique diamond smugglers. The girl had insisted on giving them four diamonds, as ‘keepsakes’.
Now Simon jingled the two stones together in his hand for a moment. ‘God knows what they’re worth,’ he mused. ‘But the bastards who stole them defended them stoutly enough. They should get us back to Durban.’ He replaced the gems in their little sack, put it in the breast pocket of his shirt and carefully buttoned it. ‘Come on. Let’s try our luck at diamond trading.’
They found the Musky easily enough and followed it to the junction described by Ahmed. There they took a right turn, plunging into the narrow alleyways where only a thin streak of light above marked the narrow space between the lattice windows of the overhanging storeys. Almost immediately they were in amongst the traders. There were no street stalls, as they had come to expect from places like Bombay and Durban - indeed, if there had been, there would have been no space for customers to pass by. Instead, the ground floors of what seemed to be private houses, constructed of large stone slabs climbing up to the balconies above, had been opened out to create small shops, often only some six feet high and eight feet deep and seemingly unconnected to the living quarters within the house. The shopkeepers lounged on their steps, smoking pipes or more elegant cigarettes and seemingly quite uninterested in selling the wares that choked the interiors of their little cubicles.
Fascinated by the bustle, sights and smells of the crowded thoroughfares, Simon - his hand nonchalantly protecting his buttoned-down shirt pocket underneath his jacket - and Jenkins made their way through first the cotton market, and then the tinned goods suk, where the products of the West were piled high, leading on to the armourers’ section, with its old chain-mail shirts, curved scimitars that the hand of Saladin might have gripped and elderly muskets, their butts worked in silver. Simon had no idea in which direction they had wandered or how far when, on impulse, he stopped and bought a sturdy ebony walking stick, with a bulbous hand grip. He staggered the vendor by paying the asking price without demur and then enquired of him the location of the jewellery quarter. The man raised a languid hand and motioned that they should take the next turn to the right. They did so and immediately found themselves in another marketplace. This one glittered and sparkled with the skills of the jeweller and silversmith, with each alcove a treasure trove of bangles, baubles, beaten copper, elegant silver and shining gold; trinkets and more precious objects mixed in a seemingly haphazard fashion.
‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s Aladdin’s cave!’
They shuffled along, heads turning, until they came to a shop which seemed a cut above the rest, in that, tucked away in the dim recesses of a deeper than usual cavity, they could see what seemed like precious stones arrayed in various settings and displayed on cushions along a series of shelves which themselves had been draped in fine silks and cottons. Sitting on the edge of his shop, his back to a huge hinged shutter, sat the owner, puffing a long, curved pipe. His blue turban was elegantly wound and his long white robe was gathered in at the waist by a knotted black cord that glittered with gold tassels. His beard was white and he looked up at the two Europeans with black eyes that seemed quite expressionless.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Simon. ‘Do you speak English?’
Perhaps a little surprised at the politeness of this Englishman, the old man struggled to his feet, put his hands together in an almost Hindu gesture and bowed his head slightly. ‘Yes, effendi. You are welcome. What can I do to help your honour?’
Simon gestured to the shallow interior. ‘May we step inside for a moment?’
‘Of course.’
They moved three paces into the dim interior, where two oil lamps shed a little light, sufficient, however, to elicit a myriad sparkles from stones set in exotic bracelets, necklaces, pendants and rings, all ranged along the shelves without thought of security. Used to window-shopping in London’s Bond Street, where widely spaced jewels were exhibited in locked glass cabinets, Simon was struck by how easy it would be to scoop up these Eastern treasures and be off down the street. A glance at the sauntering crowd outside, however, made him realise that one cry in Arabic of ‘Stop, thief!’ would result in a dagger in his back within seconds.
‘Do you purchase precious stones, as well as sell them?’ he enquired.
Immediately the old man’s posture changed slightly. It was almost imperceptible but sufficient for him to establish that he was dropping the role of supplicant and assuming that of reluctant purchaser. The black eyes seemed to harden as he took in these two Englishmen. ‘Sometimes, effendi,’ he said, ‘but not often, and as you can see,’ he indicated his emporium, empty although in truth there was room for perhaps only one more person to have entered it, ‘trade is not good.’
‘Very well.’ Simon took out his small sack. ‘I have two uncut diamonds here, which you may care to look at.’ He rolled the stones out on to his cupped hand. Dirty as they were, with traces of yellow Kimberley clay still adhering to them, they glinted promisingly in the half-light.
The old man produced a jeweller’s glass, screwed it into his eye and examined each stone in turn. His nose wrinkled and he looked up at Simon. ‘You wish to sell these, effendi?’
‘Yes, but only if the price is right. I appreciate that I could probably receive more for them in Amsterdam or London, but I do not wish to return to Europe yet and the money in hand would be useful.’
The Egyptian resumed his study of the stones for a moment and murmured, ‘You realise that these are not top-quality diamonds? They are uncut and must be cleaned and polished as well as fashioned, and the price must recognise this.’ He put down the glass and his black eyes shot a glance first at Jenkins and then at Simon. ‘May I ask how you came by them?’
‘They were given to me by a diamond merchant in Kimberley in return for a service I was able to render him. He assured me that they were worth one hundred English pounds each.’
Jenkins nodded gravely, both in support of his master and in admiration at the impudence of the lie.
‘Ah.’ The old man hesitated, then returned to his examination for a moment. Then: ‘I fear that you were misled.’ He held up his hand as Simon made to interrupt. ‘Oh, they are genuine diamonds, but they are of a very poor quality and are worth much less than your friend’s estimation. I fear I could offer you nothing that might interest you.’
Simon nodded. ‘I understand. Thank you for your time. I shall try elsewhere . . .’ and he made to take the diamonds back but the shopkeeper held up his hand and gave a wan smile.
‘Perhaps, however,’ he said, ‘you would allow me to examine them properly in good light at my workbench in my house.’ He waved a hand to the interior. ‘And while I am doing so, perhaps you would do me the honour of taking a little tea there. It should not take long. It might be that we can do business, although I doubt it.’
Simon inclined his head. ‘Very well, but I do hope that we can be quick. We have other business to conduct this evening.’
The old man half bowed. ‘Of course. Here, take your stones and let me close these premises.’ He ushered them outside and then, with some difficulty, swung across the thick wooden shutters - more like two heavy doors - which covered the opening. He clicked and locked an ancient padlock to secure them, then beckoned for Simon and Jenkins to follow him a couple of paces towards where, recessed into the blank stone wall, an equally old and formidable door led into the house behind the shop. He had no key but pulled on a cord that jangled a bell above his head. This led eventually to the door being pulled back by an elderly and incredibly fat shaven-headed retainer.
They entered a charming inner courtyard, in which a fountain tinkled. The shopkeeper took off his slippers and left them on a marble slab outside a door, and Simon and Jenki
ns did the same with their boots. ‘ ’Ope we don’t ’ave to run for it,’ murmured Jenkins, but he followed Simon into a narrow carpeted corridor which led into a square room whose floor was covered with rugs and furnished with a low divan around three sides. Dim illumination - for the light was now rapidly fading outside - was provided by small pieces of coloured glass let into a framework of stucco high on the wall. The elderly servant, however, lit candles and revealed a room with whitewashed walls and a ceiling formed of planks laid on massive beams and painted a dark red. Shallow recesses framed fine-looking examples of the goldsmith’s work.
The old man gestured for them to sit on the divan and whispered something to his servant. He turned to his visitors. ‘Tea will be brought to you very soon. It will be from India and served with milk and sugar in the European style.’ The last sentence was added with a touch of pride. ‘If you will trust me with your diamonds for a moment longer I will examine them and rejoin you within ten minutes.’ He smiled and gestured to the artefacts in the recesses. ‘As you see, if I fail to return you have adequate securities.’
Simon smiled in response and gave him the diamonds. Then the two men sat in silence for a moment until a half-stifled giggle made Simon look up. A mushraybia screen - the interlocking lattices made of finely carved knotted wood, the traditional Ottoman and Mamluk method of allowing warm air to cool as it passed, while preventing outsiders from seeing through - had been set into the top half of the wall facing them at mezzanine level. It was clear that they were being observed.
‘Well I’m dashed,’ said Jenkins in a loud stage whisper. ‘Is it the harem, then, bach sir? I always wanted to ’ave a peep into one o’ them, see.’
‘Probably, but I shouldn’t try to climb up.’ Simon’s response was barely audible. ‘I understand that the ladies are usually fat and a bit unwashed. But keep your voice down. I don’t want to give offence - or be overheard for that matter.’
Tea came very quickly, but they hardly had time to sip it before the old man returned. He sat down beside Simon companionably, and produced the diamonds.