‘We know him. A good man of business!’
‘That is why it will be done through him. Not everyone, I will let you in on a secret, at the Bab-el-Khalk, is good with money, and I say that with confidence, for I myself am not good with money – or so our Accounts department tell me.’
The men from the bank laughed.
‘In return, I will tell you a secret, Captain Owen. My boss doesn’t understand a thing about money. But what he does understand is the politics of money. And I think you are like that. For the people at the top may not know much about the details but what they understand only too well is that all in the end, all finance, is a matter of politics, and all politics is in the end a matter of finance.’
As they were going away, Ali Osman said: ‘Is that true, do you think? That in the end all politics is a matter of finance; and all finance is a matter of politics?’
‘More or less, yes.’
They walked on in silence for a little while. Then Ali Osman said: ‘You know, Owen, I’m not sure I want to be in charge of the family finances, or of the family either!’
Owen clasped him round the shoulders.
‘Why Ali Osman, I think we’ll make you fit to run the Kewfik estate yet.’
Owen had invited Layla to come and see him. Layla responded with alacrity; not just because she sensed it was to do with Marie, but also because she quite liked the idea of being, as she supposed, at the centre of things. In fact, when she arrived he had just been phoned by the Consul-General and was tied up in a conversation with him.
‘Sorry,’ he said to Layla. ‘Would you mind waiting, just for a minute? It’s important or I wouldn’t bother.’
Layla sat quietly for a while but then began to move around straightening things and looking at others, especially the books. Mostly they were government reports, bound in the usual grey government paper. Layla picked out one and began to read. It was the Annual Report of the Sanitation Department, which was important in a place like Cairo, and Owen had been meaning to get around to reading it for quite some time. Layla was curious about the way government worked and soon became absorbed.
Nikos came in and stood looking at her, irritated by her presence.
He returned some of the things she had touched to their original places. Layla barely looked up from the report. A moment later, without registering her actions, she picked up some of the papers Nikos had moved and put them back where she had placed them.
Nikos looked at her in fury.
‘There are principles, you know! If you move things, I shan’t be able to tell him where to find them.’
‘Pardon?’ said Layla, noting his disapproval.
‘There is a system!’ said Nikos.
‘Oh, sorry! It just looked a bit of a mess, that was all.’
‘A woman cannot be expected to understand these things,’ said Nikos loftily.
‘Understand what?’ said Layla, closing her book.
‘This is not women’s work. It is men’s work.’
Which, in Egypt, it was.
‘If I was doing it,’ said Layla thoughtfully, ‘I’d put the most recent reports over here. Then you’d be able to put his hands on them straightaway.’
‘Well, you’re not doing it,’ said Nikos. ‘I am!’
‘But if I were—’ said Layla.
‘What’s all this?’ asked Owen, coming in.
‘She’s telling me how to do my job!’ said Nikos.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Layla, ‘I’m just making a few suggestions for improvements.’
Nikos stalked out.
‘I’ve hurt his feelings,’ said Layla contritely.
‘They get hurt regularly. He’ll survive.’
‘Do you think being a secretary is a man’s work?’ asked Layla. ‘I’m in two minds. In some ways I think it’s a man’s work. It always has been a man’s job, at least in the Ottoman Empire. But should it be? It’s a job women could do just as well, if not better. But then, if men didn’t do jobs like this, what jobs would they do? They can’t all be bricklayers.’
‘I ask myself what job I would do,’ said Owen. ‘I wouldn’t be much good as a bricklayer, but then, I don’t think I would be much good as a secretary, either.’
‘All you can be is a boss,’ said Layla. ‘Oh, you poor thing!’
Owen laughed.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘there is something I want to ask you.’
‘Ask away.’
‘You said Marie’s boy friend had come back to Cairo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where will I find him?’
‘I can’t tell you that,’ protested Layla indignantly. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’
‘It might help find Marie.’
‘I don’t think he knows.’
‘All the same. I’d like to talk to him.’
‘Well, I don’t think I can help you.’
‘Why not?’
Layla considered.
‘It’d be a bit like betrayal,’ she said.
‘It might help us to find Marie.’
‘Well …’
‘Are you more of a friend of his than you are Marie’s?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Then why won’t you tell me where he is? I’m not going to hurt him. All I want to do is talk to him.’
‘We know that kind of talk!’
‘I’m not going to knock him about, if that’s what you are thinking.’
‘Well, no. I don’t suppose you are. But he might say something and you might pass it on, and then there might be someone who would knock him about.’
‘It happens more rarely than you might think.’
‘It happens more commonly than you, away in your office, might suppose.’
‘All I want to do is talk to him. And because what he has to say might affect our chance of finding Marie, I shall be very careful about how I use the information. And if I tell anyone else about what he has said, which I may not do, they’ll know it’s on a confidential basis and that I will hold them to account if any word gets out. The whole point of any inquiry of this sort is that it has to be done very quietly. Otherwise there may be repercussions to Marie.’
‘I don’t like it being secret. It worries me.’
‘It worries me, too, and I don’t like having to work like that. But in a thing like kidnapping you have to. The biggest risk is that word gets out, of where you are and what you are going for. Because then they might panic and kill the person you’re trying to save.’
‘Why don’t you just offer them money?’
‘We are offering them money.’
‘Offer them more!’
‘We will.’
‘They’ll take it, won’t they?’
‘They’ll ask for more.’
‘Give them more.’
‘We will. But one day there’ll come a point when we can’t or when it doesn’t work. They’ll get frightened and then run away. First dumping the evidence. Look, I don’t believe Marie’s friend is necessarily involved. But I do think it’s more than likely that he’s got some idea of the people who are. We want to know, and we need to know quickly, so I need to know what he knows.’
She was silent. Then she said, ‘I hate this.’
‘So do I, but sometimes it’s necessary.’
‘I used to think I wouldn’t mind being Mamur Zapt. Now I don’t want to.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘I used to blame the British for doing things like this. But it would happen if the British were no longer here, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, it would. The only difference would be that it would be an Egyptian doing what I’m doing.’
‘That would be better.’
‘It wouldn’t be any easier, though. I have a friend who is in the Parquet. Sometimes he has to do things like this and he doesn’t like it either. He agrees with you, but he also agrees with me. He hates this kind of work.’
‘Why does he do it then? Why do you do
it?’
Owen shrugged.
‘Because someone has to do it, I suppose you’ll say. Whether they’re Egyptian or whether they’re English. You should meet my friend.’
‘I would like to.’
‘Perhaps I’ll introduce you. Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll introduce you myself.’
Layla sat thinking. Then she said: ‘There is a club they used to go to, it is called Serpent of the Nile. They used to go there because it played their kind of music. You know, traditional, folk music, that sort of thing. It’s not the usual kind of club. It’s not a student club but a more grown-up sort of club. That’s why Marie and Ali liked it. They weren’t interested in the usual student music. This music was special.’
Owen knew, or thought he knew, every club in Cairo. They were important to the life of the city. Restaurants often doubled up as clubs, and regulars, nearly always men, congregated there every evening to smoke (usually bubble pipes) and play dominoes. There was no drinking of course, Egypt being a Muslim country. There were less salubrious places, mostly frequented by the poorer kind of tourist (the richer kind went to the hotels where sometimes they could sit outside on a verandah and drink cocktails) and by British soldiers. These were policed by military policemen, who ejected troublemakers, at least they did after three in the morning. Juke boxes were creeping in and sometimes music was provided by a singer, usually a black Nubian lady or a transsexual Levantine, but there weren’t many bands. The great thing to be said for the men’s clubs was that they were usually half underground and therefore dark and cool.
There were also very, very many student clubs, which were of quite a different sort, serving only fruit juice or tea. Popular drinks brands were only just creeping in and what was mainly drunk was a sickly lemonade. The tables were long and low and served mainly as gathering points for conversations.
The main business of the student clubs was talk: usually political, often radical and sometimes revolutionary. The police kept an eye on them, not because the behaviour was disorderly but because the talk was. Among the British civil servants there were two opinions about them: one was that they fomented trouble and should be put down; the other that they siphoned off trouble and diverted it into colourful but harmless outlets. Owen inclined to the latter view.
Nikos kept a list of the most insurrectionary ones, but it was always having to be updated as student organisations came and went with astonishing speed.
The Serpent of the Nile was a new one on Owen. It was small and tucked away up a side street and to get to it you went down a flight of steps. Since it was a student club, Owen had taken the precaution of going with the son of an Egyptian colleague, which had the additional advantage that he knew Shawquat and would be able to identify him. Shawquat was not actually there when Owen arrived but his companion said that he might come later: ‘when things hotted up’. The place was already crowded. The son said that it was because there would be a good singer tonight. He added that they were in luck because it was a singer whom the young Shawquat especially favoured. He went to most of her performances. She was, said his companion, not the tummy-wriggling popular performer of the lower clubs but a proper alimeh or awalim, or ‘learned female’. Owen was pleased because you didn’t often get the chance to hear a true awalim. This was music for the connoisseur.
She was tall and thin and dressed in the traditional black, although without a veil. From all around the room when she came in there were appreciative cries. She acknowledged them modestly. No showwoman she.
There was a small dais at one end of the room, on to which she climbed. A troupe of musicians followed her in and sat at the back. There was an ’ood, a kind of lute, played with a plectrum (made from a vulture’s feather), and a nay, which required considerable skill in the playing, and also a rikk, a small tambourine.
She looked around the room imperiously and then began to sing, in the quavering voice, and with the distinct enunciation, of the true Arabic singer, precise and not overdone. What she was singing, Owen realised after a moment, were traditional Arab folksongs.
Oh, you beauties of Alexandria!
Your walk over the furniture is alluring.
You wear the Kashmir shawl,
And your lips are sweet as sugar.
Owen always liked the walk-over-the furniture bit, which was a product of the usual Lane translation, and which he took to be referring to the carpets being on the floor and not, as they usually were, on the wall.
She had just started her second song when Owen’s companion gave him a nudge. A young man had just come in and pushed himself through to the front row of the audience. He was sitting right beside the tambourine player, whom he seemed to know. They exchanged glances and then, for a moment, the incomer was allowed a pat on the tambourine.
The awalim sang several songs, each rapturously received, and then stepped down off the dais and went out. As she passed Shawquat she touched him lightly on the head.
She came back later and sang some more songs, each one traditional and beautifully sung. The audience was in raptures and even Owen found himself drawn in. This time, as she left, she touched the young Shawquat on the shoulder. It was an affectionate rather than an inviting smile.
And then, as she walked out of the room she turned, crossed the room to where Owen was sitting and unmistakably beckoned him. This surprised those sitting around Owen and there was a little stir. The awalim ignored it, however, and went out. As she went, she glanced back, and Owen knew he was meant to follow.
The room was tiny and already occupied. As they entered, a woman stood up and threw a shawl around the awalim’s shoulders. From somewhere she produced a glass of water and then stood behind the awalim gently massaging her temples and throat.
The awalim looked up at Owen.
‘The Kewfik girl,’ she said, ‘she is alive and well. The old women of the souk send this message.’
‘Tell them I am grateful,’ said Owen. ‘I am grateful to them, and to you for bearing the message, and also to Allah, if the message be true.’
‘Are you?’ said the awalim.
‘Am I …?’ said Owen, slightly taken aback, it was as if she was challenging him.
‘To Allah?’
‘To a general Allah,’ said Owen.
The awalim smiled.
‘That, I think, is different. I, too, bless a general Allah,’ said the awalim.
‘Don’t we all, when it comes down to it?’
‘Very probably. Nevertheless, I am grateful to whichever of the Allahs it is from whom the message comes. Truly grateful, for I feared for the Kewfik girl.’
‘Why?’
‘Does one have to explain why one fears for a child?’
‘To me, you do. I have no child.’
‘Will it offend you, if I say that I am sorry?’
The awalim smiled and took another sip of water.
Then she said: ‘The girl is not here.’
‘But the Shawquat boy is.’
‘He is always here.’
‘Why?’
‘He likes the old music. He would like to sing it. He has a good ear but his voice is not good enough.’
‘He would like to learn it?’
She made a gesture of dismissal.
‘It is out of the question.’
‘And the girl: would she like to learn it also?’
‘I think she is more interested in the boy than in the music.’
‘Where he goes, she goes?’
The awalim nodded.
‘In fact, she has a nice voice, but she does not wish to use it. It does not matter. Only some can be singers, but all can listen.’
‘Apart from this boy, she came here to listen?’
‘To learn to listen. It is not something you do casually. My friend in the souk wants her to learn the music properly. The old music. Unless new people learn, young people, the knowledge will fade away. When I go, who will sing after me? The young Shawquat, for example. But his mind is
so full of other things as well that he gets confused and will lose his way. This is true of the young in general. They are confused and so the country loses its way.’
She stood up, and her attendant removed the shawl from around her shoulder.
‘It is good to talk to you,’ she said. ‘I do not often have the chance to talk much about such things. I talk, of course, with my friend, and with other awalim but they talk in the same old way. This is why my friend likes to talk to the young. Fresh young minds see things freshly. She says that is what will change Egypt.’
Owen stood outside the club waiting for Ali Shawquat to come out. He was thinking, first about the music, the awalim’s singing. It stayed with him; he began to realise how unusual and beautiful it was. He had never heard singing like it before. Mahmoud had sometimes spoken about it – he and Aisha were lovers of the old, traditional folk music, and before their children came on the scene they used to go regularly to hear it – but Owen had never quite taken it in. Somehow, he had gone through Egypt deaf. Of course, he had heard music going on in the background, over the radio, in the clubs, among men working in the fields or on the dahabeeahs sailing on the river, but in the background and he had never paid much attention. But the music he had heard tonight deserved attention. And not just for its qualities as music but for what it was saying. It was talking about the country Egypt had been but also about the country it could become. This was political stuff. How could he, who lived for Egypt’s political stuff, have missed it? It had been there, deep down, all the time and he had not been listening. It was a great, buried Egypt beginning to stir.
The other thing he noticed as he stood there waiting for Ali Shawquat to emerge was how much it had to do with women. It was there in what the awalim sang. But it was also there in other things, in the many things that women did that sustained the life of the community. You never saw them behind their burkas but they were an invisible army working away all the time. You saw them going about their business, hidden behind their long veils, carrying their baskets of vegetables, often on their head, their sticks and circles of bread, their children on one hip, a great pot of water on the other. An unknown multitude behind their burkas and it was they who carried life on.
The Women of the Souk Page 7