The Donkey-Vous

by Michael Pearce

  “You are sure? Have you tried?”

  The mother could not manage to speak. Her fingers tightened round one of the bottles and she shook her head determinedly.

  “You see,” said Owen, as gently as he could, “they go on asking for money until they are stopped.”

  “What have you done to stop them?” asked the girl.

  “Too little. That is why I am trying now.”

  “It is too risky,” said the mother.

  “I shall not press you.”

  Two small boys ran up and plunged into the basket. The mother tried ineffectively to stop them. The girl leaned across swiftly, grabbed both of them and hauled them back.

  “One biscuit each!” she said warningly. “Then you must go away!”

  The boys, clearly used to sisterly firmness, stood obediently, received their sticky biscuit and ran off shouting happily into the bamboo thicket.

  “They are good boys,” said Georgiades.

  “Yes,” said the mother, with automatic pride. “They are growing up so quickly.”

  “We have not told them,” said Rosa. “They think our father is away on business.”

  “Sometimes they ask,” said the mother. “Sometimes they ask when he is coming back.”

  Rosa laid her hand on her mother’s. Although it was smaller, not so long, it was recognizably the same hand.

  “Do you take the money yourself?” asked Owen.

  “I did at first.” The mother’s voice was barely audible.

  “And now?”

  The woman did not reply.

  “We have made other arrangements,” said Rosa.

  “Can you tell me what they are?”

  “No.” Rosa looked him fiercely in the face.

  “I wondered if you had seen them,” Owen said to the mother. “I thought perhaps you could tell me what they looked like.”

  “It was dark,” said the mother faintly.

  “It is always dark,” said the girl.

  “And always the same place?”

  “It has changed,” said the mother, “twice.”

  “You must have talked with them a little. Is there nothing you can tell me? I ask only to stop them taking others.”

  “You are not to speak like that,” said Rosa. “It is hard enough for her already.”

  The mother gently waved her daughter down.

  “I would tell you if I could. I haven’t been there for some time. The first time there was a man. I could not see his face. It was dark and he held a galabeah over it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Only that if I wished to see my husband again I must pay. I told him,” her voice faltered, “I told him all. About our mother. The business. I said, ‘I will bring you what I have.’ He pressed me but I could say no more. Then he told me to go away and come again the next day. And so I did. When I came again there was another man. He questioned me fiercely but seemed satisfied. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘bring us money every three weeks. Do not miss a payment or it will go hard with your husband.’ I said: ‘If I pay you, will you give me back my husband?’ ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘We have no quarrel with your husband, nor with you. Except that when you have finally paid and get back your husband, then you must go. You must leave Cairo and go. Egypt is Arab and is not for you.’”

  The woman lifted her head and looked Owen in the eyes for the first time.

  “He would not have said that if he had not meant to return my husband. That is why I know he is still alive.”

  The men had put on their boots and were tuning their instruments. The line of girls in their fine lawn chemisettes was starting to form.

  “Go away,” said Rosa, “and do not come back!”

  There came a squeal from inside the bamboo thicket. The mother hesitated, muttered a goodbye, and then as another squeal came dived after it.

  Owen and Georgiades turned to go.

  “We don’t know he’s still alive,” said Owen, as they set off along the path. “They may just be conning her.”

  There was a noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Rosa was about three yards behind.

  “Don’t ever say that again!” she said. “Don’t ever say that! Don’t you dare even whisper it! She still believes.”

  They stood abashed and awkward.

  Rosa came up to them.

  “You keep out of it!” she said to Owen. “You keep right out of it!”

  ***

  Owen called Berthelot in to the Bab el Khalk. This was to be no cozy tête-à-tête in the hotel. He wanted him in his office.

  “Monsieur!”

  They shook hands.

  Nikos went out again, leaving the door open. It was late morning and the shutters of Owen’s room had been closed to keep out the sun. That made it airless if the door was closed. Having the door open had another advantage. Nikos could hear.

  There was something different about Berthelot. After a moment Owen realized what it was. Berthelot was braced.

  He sat down expectantly on the edge of his chair while Owen took his hat and stick and put them in the corner. Owen came back to his desk and sat down.

  “I have asked you to come, Monsieur, because I hope you may be able to help us.”

  Berthelot suddenly looked relieved.

  “Thank God!” he said.

  “Comment?”

  “Your pardon, Monsieur. I was afraid that…I thought that perhaps you were going to tell me…my uncle…”

  “No, no.”

  Berthelot’s relief seemed genuine.

  “Mille pardons. It is just that—”

  “Nothing new has come through.”

  Berthelot visibly relaxed.

  “Thank God.” He took out his handkerchief and made to mop his face, then wiped his hands instead. Owen switched on the fan. The great blades above began to whirl noisily, making all the papers on the desk flutter.

  Berthelot stopped his wiping and looked at Owen.

  “It is strange, n’est-ce pas, to be thankful for that? But one is grateful for small mercies.”

  “Not so small.”

  Berthelot nodded.

  “They will deal in the end,” said Owen.

  “Will they? They do not seem anxious to.”

  “That is part of the dealing.”

  “If one could be sure—”

  “I think you can be sure.”

  “But if they should lose their heads—”

  “This lot,” said Owen, “are unlikely to lose their heads.”

  Perhaps some bitterness came through, for Berthelot gave him a quick glance.

  “Of course!” he said. “You are against us dealing. That is proper of you. But…” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t mind if you deal.”

  “You don’t?” Berthelot was surprised. “But I thought…the first time…”

  “I don’t mind you dealing. It’s just that I’m still going to try to catch them.”

  “Of course, of course.” Berthelot looked at his hands. He was still holding his handkerchief. He put it away. “Our interests are different,” he said. “My chief interest is in getting my uncle freed. After that, well, anything I can do to help.”

  “Tell me about your dealings with Izkat Bey.”

  Berthelot looked startled.

  “That is nothing to do with the—the disappearance of my uncle.”

  “Tell me about them, nevertheless.”

  “They are perfectly normal business dealings. Confidential, of course.” He stopped. “Are you saying—? Well, I did wonder about it myself. But then I couldn’t see why—Well, only in general terms. And, besides, how could they have known about it?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Very well. Only it is in confide
nce, of course. Normally, I wouldn’t—but in the circumstances—”

  “Yes,” said Owen. “In the circumstances.”

  “Well—how much do you know?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Very well. Izkat Bey is helping us to buy some land. I won’t say where the land is—”

  “On the other side of the river.”

  “Well—”

  “Sidky’s land.”

  “You obviously know all about it.”

  “Why Izkat Bey?”

  “He was our contact.”

  “With Sidky?”

  “Of course.”

  “Other people would have done for that. Why Izkat Bey?”

  “He was also a contact with other people.”

  “I won’t ask you to name them.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you their names.”

  “Just tell me the nature of their interest.”

  Berthelot looked puzzled.

  “Their interest wouldn’t be commercial, would it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought the person we were talking about wasn’t the sort of person to have commercial interests?”

  “Well, call it a financial interest.”

  “He expected to make some money out of it?”

  “Yes. Not out of our side, of course, the building side. But when it was up and running. Privately, of course. Very privately.”

  “He wouldn’t be running it himself?”

  “Oh no!” Berthelot was shocked. “He couldn’t possibly.” He hesitated, and then said, “That was, in fact, where we came in. You see, we could offer not just construction facilities and not just the necessary finance, but also a management team. We provided a complete package.”

  “What was the nature of the management team?”

  “Well, they had to know how to run a business like that. They had to have the Khed—the confidence of the person we are talking about. That wasn’t so easy, actually, because he knows a lot of the people in the business and knows them only too well.”

  “Tell me about the business.”

  “You know about that.”

  “Tell me all the same. The scale, for a start.”

  “Oh, big.”

  “How big?”

  “Well, bigger than Anton’s.”

  “Anton’s?” Owen tried too late to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  There was a little silence.

  “You didn’t know? We were going to Anton for the management team. His syndicate would be putting up some of the necessary finance. We didn’t need them, actually, but we thought it was best to cut them in. Local interests, you know. It always works better that way. It’s bad to upset rivals. And then the Khedive knew him and our contact in Cannes knew him.”

  “Was that where it started—Cannes?”

  “Yes. Our contact got to know—well, the person we were talking about—when he went there last year. She saw the nature of his interests and got talking. Whether she suggested it or he suggested it, I don’t know. We came in later. She approached us. By then it was a proposition.”

  “That you should—”

  “Build a salon. Acquire the land, construct a building, independent and selfstanding, but equipped with all facilities, install a management team. Obviously a company would have to be created to run it but we weren’t really part of that, except that we have to have somebody to deal with for contractual purposes.”

  “Izkat Bey?”

  “It had to be secret. No one too close to the Khedive. Anyway, it had to be foreign.”

  “To take advantage of the Capitulations?”

  “That’s right. It’s a foreign-registered company.”

  “Where is it registered?”

  “Montenegro.”

  “Montenegro!”

  “Yes. It has the advantage that it’s claimed by about a dozen countries, all of which would be glad to advance their claims by offering the protection of their nationality to any company registered there and operating internationally.”

  “Let’s get this right. You build it, someone else owns it, and someone else altogether runs it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How does our friend come in, the person we were speaking of?”

  “He inspired it in the first place. The idea may not have come from him, it may have come from our contact in Cannes, but he certainly encouraged it.”

  “What does he get out of it?”

  “He would probably play there himself incognito. But the main point is to make money. Apparently he’s short of cash—”

  “He’s always short of cash.”

  “Well, apparently he can’t move a finger financially, it’s all tied up by the British. Before Cromer came, the Khedive could do what he liked—”

  “He bloody bankrupted the country.”

  “He can’t do that now. In fact he can’t do anything now, not financially, I mean, and he’s sore about it. He wants to find a way of bypassing the controls and the only way he can do that is by some sort of secret operation such as this. He gets a steady income flow, unaccounted for, in return for his influence. He says it’s good, anyway, to have some enterprises in the country which are Egyptian—”

  “Egyptian? I thought you said it was registered in Montenegro?”

  “He thinks of it as Egyptian. Anyway, not British, that’s the important thing.”

  “It’s a bit risky. It wouldn’t do him any good at all if this came out. The Khedive into gambling! Bloody hell! This is a Moslem country. Gambling clubs are officially banned.”

  “I know. That’s why I thought—when my uncle disappeared. I thought someone had found out and wanted to stop it. I half expected them to say that in the note.”

  “How would they find out?”

  Berthelot shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Egypt is a funny country. Half the people are doing things in private and all the people are telling everyone else about it.”

  Owen sat thinking.

  “The people who would object most are the Moslem fundamentalists.”

  “Yes.” Berthelot looked at him. “Does that fit?”

  Owen did not reply.

  He became aware that Berthelot was casting longing glances in the direction of the jug of water which, as in all Egyptian offices, stood in the window to cool. He went across and passed him some water. With the shutters closed there was little draught and the water was tepid.

  “Tell me,” he said, as he handed the glass to Berthelot, “who told you about Anton?”

  “Our contact in Cannes.”

  “How did you know where to find him?”

  Berthelot looked puzzled. “Comment?”

  “When you got here. The city was new to you. How did you find his address?”

  “I took an arabeah,” said Berthelot, still puzzled.

  “Can you remember which? No? Well, it’s not surprising. Did you ever send messages to Anton?”

  “Yes. I—but nothing important.”

  “Who took the messages?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “The hotel messenger?”

  “Yes. But that was only—a simple note, suggesting an

  appointment.”

  “It would be enough.”

  Berthelot was silent. Then he said: “I wish to help you. I sent other messages.”

  “How?”

  “By dragoman.”

  “Which dragoman?”

  “I used two. I thought it was better that way.”

  “Which two?”

  “Osman. Abdul Hafiz.”

  “Why them?”

  “They seemed sober and reliable. Discreet.”

  “Yes,” said Owen, “they are that.”
/>
  ***

  “I need some advice from you,” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley.

  “Anything I can do—”

  “Do I pay? Do I just pay them and get it over?”

  Owen was brought up with a jolt.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes. I was thinking.”

  “I’ve been doing some of that,” said Lucy. “I’ve been doing a hell of a lot.”

  “I don’t know that I am the person you should ask.”

  “But I’m asking you. Hello? Are you still there? These phones are a bit funny.”

  “I’m still here. I still don’t think I’m the person you should ask. Is no one from the Consulate helping you?”

  “They’re all helping me. That’s why I need some independent advice.”

  “I’m not independent.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “If I were you and not the Mamur Zapt, I’d pay. Let the Mamur Zapt sort out his own problems.”

  “Thanks, love. I knew you were unreliable.”

  There was a pause.

  “Are you still there?” asked Owen.

  “Yes. The trouble is, the Mamur Zapt’s problems are not just his own problems. If the French had refused to pay, Daddy might not have been taken. If I pay, someone else might be taken.”

  “Your father’s your problem. Leave the other ones to someone else.”

  “You don’t help at all,” said Lucy.

  ***

  “Someone ought to be giving her advice,” said Owen.

  “No, they shouldn’t,” said Paul. “No one ought to give advice on this sort of thing.”

  “Christ, she’s in a foreign country and she’s on her own.”

  “That’s what everyone says and they give her advice. And it doesn’t help.”

  “She asked me for advice and I’m the wrong person.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Will you help her?”

  “Look,” said Paul, “I may be the wrong person, too. I shall take a broad political view. It’s my job. The political view is clear. It would look bad if we gave in.”

  “Suppose we gave in and people didn’t see we’d given in?”

  “How do we manage that?”

  “How the hell do I know? You’re the political expert.”

  ***

  Owen was having difficulty with Mahmoud. He had been trying to contact him all morning. He had finally caught him over the telephone by pretending to be someone else. Mahmoud had been most unwilling to meet. Eventually, ungraciously, he had agreed to come out for a cup of coffee.