‘The contract goes to the Jews,’ said Owen. ‘You have brought this on your own head.’
(jms
By this time there was no point in going to bed. Owen was never able to sleep during the day. Instead, he went to the Bab-el-Khalk. Used though they were to his early ways, the bearers were surprised to see him.
At this time of the morning a night chill still hung over the building. To one fresh out from England, that pink young man, say, the temperature would have seemed pleasantly warm. Those longer in the sun thought of frost. Owen raised the jacket of his collar and huddled himself in his chair.
Fortunately, it was not long before he heard the pad of bare feet and smelled a delicious aroma and then Yussef, who had heard from the other orderlies that his master was in, appeared with coffee.
‘Would the Effendi like me to send the barber in?’ he suggested, seeing that Owen was unshaven.
‘Why, yes!’ said Owen.
‘The Effendi was out all night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Down at the Cut?’
‘Yes. For most of it.’
‘I hope the charm worked,’ said Yussef.
Owen sat up.
‘Why, yes it did, Yussef! Yes, it did,’ he said in surprise.
Restored, he felt able to contemplate his desk. Among the other messages, most of which appeared to be abusive ones from the Accounts Department, there was one from Georgiades. After some thought, and after the barber had visited, Owen put on his sun helmet and set out for the barrage.
The sun, now, was warming everything up, but out on the river, where there was a little breeze, the heat was not yet overpowering. On the left the misty, purple forms of the two great pyramids of Giza soared above the palm groves. On the right, outlined against the horizon, were the airy domes and flying minarets of the great mosque on the brow of Saladin’s Citadel, lit up by the early morning sun.
Soon the barrage itself appeared up ahead, purple and rose in the sun. There was a crowd of people at the landing stage waiting for boats to take them in to the city. The felucca moved in past the water-carriers already filling their bags for the day’s work.
Owen followed one of them up to the Gardens, past the sweet sellers and peanut sellers setting out their stalls, past the lemonade sellers top-heavy with their ornamental urns on their backs, and on through the trees towards the regulator.
Georgiades, alert this time, came to meet him. He led him through the bougainvillea to where the gardener was bent in a rose bed.
Georgiades walked forward and perched himself on the edge of a gadwal nearby. Owen stayed out of sight, but within hearing distance, behind the bougainvillea.
‘You are about early!’ said the gardener in surprise.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Georgiades.
‘No?’ said the gardener sympathetically. ‘Well, it was hot last-’
‘I was thinking of you,’ said Georgiades.
‘Of me?’
The gardener put down his trowel, staggered.
‘I was saying to myself: he is my friend. Can I let him do it?’
‘Do ’ what?’ said the gardener, beginning to get agitated.
‘He is my friend. He had a wife, children. What will become of them when he is in the caracol?’
‘In the caracol?’
‘That’s where you’re going. I’ve heard them talking.’
‘Allah!’
‘They have found out, you see.’
‘Found out?’ said the gardener cautiously.
‘About you and Ibrahim. And what you did to the bank the other day.’
The gardener sat stunned.
‘Found out!’ he whispered.
‘Yes. There was no Lizard Man, was there? Just you and the ghaffir. You pulled out the stakes. You broke the Effendi’s marking tape. And you broke away the bank to suggest that a beast had gone down to the canal to drink.’
‘It was only in jest!’ cried the gardener.
‘Ah, but that was not how it seemed to the Effendi.’
‘Yes, but-’
‘Why did you do it, Abdullah? Why did you do a thing like that? You, who know so well the ways of water?’
‘It was because of them! They were going to build a new canal. Right across my Gardens!’
‘Did you think you could stop them, Abdullah? You, a mere gardener?’
‘It was Ibrahim’s idea! He said that now they knew there was a lizard man about, they would think it was him. He said that there had been much talk of lizard men lately, not just here but at the Cut. That the Effendi would think it was the same one, that it would make them pause and think-’
‘They have paused, Abdullah, and they have thought. And they have alighted on you.’
‘How did they come to alight on me?’ whispered the gardener. ‘They asked themselves who might wish to do a thing like that? And they remembered your concern for the Gardens. They asked who had the occasion to do it? And they thought of you and of Ibrahim. And they looked again at the place where the bank was breached and they saw not the marks of paws but the marks of a trowel.’
‘What shall I do?’ moaned the gardener.
‘Well,’ said Georgiades, ‘if I were you, I would find some way of worming myself into the Mamur Zapt’s graces.’
‘How might I do that?’
Georgiades considered.
‘You could start,’ he considered, ‘by telling him the name of the person to whom Babikr took the flowers.’
Chapter 12
‘Well, Babikr,’ said Owen, ‘now we know to whom it was you made your oath.’
‘It was a bad oath,’ said Babikr, looking at the ground. When he had been brought into Owen’s office he had blinked at the light after more than a week in the cells.
‘It was,’ said Owen, ‘and it was wrong of you to swear it.’
‘I owed it to him. His family had helped mine when my wife was sick.’
‘It is right to help neighbours. It is wrong to ask them to repay in wrong-doing.’
‘I did not know that I would be asked to repay in that way. He and his family had left the village. Before they went, he came to me and said: “I know that you cannot repay me now what you owe me, and therefore I shall not ask it; but lest the debt you owe me be forgotten when you pay off your other debts I shall ask you to swear me an oath before the fiki.”
‘And I said:
“‘It is true that I cannot repay you now, for all that I have earned has gone on my wife and child; but one day I shall repay it.” ’And he said:
“I know you will. But still let us swear the oath.”
‘So we went to the fiki and when he heard what the oath was to be, he said: “That is not a good oath, for who knows its meaning?”
‘And I said:
“Never mind if it is a good oath or not, that is the one he wants me to swear.”
‘Still the fiki demurred. But I was firm. “For,” said I, “the man has helped my family when it was in need, and shall I now not repay him?”
“‘Repay him, by all means,” said the fiki, “but in money. For was not that what he lent you?”
‘Well, I will not say that my heart was not troubled. But still I said: “I will swear as he wants, for am not I his debtor? And, besides, he says that a man may never be able to repay in money, but still he may repay in service. Even the poorest can repay in service.”
“‘Well, that is true,” said the fiki, and so I swore the oath as he had asked.’
‘What was the oath?’
‘That when the time came for me to repay him, if he asked for service and not for money then I would be bound to offer him service; and that I would do whatsoever he demanded.’
‘That was foolish!’
Babikr shrugged.
‘So I see,’ he said, ‘now.’
‘But did you not say so when you heard what he demanded?’
‘I did. But he said: “I, too, am bound by an oath. An oath of revenge. I have swor
n I will be revenged on him for what he has done to me. And now are you saying that I should break my oath as well as you break yours?” And I was troubled, for he had helped me freely when I was in need, and I had sworn freely. However I said to him: “You lent me money when I needed it-let me now give it back to you when you need it.” For I could see that he had need. But he said: “The need I have is inside, and that is where you must repay me.” But still, Effendi, I would not, and I left his house.
‘But then I said to myself: “Babikr, have you not sworn? Did he not help you? And are you now saying that you will not help him?” So I went back to him and tried to reason with him. I said:
“I came to you with joy in my heart that at last I could repay what I owed you. I came with flowers in my hand, wishing well to you and yours. But now that joy has turned to bitterness.” ‘“Well, then,” he said, “it matches mine.”
‘I said: “This thing you wish to do is foolish as well as wrong. For it will hurt not Al-Sayyid Hannam alone but everyone else.”
‘But he said:
“‘I will revenge by water what was done by water. I will use the river to avenge what was done by the river.’”
‘Yes,’ said the fiki. ‘I remember the oath.’
‘You did not remember it the other day,’ said Owen.
‘I hear many oaths.’
‘From Babikr?’
The fiki was silent.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘perhaps not from Babikr.’
‘Did you not think? Knowing that the man was in prison?’
‘I thought,’ said the fiki, ‘but I could not believe what I thought.’
So Owen went to the house of Ali Khedri; but he was not at home. That at first did not surprise him, for he supposed that the water-carrier would be out on his rounds. Then he saw, however, the water-skins thrown down in a corner and felt puzzled. He went to the neighbours and asked if they knew where Ali Khedri had gone, but they did not. He wondered if the water-carrier was over at Omar Fayoum’s stable, helping the cart driver ‘unharness the horses’. He and Georgiades began to make their way in that direction.
‹5’ts»?
The building where Omar Fayoum kept his water-cart was empty. Of people, that was. The cart itself was there and there in a shed nearby which served as a stable were the horses. Which again was puzzling, for Omar was not a man to let his assets stand idle.
They walked round the building and came out at the back, where it crumbled away into the canal. A man, tarbooshed, dark-suited and perspiring, was picking his way gingerly along the bed. It was the manager from the Water Board; and this, too, was puzzling for in Cairo managers usually preferred the cool of their offices to the heat of the streets. He waved when he saw Owen and Georgiades and climbed up to meet them. He looked hot and bothered.
‘You have not seen Suleiman?’ he asked exasperatedly. ‘I have been looking for him for the past hour. He is not supposed to be here at all. I did as you advised and ordered him out. He is supposed to be working in another district today and they are expecting him. But one of my people said that they had seen him over here!’
‘And you came yourself?’
‘Well, I was worried about him. After what you had said. And it was clearly no good sending anyone else!’
‘He is disobeying instructions?’
‘Yes. I had made it perfectly clear. I had him in yesterday and told him I was transferring him temporarily to the Hilmiya. He didn’t like it. In fact, he begged me to let him stay, just for another day or two. Well, I remembered what you had said, and that a day or two would probably make no difference, but then I thought, no, if the boy is in danger, then he is in danger now, and what will his father think if I delay? So I told him firmly that he must transfer at once, that very day. He pleaded for just one more day, he said that he was on the brink of solving a problem that had been troubling us for months, that if I gave him just twenty-four hours-
‘But I said no, if he had information he could give us, then he would receive the credit for it but that he himself must start at once in the Citadel.’
‘And yet today, you said, someone saw him here?’
‘Yes.’ The manager mopped his face with a large silk handkerchief. ‘I don’t mind telling you that I am very angry,’ he said. ‘He has been foolish, very foolish. And even though I am a friend of his father’s-’
Owen interrupted him.
‘This problem that you say he thought he was on the brink of solving: can you tell me what it was?’
‘Yes. We have been concerned for some time that we have been losing water over here in the Rosetti. Now you always lose water, there is always a leaking pipe somewhere. But this was big and continuing. We were sure that someone was tapping the pipe. But what we could not understand was that it was the unfiltered water. Now if it had been the other pipe, the filtered water, that I could have understood, for the water there costs a lot more. But the unfiltered…It comes straight from the river. We don’t do anything to it and so it is dirt cheap. It would hardly be worth anyone’s while-’
‘Just a minute,’ said Owen; you say you think someone was tapping it? And that Suleiman was on the brink of finding out who it was?’
‘So he said.’
‘And it was here in the Gamaliya?’
‘Somewhere over here. In the Rosetti, more likely. We haven’t really gone into the Gamaliya yet.’
‘Then I think,’ said Owen, ‘that I am beginning to understand. And I think we should try to find him quickly!’
‹? CKS’t?›
The workman had reported seeing Suleiman near the Khan-el-Khalil. The manager had gone there first and luckily found someone who remembered seeing Suleiman that morning. From there he had followed his trail along the Sikkel-el-Gedida to the Place-el-Kanto. In the souk there he had talked to an onion seller who had pointed him on towards the Khalig Canal. There he had hesitated for a while but then, remembering that the Water Board’s pipes ran along the bank of the canal at one point, had nobly set off along the bed.
‘Right,’ said Owen. ‘Now, you go to the police station, as fast as you can, and tell them that the Mamur Zapt needs men. At once!’
The manager set off. Georgiades, meanwhile, had run along the canal bank to where a donkey was cropping the greenery that stretched down into the canal bed. Not far away, as he had suspected, its owner was stretched out in the shade. He came hurrying back.
‘The boy came along here less than an hour ago. He was looking around him. At the banks, the man says. He says he climbed out of the canal about here and went in among the houses.’
They began to walk along the Sharia Ben-es-Suren, Georgiades taking the streets on the left, Owen the little alleyways leading down to the Canal on the right. In one of them he saw some women chatting at a fountain with pitchers balanced on their heads.
‘I am looking for a boy,’ he said urgently. ‘Leila’s friend. Have you seen him?’
‘Suleiman?’
The word passed round. People began to join them in the search. Two of them brought a match seller along who claimed to have seen him.
‘Which way?’
The man pointed towards the canal. Owen plunged in that direction. This part of the city, one of the oldest, was like a warren. Streets gave onto streets, alleyway into alleyway. They became narrower and narrower, mere tunnels beneath the walls. They turned in on themselves, back on themselves.
Emerging, to his surprise, on to a street he had already canvassed, he saw with relief the manager returning with policemen from the local station; with Mahmoud, too.
‘I was at the station when he came,’ he said. ‘I wanted a constable. But your need seems greater than mine.’
He disappeared with the constables into the alleyways.
Owen went back towards the canal. That at least was a thread of direction. He tried to keep going alongside it but some of the streets ended before they quite reached it and blocks of houses, tiny and ramshackle, were forev
er intervening. In this labyrinth a man could easily disappear: for ever.
In the distance he thought he heard a shriek.
Another block. He descended into the canal in order to get round it. As he climbed up the other side he saw a man waving urgently.
‘Effendi! Effendi!’
At the end of the street he saw Georgiades. There was a woman beside him, collapsed on the ground, rocking herself to and fro in the posture of grief. He ran towards them.
The woman looked up at him. The tear-stained face was that of Um Fatima.
‘They went out to look for him!’ she moaned.
‘Ali Khedri?’
‘And Uthman!’
‘Which way?’
‘I do not know. He seized his knife and ran out. I tried to hold him back. “Have you not done enough?” I said. But he thrust me aside. “Out of the way, woman!” he said. “This touches us all!”’
She began to rock more violently. Women rushed up to her and tried to comfort her. Some began to keen in sympathy.
Owen looked frantically around him. Minute alleyways ran away on every side.
The Water Board manager was standing there bewildered.
‘The pipes!’ said Georgiades. ‘Where are they?’
The manager looked at him mutely. Georgiades took him by the lapels and shook him. ‘The pipes! Where do they come out?’
‘Further up!’ whispered the manager. ‘In the canal. Further up!’
Georgiades jumped down into the canal bed and began running.
‘You can get there more quickly through the houses,’ said the manager, recovering.
‘Show me!’
He gave the man a push and he started running. Confidently at first, doubling through the houses, plunging unhesitatingly through the alleyways, but then, after one double too many, more slowly. Owen raced after him.
‘This one!’ he said, making for a narrow snick, almost invisible in the shadow.
They ran down it and emerged high up on the bank of the canal. To their left was a mass of crumbling fretwork, the remains of some old meshrebiya windows, covered now with creeper and weed, the heavy corbels that had once supported them still jutting out from the wall; to their right, the canal bent round a corner and just out of sight Owen could hear urgent, scrambling footsteps. Georgiades came into sight, panting.
The Last Cut mz-11 Page 18