‘Good, that’s settled. Wait here a minute. I have something for you.’ When she came back, she handed me one of the photographs. When I turned it over there was a lipstick imprint on the back: perhaps that was fashionable all of a sudden. ‘Make sure that no one else sees it. I don’t know why I’m taking such a silly risk.’
‘No risk at all. It’ll be in my shirt pocket every minute of the day.’
‘You don’t love me, or anything messy like that, do you?’
‘No, not yet. If it becomes inevitable, do you want me to run away?’
‘Yes, Charlie. As quickly as you can.’
There’s nothing quite like being told, is there?
I did some shopping on Main Street: ordered a couple of linen suits made up. They would be delivered to the Kettle before I left the next day. An MP spotted me in the street, called me over and demanded to see my leave chit. After he handed it back to me he reached into the back of his Land-Rover and gave me a pickaxe handle.
‘Don’t go out without one of these again, sir. If you gets into trouble, some poor bugger like me has to risk his life getting you out again.’
I hadn’t looked at the problem that way. ‘I won’t, Sergeant. I don’t know why I overlooked it this time.’
‘You’re not the first, sir. Hand it back in at your gate; then someone else gets the use of it.’ It was a battered old thing with a sweat-marked grip. I didn’t like the look of the stains around its head, and felt awkward carrying it into the back of the Kettle.
Yassine grimaced when he saw it. ‘You must have joined the British Army, Charlie.’
‘Take the fucking thing away, David, and burn it. I can’t stand the sight of it.’
‘Good, we are still agreeing on some things.’
‘We have business interests in common, and agree on most things. Have you fixed up your business ties to Bozey yet?’
‘Your Mr Borland? Yes. He drives a good bargain.’
‘You mean a hard bargain.’
‘No, I mean a good bargain. The sort that leaves both sides feeling satisfied.’
‘I trust him.’
‘So do I; and we trust each other, despite the politics all around us.’
‘If your boy could oblige with a couple of beers, I shall drink to that, David.’
He did, and we did. Yassine asked me, ‘Are you going out again?’
‘Not tonight. I thought I’d stop in, and watch the floor show . . . I presume that the back door will stay open, and the show will go on?’
‘In the best Hollywood tradition? Of course.’
‘So I shall eat and drink here tonight if that’s OK? And also pay my whack. That would make me feel good – a part of the place.’
‘As you wish, Charlie. Tonight will be a good night to stay in.’ I thought he was talking about the floor show.
He bloody wasn’t.
The riot started at about nine in the evening, and rocked its way around Ismailia for the next few hours. They stayed clear of the main administration areas of the town, and the wealthier suburbs. That was interesting. Yassine and I stood at one of the Kettle’s third-floor windows and watched the houses in the poor Arab quarter burning.
‘I don’t understand,’ I told him. ‘They’re burning the wrong houses.’
‘The poor always do. They riot in their own streets because they feel safer there, and when they lose control they end up burning their own houses. With their enemies – the rich and the foreigners – living all around them, they destroy, instead, what little they have themselves. It happens in poor communities all over the world. It must be a form of madness.’
‘Like a scorpion stinging itself to death if you put it in a ring of fire?’
‘Have you seen that?’
‘Some of the airmen at the base do it when they are bored. It’s cruel and stupid.’
‘The poor are cruel and stupid. It’s all we allow them to be.’
‘There’s a new government since you tossed King Farouk out. Won’t things be any different for them now?’
‘Marginally. But the wealthy will restrict what the government can do of course. The differential must be maintained. When the poor become less poor, the rich will want to become even richer. Within a year the newspapers will be calling for Farouk’s return.’
‘What was he like, this King Farouk?’
‘Fat and greedy, like me.’
‘You’re depressing me, David. Let’s go and have another drink.’
When I went to bed at one I found Mariam there, and because I am weak-willed, I let her stay. But after Jill, her body seemed so spare, so juvenile, that all we did was sleep. Until two hours later when Yassine rushed into my room with two other women, and some Arab clothes over his arm.
‘Get up, Charlie, get up; the English are here. They are searching us . . .’
‘Uh . . . I’ll use the back door.’
‘Too late: they have it covered. Here, put these on.’ He threw me the clothes. ‘Quick, quick.’
The main garment was like a djellaba, but more voluminous, and there was a headdress that went over my head like a sack, leaving only a slit for my eyes. Then he ushered me into a corner, pushed me down, and pushed the three women around me. That included Mariam, who was still naked.
‘You are terrified of the soldiers, understand? All of you . . . terrified,’ he hissed, and made himself scarce. The women murmured. The noise of the search – doors banging, voices raised – drew closer. Then there was the voice of a squaddie loud inside the room.
‘Jackpot, boys – I’ve found the bints!’
I risked a glance. He was a redcap and a private: a big florid fellow. In some places he would have been called a constable. I saw the way he was eyeing Mariam, and found that I was gripping my small pistol under the rags I wore. How had that got there? The women made a great show of whimpering and wailing, and one of them drew her clothes around Mariam’s nakedness. Then there was another voice in the room, and I risked another look. A young corporal.
He looked harassed, and snarled, ‘Trust you, Nesbit. I told you to stay away from the women. Bugger off and search the next room.’
‘Search the women first, sir?’
‘Of course not. You heard me; bugger off.’ Nesbit, bless him, left at the second telling. The corporal had to raise his voice to make himself heard to the women.
‘Don’t be scared; you won’t be harmed. We are looking for terrorists and Europeans. Have you seen any tonight?’ I felt, rather than saw, Mariam vigorously shaking her head. He glanced around; there was nowhere obvious for anyone to hide . . . so he tried a reassuring smile, which came out as a bit of a death’s-head grimace. ‘I’m sorry you were frightened, ladies. Fasten the door behind me – I will leave a mark on it, and my men will not return. Do you understand?’
Mariam nodded, and stood up. The corporal copped an eyeful, as was intended, and backed out. Mariam closed the door and slid the big wooden draw-bolt across, then crossed the room and got back into the bed. The women sat on its edge, and all three chatted quietly away as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Who knows, maybe it hadn’t?
I squeezed into the space on the floor between the bed and the cupboard, as if I was still scared – if I kept my head down it would afford me some cover if the bastards came back. Once in the next twenty minutes the door was rattled from the outside, followed by a raw guffaw. It sounded like the man Nesbit again, and I promised myself to do something about him if I ever came across him on the outside. After twenty minutes the noise of the search began to retreat. Car doors slammed. Engines revved outside in the street. And then there was silence.
A few minutes later Yassine was back in the room. His grin split his face from side to side. ‘You make a good woman, Charlie – you know that? It wouldn’t take much for me to find you attractive!’ He pulled the two other women up from the bed, and put his arms around them. One giggled.
I pulled off the women’s clothes over my head, and ask
ed him, ‘Can we carry on this conversation tomorrow? I’m shagged out.’
He grinned again and wheeled his charges about. With one hand on the bum of one of them, he managed to wave to me with the other. As they threaded through the door one of the women laughed, and then the other. This time I made sure I bolted the door.
Mariam sat up, smiling, and asked me, ‘What was it like; being a woman for a change?’
‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t know until I was flat on my back with someone bouncing up and down on my belly, would I?’
‘We can find out, Charlie.’
I’ve told you before: I’m weak-willed as far as women are concerned. When I remember Mariam now, I remember a lithe girl who always put her heart and soul into it. Several other bits as well. The problem with trying to turn over a new leaf is that it’s often worse than the one you hid under before.
‘You knew the riot was going to happen, didn’t you?’ Black coffee and brioches – very French. There are a lot of very French things along the Canal Zone. That’s because the bloody Frogs actually dug the thing in the first place. It would also explain some of the unnatural tricks the local girls could turn.
‘One hears things,’ Yassine told me. ‘One can hardly help it. Mainly pillow talk. The men talk to my girls . . .’
‘. . . and your girls talk to you, and you sell what they tell you to whoever wants to buy it. I get the picture. It sounds just like Berlin. I could learn to like it here if it wasn’t so full of soldiers.’
‘I knew we’d get on.’
‘Thank you for saving me from that British police patrol last night, but I still don’t know why you did it.’
‘Because when the authorities close me down this club becomes out of bounds. Any British serviceman caught here is arrested, and the closure of the club is extended . . . and the girls are dragged away for medical tests, which is humiliating for them. The British harass me. They will not be satisfied until they have closed me down.’
‘What will you do then?’
‘I have other clubs, but it will be a pity. I have good memories of this place.’
‘Has someone got it in for you? Something personal?’
‘Mr Watson told me that “prevailed has prevailed”, then he laughed at me and said I should work it out for myself. Perhaps you can tell me: you know how Englishmen think.’
‘We try never to, David – that’s the key to understanding us. Tell me something about Mariam before I go. Has she any . . . well, expectations of me?’
He laughed as if I’d asked a stupid question. You should know by now that it wouldn’t have been the first time.
‘Did you give her a present?’
‘I left her money: it’s the only thing I had.’
‘Send her a proper present – something made of gold to remember you by when she is an old lady. That will please her . . . but she has no romantic aspirations, if that is what you mean. She is saving up to get married to a nice Christian Lebanese boy, who happens to think that she is a maid in a very correct household.’
‘Will he be disappointed?’
‘On his wedding night, after his first surprise at the range of her abilities, I should imagine he will be delighted . . . and after that, in thrall to her as much as the rest of her friends are. What you must understand is that she knows she is getting more out of her relationship with you than you are. She is in charge; not you.’ He was actually stifling a laugh.
I asked him, ‘What?’
‘I probably shouldn’t tell you, but before you returned yesterday afternoon she asked me a question about you.’
‘What?’
‘She asked Do you think Charlie has any expectations of me? It would be sad to disappoint him. See: almost the same words, and the same concerns. You really are two very honourable young persons. Maybe you should develop expectations, after all.’
I knew that in the street outside they would be clearing up after the night before: and, in the Arab quarter, houses damaged beyond repair would be being pulled down and rebuilt.
‘What was the riot about?’
‘It was a protest: but not serious. Only two killed. Partly to tell the Brits to get off the Canal, and partly to celebrate a pocket rebellion that happened here last year. Many policemen who belonged to the Muslim Brotherhood were killed.’
‘I heard about that. Didn’t a mob kill some Britons, and then take cover in a clinic of some kind, and a police station? We had to bring the tanks up to stop the fighting.’
He sighed and said, ‘If you say so, Charlie.’
‘Wasn’t that the way it happened?’
‘No. Not exactly. That’s not the story they tell on the streets.’
‘What then?’
‘Some Europeans were killed, and the killers should have been arrested and tried for murder. Your authorities failed to do that: they reacted far too slowly. The mob got out of hand, and the authorities found they had a small-scale insurrection on their hands. When the tanks eventually arrived, your commander found that they had been issued with the wrong ammunition. If he had assaulted the buildings with normal high-explosive shells, the casualties would still have been high, but maybe less than half of the eventual number.’
‘What did he use?’
‘Armour-piercing shells: I believe you call them APs. They smashed the buildings and the people inside them to pieces. What is more, it is suggested that he ordered his crews to fire off all their ammunition, and take none back to barracks, in order to cover the mistake that he had made. Egypt will never forgive you for that day’s work, Charlie. It will become the first day of the end of the British presence in the Canal Zone.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ It seemed such an incongruous thing to say. After all, we had a hundred and fifty thousand representatives of the most highly mechanized army in history, parked on his lawn.
‘Yes, I do, Charlie. If I was a good chess player I would tell you the endgame is coming on. From now on it will be impossible for any individual in the Middle East not to take sides, and one day one of those sides will be bigger than yours, and will shove you out.’
One of his boys poured us more coffee. I asked him, ‘What you just told me about the tank action. Do you know that to be true for a fact, or is it one of those political myths that are repeated so often they become history?’
‘Truly, Charlie, I don’t know and I don’t care. It doesn’t matter any more. Martyrs win wars for you even before battle is joined. If ordinary Egyptians are repeating and retelling the story already, you will lose, eventually, and they will win. They will rise, and you will have to decide to leave, or create a bloodbath. I think you will leave, and if I want to stay, I shall have to cut my cloth accordingly. I like that turn of phrase, don’t you?’
‘Will we still be partners?’
‘Of course; and friends.’
‘Then, as a friend, are you able to give me the names and addresses of a person I could trust in either Istanbul or Kurdistan, if I was to find myself there alone and without friends?’
He frowned before he replied, ‘Yes, I can do that. They would be businessmen, like us. They would want favours in return for helping you.’
‘I assumed that. More importantly, would you do that for me without asking me why I am making this request?’
‘Naturally, Charlie . . . but you must take care of yourself. Mariam would probably stick a knife in me if I allowed you to come to harm.’
‘I’ll tell her not to.’
‘OK, deal.’
We shook hands over the breakfast table. I told him one more thing, which was: ‘When that MP burst into the room last night, I found that under that delightful costume you provided I was clutching my pistol. It wasn’t until afterwards that I realized that if he had taken one step towards the girls, I would have shot him down without a thought.’
‘Then you came close to choosing sides, Charlie – always dangerous. But I’m glad you didn’t shoot. If you had, we would have
had to kill all of them. Sad to think of the families without fathers, yes?’ He was probably telling me to grow up.
I mooched around the club all morning, keeping out of sight of the Egyptian policemen barring entry. Mariam came down and played draughts with me while the club staff cleaned around us. I said, ‘Your eyelids are blue.’
‘I colour them.’
‘No: it means that you made love last night. Our eyelids become blue after we have made love.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘A lady told me.’
‘She must love you very much to tell you secrets like that.’
‘No . . . I don’t think so.’
She turned her head away and smiled.
I also solved a problem for David Yassine. I found myself doodling the word prevailed again and again on a beer mat. Parts of it began to look familiar.
When I worked it out, I waved him over and said, ‘Are you familiar with the English word anagram?’
‘Of course I am. Besides, it’s not an English word; it’s Greek.’
‘Doesn’t matter – look at this.’ I wrote the word out afresh, prevailed – and then wrote the words evil padre, after it.
‘What does that mean?’
‘If it means that the local Church is after you, old son, then you’ve had it. Fucked. Pack up your tent and scoot back to Beirut.’
‘No,’ he told me, ‘I think I’ll stick around, now I know what the problem is.’
Chapter Eighteen
Jazz me blues
‘Did the tanks really use APs to winkle out the terrorists in Ismailia last year?’
‘I told you not to ask questions, Charlie. It’s the sort of thing that gets you noticed.’ Watson looked cross.
‘That’s not an answer, sir.’
‘It’s the nearest bloody thing you’re going to get. I warned you, drop it.’
‘Have they found Oliver Nansen yet?’
‘No, and nobody’s looking any more. The wreck will turn up somewhere sooner or later.’
I realized that he’d just spoken my own epitaph as well. If I didn’t come back from one of his little jaunts, they would forget me too, until my body turned up somewhere sooner or later. Under his avuncular exterior he was as cold as a shark.
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