by Wilbur Smith
The boy looked back over his shoulder. His small face showed shock and concern as he realized Penrod was gaining on him. He dropped his head and lifted his knees, quickening his pace, then swung suddenly right into the silk bazaar. Penrod swore and forced himself to go faster, knowing the twisting labyrinth of alleyways would make a perfect hiding place for the thief. He must not let him out of his sight even for a moment; the watch had special value to him. As the road narrowed, two men carrying a large wicker cage full of live turkeys and slung on a pole between them started to cross in front of the speeding boy. He dropped into a crouch and skidded below the swinging cage on the heels of his leather sandals. Bemused, the two men set down their load to stare after him. Penrod shouted a warning as he leaped over the cage, touching his hand to the dusty pavement as he landed, then springing up and after the boy again.
They raced down the long line of shallow shopfronts hung with woven silks in golds and purples, the shopkeepers quickly sweeping their goods out of the way of the charging pair. Penrod was gaining on the boy as he turned sharply right into a narrow courtyard and a sudden shaft of light struck Penrod like a blow after the deep shade of the main bazaar. The boy grabbed hold of the central fountain and used his momentum to swing around and hard left. The change in direction almost worked, but Penrod let his instincts, honed by years of triumph on the polo ground and battlefield, guide him and he pushed off from the fountain base with his left foot, throwing himself sideways and after the child. The boy was nervous now, looking back to check the progress of his pursuer too often. Old Arab men in white and green turbans raised their delicate coffee cups, shielded them with long fingers and began placing bets on the outcome of the race. The boy looked back again and stumbled into the wares of a tinsmith, scattering his goods to the ground with a crash, but before the stallholder could get his fingers on the boy’s trailing rags he was up and off again. Penrod hung to the right wall, climbing a precarious pile of thin tea chests to avoid the scattered metalwork, then hurled himself toward the boy like an eagle swooping on a rabbit. His quarry turned once more and it seemed that at last the boy’s luck had run out. This was a dead end, a gap between houses filled with rubbish and burst barrels. The boy darted left through a wooden gateway left half ajar under a sandstone arch. Penrod followed just in time to see the boy race up the stone stairs from the courtyard to a studded cedar door that led to the interior of the house. He plunged after him into the sudden darkness of the old house and followed the sound of the boy’s feet upward. A woman stepped out onto a landing and screamed, covering her face as Penrod dashed by. The stairs became more rough and unfinished as they climbed, small children and curious cats watched them from narrow doorways, then suddenly Penrod was out into the light and heat of the afternoon sun once more, on a flat rooftop dotted with storage bins and washing lines. He caught sight of the boy through the shifting cotton sheets and ran once more over the twisted and irregular jigsaw of the roof. The boy came to a sudden stop in front of him, his arms windmilling. He was at the edge of the roof, staring over the low parapet at the fatal drop back into one of the twisting alleyways. He had nowhere left to run. Between the boy and the next rooftop was a chasm some eight feet across. Penrod felt a moment of satisfaction, then he saw the boy take a step back and crouch down.
“Don’t do it, boy!” Penrod shouted, but the boy had already launched himself forward and into the air, his limbs flailing.
Penrod skidded to a halt at the edge of the roof, prepared for the sickening sight of the boy’s small body broken below him. But no, the boy had almost made it across the gap. He was hanging by one hand from a slight overhang of the opposite roof. But there was no balcony or awning beneath him to break his fall, no place for his thrashing feet to find a grip. A man shouted from below and suddenly the pit of the alley was full of faces looking upward. None of them were laughing now; they were mesmerized by the imminence of death. For a moment Penrod was tempted to leave the boy, let him fall and collect his watch from the corpse. The child obviously did not have the strength to pull himself up again; it would be only a matter of seconds until he lost his grip and fell. Plaster crumbled under the boy’s hand and he slipped an inch with a small frightened yelp. Penrod thought of Amber. How would he tell her he’d done nothing to try and save this child? He could lie, of course, but he was keeping enough secrets as it was. He sighed, turned and retreated a dozen strides from the edge of the roof, then lowered his shoulders and sprinted back. At the edge of the roof he pushed off with all his strength and speed. He heard a scream, a gabbled prayer below him, then he landed hard but cleanly on the opposite roof. The boy cried out again; the jolt of Penrod’s landing had jarred him and he lost his last desperate fingerhold. He began to fall, then a strong hand gripped his wrist and Penrod hauled him up onto the rooftop. The boy would have tried to run even then, but Penrod kept a firm hold of him, lifting him up by his thin shoulders.
The boy recovered quickly. As Penrod held him suspended in mid-air, he let out a stream of insults and complaints in Arabic. He could talk as well as he could run. But he wasted no words thanking Penrod for his rescue; instead he called on Allah to witness the cruelty of the ferengi, and then he begged every djinn now resident in Cairo to pity him and come to his aid, and defend him against the monstrous accusation of thievery that was such an insult to his honor, the honor of his forefathers and the honor of the city itself. Penrod grinned as he listened, setting the boy down halfway through this tirade and, while keeping him from escaping with a firm grip, brushing the dust from his trousers and smoothing his hair with his spare hand. Then when it seemed the boy would never run out of breath, he said, in the same language: “Empty your pockets, honored son of Cairo, or I swear by the Prophet, peace be upon him, I shall put you back where I found you, hanging off the end of the roof gables.”
The boy was suddenly silent. He looked into Penrod’s eyes and whatever he saw in them convinced him it would be better to obey rather than argue any longer. He dug his hand into his robe, retrieved the watch and presented it to Penrod on his open palm.
Penrod took it and restored it to his own pocket, but did not let the boy go.
“And the rest.”
This brought another wail of protest, but Penrod lifted the boy onto his toes so his robe pressed against his throat and began dragging him back toward the edge of the roof. The boy squealed, dug into the folds again and produced a handful of silver coins, which he flung at Penrod’s feet. Then he began to weep.
The tears of women or children did not have much effect on Penrod, but he was surprised. He would have expected a thief like this one to have a collection of small items: purses, jewelry, not a handful of freshly minted English shillings such as these. He frowned at them as they glinted in the dust among the flickering shadows of the drying cottons hanging on the wash lines above them.
The boy saw his tears were having no effect. He sniffed then began to talk again. This time he spoke of his poverty, his mother’s sickness, of how he was trying to take care of her by guiding an honored effendi like himself around Cairo. Of course, he could see that Penrod was no ordinary tourist, but he, Adnan, son of Mohammed, knew all the secret places in Cairo where a rich man might be entertained: gambling, women, drink and opium-soaked scenes of delight straight from the pages of The Arabian Nights.
Penrod shook him until he was quiet again. He thought of the way the boy showed him the watch just after he had stolen it, how at first he had run more slowly and down the wide boulevards where Penrod could follow him easily, the expression on his face early in the race as he looked back to check if Penrod was still following him.
Penrod spun around and used two hands to lift Adnan off the ground and brought his face close to the boy’s. “Who paid you to steal from me, Adnan?”
•••
The Ladies’ Veranda of the Gheziera Club was a triumph of elegant design, bringing the best of European and Egyptian architecture together to create a cool and tranquil Eden
in the heat of the afternoon. Servants in pristine white kaftans, sewn with gold thread at the throat and wrists, each wearing a dull scarlet fez, moved between the low tables carrying trays of bitter black coffee, silver teapots and mounds of delicate patisserie that would be the envy of the best Parisian hotels. For the officers and men they carried mixed drinks, beaded with moisture and crackling with ice. For the ladies, lemonade that tasted both sweet and sour and was as refreshing as bathing in pure spring water.
Lady Agatha led Amber to a pair of low sofas in a corner, shielded by the delicate fronds of growing palms. At the far end of the room a string quartet was playing something soothing and gentle, and under the hum of general conversation Amber could hear the trickling music of the central fountain, where a stone goddess poured the water of the Nile eternally into a shallow pool lined in sparkling turquoise mosaic.
As Lady Agatha ordered for them, Amber held her little reticule on her knee and observed her. Amber did not know a great deal about clothes other than she liked them, and though she had learned to dress hair in the most elaborate styles in the harem, they were not the styles approved of in Cairo. She knew enough though to tell that Lady Agatha was marvelously well dressed. The cut of her tight satin jacket suggested both sophistication and modesty while emphasizing the curves and swells of her body. Her skirts were full and long and a startling white, but their scarlet satin stripe and lace fringing gave them an original dash. What was most remarkable about her clothes, however, was the way Lady Agatha seemed to take no notice of them. Amber could not stop herself fidgeting and itching. Her corset pinched her, the lace around her neck scratched. She was forever trying to loosen one thing or tighten something else but whatever she did, she could never get comfortable. Her twin, Saffron, was of little or no help. She wore breeches and long shirts she borrowed from her husband when they were on the trail in the wilds of East Africa, and for formal occasions would produce from her trunk some elaborate evening dress of her own design. These dresses drew gasps of wonder and envy from every woman in the room, but Saffron seemed as easy in them as she did in her traveling gear. The style, however, did not suit Amber at all. She had once tried one on, but when she’d emerged from the dressing room in the hotel, Saffron had laughed so hard at her she had given herself hiccups. So Amber was condemned to the dressmakers of Bond Street and Parisian-trained guardians of couture plying their needles in the European quarter of Cairo.
“Now we may have our talk,” Lady Agatha said as the waiter brought them their lemonade, cakes and tea, served in the English manner.
For a while Amber listened happily. Lady Agatha knew all sorts of interesting details from Penrod’s early career and Amber was fascinated by her account of his fighting retreat from the disaster at El Obeid, and of the reception he’d received when he returned to Cairo. Amber forgot about her awkward clothes, and the suspicious laughter of Lady Agatha’s friends, and told her stories about Khartoum, Penrod’s time as a captive of Osman Atalan and the humiliating privations he endured.
“And now we are to be married. I don’t think anyone has ever been happier than I am.”
Lady Agatha put her head on one side. “My dear girl! How romantic!” She seemed to hesitate. “Should I say nothing? Oh, I wish I could stay silent and let you enjoy this happiness.”
Amber thought suddenly of the cobra she had once stumbled upon in the scrub just outside Khartoum, how it raised itself and stared at her, swaying its beautiful head from side to side. She felt the same instinctive, sickly fear she had felt then, the same sense of being frozen and helpless.
“Amber—I do hope I may call you Amber, my dear—I must ask you: are you sure you know Major Ballantyne quite as well as you think you do?”
“Of c-course I am,” Amber replied faintly.
Lady Agatha’s voice became a soft purr. “I am glad. Then you will not be surprised by anything he has said and done. You must know it all already! You see, he told me everything in confidence while you were in England seeing to the publication of your thrilling little book. Of course nothing I could say about Penrod would surprise you, dear, but for the sake of my conscience I must make sure you are aware of what he said to me about your family, and about your beautiful, tragic older sister in particular. Rebecca is her name, is it not?”
For the next twenty minutes Agatha talked in her lovely, lilting voice while Amber’s world collapsed around her. Each word she spoke pierced Amber’s naive heart like a dagger forged of the finest Damascene steel. When Agatha finally stopped speaking and let go of her hands, Amber stood up at once. Agatha looked like a pretty cat on the sofa with her cakes and cream, her ease and elegance.
“I . . . I must go,” Amber said.
“I think that’s best,” Lady Agatha replied without even bothering to look up, instead admiring her manicured fingernails. Her voice was cold.
Amber turned and hurried blindly toward the door, unable to comprehend what she had just heard, but at the same time believing every word. She had to get away before she burst into tears in front of all these people. She almost succeeded, but her fashionable little boots betrayed her again and she slipped on the marble tiles near the threshold of the lobby. One of the waiters reached out an arm for her, but he was late and clumsy and they fell together, the tray of empty glasses he was carrying in his other hand crashing to the floor. Even the string quartet stopped playing to turn and look at them as Amber struggled to her feet.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .” She pushed away the hands that reached out to help her, then ran down the steps, out into the bright sunlight and into the first waiting carriage. She managed to ask for Shepheard’s Hotel, then fell back against the upholstery.
From the veranda of the Gheziera Club the cream of Anglo-Egyptian society watched her go, followed by the low, musical laughter of Lady Agatha.
•••
When Penrod heard that a beautiful blonde English lady had paid Adnan to steal his watch and lead him on a good long chase, his heart went cold.
He let the boy go and headed for the dark well of the staircase, which would lead him back to the street. Adnan scooped the coins from the dust, then followed him.
“She said it was for a joke! You British like jokes?” Adnan was trying out his English now. His voice echoed surprisingly as they descended into the shadows. It was strangely quiet after the noise of the street.
“Get away from me!” Penrod snapped at him, but the boy stuck close, skipping down the steps behind him. Penrod reached the bottom of the stairs and let himself out into the main courtyard.
“You will not have me arrested? Perhaps you think it was a good joke, too?”
The crowd who had watched the chase and rescue from below now crowded around them. Adnan received a series of gentle cuffs around the top of his head and Penrod was praised and congratulated in Arabic, English and French. He heard himself called a warrior, a miracle, unseen hands brushed dust from his uniform, people grasped his wrists, patted his back, blessed him. Penrod kept moving forward until the crowd parted and he turned into the main bazaar. He saw nothing, heard nothing until another hand grabbed his sleeve. His impatience overwhelmed him and he lifted his fist to strike the offender.
“Hey, master, be good to Yakub!”
Penrod lowered his arm. His vision cleared a little and he realized he was looking into the face of an old friend and ally. Yakub had guided him across the desert to Khartoum, and risked his life to help Penrod escape the slavery of Osman Atalan. Penrod managed to nod a greeting. Yakub examined his face and frowned, then he turned his attention to Adnan, who still jogged along at Penrod’s side. It seemed news of the chase had already reached Yakub’s ears.
“You stole from Ababdan Riji? Are you mad, you little frog? Why do you think we name him ‘One who never turns back’?”
“I was not told his name,” Adnan said sulkily.
“What shall I do with him, master?” Yakub asked. “Throw him in the river? Have him shut up in the jail?
If the other thieves don’t eat him, the cockroaches will.”
“Give him honest work, if he can do it,” Penrod told him. His voice sounded cracked and hollow. “But leave me alone now, both of you.”
The shopkeepers along the narrow way raised their coffee cups to him, but Penrod ignored them all. He pushed aside the offered bolts of silk and thought back instead to the last night he had spent with Lady Agatha. It was only a month ago, while Amber was still in England. Agatha had suggested they smoke opium together, and he, languorous after the heat of their love-making, had agreed. It had been beautiful to watch her, her heavy white breasts swinging free under her silk dressing gown as she carefully prepared the drug; a little brown bubbling ball in the cup of the pipe. He had thought the drug overrated, although it had induced a pleasant haze and introduced a slower, more sensual note to their caresses. It was easier to be slow, to savor her full, ripe body under its influence. But then . . . What had happened then? They had lain together in the cool shadows drinking a fine old brandy and he had told her about his adventures in Khartoum, how he had seduced the eldest daughter of David Benbrook, Rebecca, taking her virginity as easily as one might pluck a ripe fig from a wayside tree. He had told Agatha that when he realized Rebecca had also made love to Ryder Courtney, he had decided he was under no obligation to her. Since then, of course, Rebecca had become whore to the Mahdi himself, then after his death, to Penrod’s blood enemy, Osman Atalan. Had he used that word, ‘whore’? Yes, he had.
He walked back along the boulevard toward Zamalek Island and the Gheziera Club, but the sights and sounds were lost to him. He could think only of that night, talking to Lady Agatha, telling her everything. What a fool he had been! He knew Lady Agatha was a jealous snake, but the drug had fatally loosened his tongue. Penrod understood Rebecca had performed the office of concubine to save her sister’s and her own lives, but he had not explained that to Lady Agatha. No, instead he had said: “Osman Atalan can have the whore, and I will take the virgin bride.” His mouth went dry. Had Lady Agatha flinched when he said that? Perhaps. It was possible that Agatha had still expected to be Penrod’s wife herself until he had uttered that fatal remark. Shortly afterward Amber had arrived back in Cairo to celebrate her birthday with her twin. She was flushed with the success of her book, suddenly wealthy in her own right and so obviously in love with him. They had announced their engagement. Penrod had not made any effort to warn Agatha.