A figure separated itself from the deeper shadow. The light from the back door of the belly dancing bar gave enough illumination for Moustafa to recognize the tanned Frenchmen. The man paced toward him, his fists up and ready.
Moustafa cracked his knuckles and grinned.
“Oh, you want to fight?” Moustafa asked. “That’s fine. I was looking for you anyway.”
The man said nothing. He had already taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, obviously expecting this encounter.
He stopped just out of reach of Moustafa and got in a fighter’s stance.
Moustafa’s eyes narrowed. Moustafa had been raised in a small village in the Soudan, then left at sixteen to work on the docks and boats of the Nile. He had seen tough times and had been in many brawls. He had faced thieves, bullies, and thugs, but he had never faced a trained fighter. This man looked like he knew his business.
It didn’t matter. He’d beat him to a pulp like he had with the rest of them.
With a roar he rushed forward, ready to drive his fist into the man’s face and knock him out with a single blow.
But that’s not how it worked out. Instead of running, or raising his arms to block the blow, the Frenchman did something completely unexpected. He kicked Moustafa in the thigh, making him stumble, then dodged to the left and threw a punch to the side of Moustafa’s head.
Moustafa shook it off and swung at the Frenchman again, but he’d already danced out of the way. Growling, Moustafa closed in on him, only to get kicked in the thigh again, spoiling his attack. Before he could recover, the man spun and kicked him just below the ribs.
Moustafa grunted in pain, barely managing to get his hands up in time to block a third kick aimed straight for his head. Then came a pair of punches to his stomach that Moustafa took with a grimace, responding with a wild swing that managed to connect. The Frenchman got his guard up just in time, but the force of the blow knocked him back anyway.
“No technique, but plenty of spirit,” the Frenchman said with a smile. He spoke in Arabic.
“I’ll turn you into a spirit once I get my hands on you!” Moustafa thundered, rushing at him.
The Frenchman spun and tried to kick Moustafa in the head, but the Nubian anticipated this and came in low, driving his fist into the man’s stomach.
At least that was his plan. Instead the nimble Frenchman ducked to the side and only took a glancing blow to the ribs. Moustafa got another one of those annoying kicks to the thigh that kept him from turning and punching again, then a punch to the kidney that almost knocked him down.
He backed up, trying to buy some breathing time, but the Frenchman didn’t allow him any. He kicked at Moustafa’s thigh again, then threw a punch Moustafa barely managed to block, and followed with a kick square in the breastbone.
That knocked the wind out of him, and he barely saw the kick that took him down. The Frenchman’s foot whipped out and smacked him straight in the temple. The world spun, the ground rushed up to meet him, and for a moment all went black.
The instant awareness returned, Moustafa tried to leap up and get back in the fight, but only managed to get on his knees, one hand clutching his throbbing temple.
The Frenchman stood several feet away, casually putting his jacket back on.
“Now you know how Apaches fight,” he said. “Consider this a warning. Don’t interfere with our business or I’ll kill you. That goes for both you and your boss.”
“We didn’t even know about your business until you involved us in it.”
His opponent gave a little shrug. “That wasn’t my decision. Either help or stay out of the way.”
“Help? You’re mad. You left a dead man in the house. My boss and I don’t give up when we’re on a case.”
“Then you’ll die,” the Apache said as he strolled past him. When Moustafa moved into a crouch, he warned, “Don’t get up. I have a pistol in my pocket I didn’t use.”
The man drew it out and flourished it. Moustafa paused.
“Why didn’t you?” he asked.
“Because you are going to remember how you were bested in combat by a man half your size. You will tell people how well the Apaches fight, and our reputation will grow.”
“You speak Arabic like an Algerian. Are you Edmond Depré?”
The Apache bowed. “You honor me. No, my name is Vincent. You assume I was in the penal colony with him because I speak your language? No, while he and other comrades languished in prison for no other crime than fighting for their rights, I was narrowing the disparity between the rich and poor in Algiers and plotting their escape. Now we have come seeking richer pastures. Good night.”
Vincent strolled off. Moustafa struggled to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. He did not try to follow. Instead he went directly home. He did not want his boss to see him like this.
9
Faisal had just turned the corner onto Ibn al-Nafis Street when he saw the Englishman leading two other Europeans inside, one a man and the other a woman. The woman chatted merrily with the Englishman.
“Who are they?” he asked Bisam the water seller, who stood hawking his wares nearby.
“You don’t recognize that man? It’s Russell Pasha. I’d like to slap him across the face with my sandal.”
“Is that woman his wife?”
“No, can’t you see the family resemblance? That must be his sister.”
Faisal bit his lip. More trouble! If a man was bringing his sister to another man’s house, that meant only one thing—marriage!
The Englishman was getting married too? Why was everyone getting married all of a sudden?
Having a woman in the house would be even worse than having jinn. Right now the Englishman had a cleaning woman who took his laundry away to wash it in another place, but a wife would do the laundry herself up on the roof. She’d probably fix the trellis and put plants in the pots too. She’d be up there all day. Faisal would be kicked out of his home!
Faisal stormed off. He had some work to do.
Khadija umm Mohammed sat where she usually did, in the courtyard between four ramshackle buildings crowded with the families of poor workers. She sat mending an old headscarf, trying to coax a few more years of life from the threadbare garment. She held her work as far away from her eyes as her arms would allow so that she could focus on it.
“Back again?” Khadija umm Mohammed said as she spotted Faisal.
“I need a different spell this time.”
The old woman put her work down and rubbed her arthritic hands. “What is it now?”
“I need a marriage spell.”
A smile spread across Khadija umm Mohammed’s lips. “Who would marry a little street boy like you?”
Faisal frowned. “I come from a good family. My mother was a respectable woman who died giving birth to me.”
“Of course she was,” Khadija umm Mohammed replied patiently.
Faisal nodded. “It’s not for me, and it’s not really for marriage. I need a spell to stop a marriage. Actually I need to stop two marriages.”
“Why would you want to interfere in someone else’s love life?”
Faisal thought for a moment. How much of the truth should he tell? “The first is a spell to keep the Englishman over on Ibn al-Nafis Street from marrying. If he gets married, I won’t be able to work for him anymore.”
“You work for an Englishman? I don’t believe it.”
“I do! I even got to ride in his motorcar. Well, actually his friend’s motorcar.”
Khadija umm Mohammed did not look convinced. Faisal went on.
“I also need to stop an Egyptian marriage. A friend of mine is going to be wed to an old man, and she’s even younger than I am! If she gets married, I’ll never see her again!”
“Mina at the ful stand,” Khadija umm Mohammed sighed.
Faisal blinked. “How did you know about that?”
“When marriage is in the air, everyone’s tongues start wagging. And I’ve
seen you loitering around the ful stand. You want her for yourself one day.”
“Nonsense! She’s my friend. I’m just trying to save her.”
Khadija umm Mohammed smiled again. “Your feelings will change. They might be changing already and you don’t even know it.”
“Can you help me or not?” Faisal asked, annoyed.
Khadija umm Mohammed did not answer at once. Her eyes unfocused, as if she was looking at something far away.
“Marriage is something a woman is never prepared for, but when the bride is a girl, it is ten times as hard. You move away from your sisters and your parents to a strange house filled with strangers. Oh, they try to make you happy. The wedding is like something out of a story and all the women of both families fuss over you, but it is like the old saying goes, ‘Forty days of tea and honey followed by a lifetime of thankless toil.’ And then you look back on the time when you were still a carefree little girl and wonder if it was all just a wonderful dream.”
Khadija umm Mohammed looked directly at him. “My marriage curse usually costs fifty piastres. It is a powerful spell that is guaranteed to work. But for Mina, I will only charge you ten piastres. And I will give you the spell for the Englishman for the same price. Who knows? Perhaps you really will get a job with him and then when you are older you’ll get what you don’t realize you’re looking for.”
Faisal didn’t quite understand all that, but if Khadija umm Mohammed was offering a discount, he’d take it.
“All right,” he said.
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes.”
Khadija umm Mohammed looked at him sharply. “Remember the rule of magic? You must pay for it with money earned honestly; otherwise the spell will not work.”
Faisal bit his lip. Before coming over here he had gone up to his shed and gathered all the money he had been saving. That came out to only fourteen piastres. Lucky he had earned eleven of them posing for pictures for tourists in front of the Englishman’s house. That was hard work because Moustafa usually chased him away and most of the tourists ignored him, but when they did take his picture they paid well. The other three piastres he had earned in the usual way—stealing.
“I have only eleven piastres. Can you give me both spells for that much?”
Khadija umm Mohammed shook her head. “The materials are expensive, and such strong magic tires an old woman like me. If you can only afford one, you have to choose one.”
Faisal paused. What could he do? He couldn’t let that old man marry Mina, but if he lost his home, where would he go?
Faisal thought of the cozy little shed he had on the roof, with its fine view over Cairo and the safety it offered from stray dogs and bullies. He thought of all the food he filched from the pantry, and his comfy spot on the loggia where he could lounge on the divan and eat the Englishman’s dates. He’d never get a place like that again. People like him don’t get much luck in life.
He stared at the money in his hand. At last he forced the words out.
“I’ll pay for Mina’s spell.”
Khadija umm Mohammed smiled. “You are a good boy sometimes. Perhaps God will have mercy on you and forgive all your sins.”
“This will work, right?”
“My magic never fails. Sit down here in the shade while I prepare it,” Khadija umm Mohammed said.
Faisal did as he was told and watched, fascinated, as the wise old woman went inside and fetched some paper, a quill pen, and a bottle of ink. Faisal thought it strange to see such a poor person with items like that, but Khadija umm Mohammed was full of surprises. She also carried a few little paper packets.
With a grunt and a call to God she painfully sat back down.
“I wish there was a spell to make old knees young again,” she groaned.
With deliberate care she laid out the packets in a neat row and then spread out a square piece of paper. Dipping the quill into the ink bottle, she began to write words on the paper, reciting verses from the Koran as she did so. Once she had filled the center of the paper with writing, she began to draw strange symbols all around the words. She continued her soft chant, but now she wasn’t reciting anything Faisal recognized. It didn’t even sound like a human language at all. The sentences, if they were sentences, were full of hoarse coughs, low growls, and high-pitched whines. Faisal’s skin prickled to hear it. This sounded like powerful magic indeed.
The old woman put the pen and writing materials aside and opened up the paper packets. Each had a differently colored powder inside. She took a pinch of yellow powder and sprinkled it on the page. Then she took a large portion of red powder and added it to the yellow. This was followed by a pinch of black, two pinches of orange, and a handful of blue. After that she folded up the paper to make a little packet. Then she made a second one.
Faisal handed over the ten piastres, feeling a little tug of regret to see so much money disappear into Khadija umm Mohammed’s pocket. But it was for his friend, he reminded himself, so he needed to do it.
“So what do I do?” Faisal asked as she handed the packets over.
“You must stand on the threshold of the bride’s house. Open one of the packets and blow on the powder, once to each of the four directions. Make sure all the powder is blown away by the time you are done. Then burn the paper. Then take the second packet and do the same at the threshold of the groom’s house. The marriage contract will then be broken as if it had never existed.”
Faisal stared in wonder at the little packets in his hands. With just ten piastres he would save Mina.
If only he had enough to save his home.
He grimaced. He’d been sleeping in alleys again soon.
Late that night, Faisal stood at the threshold of the little lean-to where his friend lay sleeping and did as Khadija umm Mohammed instructed. As the powder blew away in the wind and the piece of paper with its magical writing went up in flames, Faisal felt a wave of relief like he had never known. It wasn’t the relief of getting away from a shopkeeper who was chasing you or the relief of finally getting some bread after two days of hunger. It was a different feeling, like the easing of future misery. Faisal had never worried about the future much; surviving the present took up all his thoughts and skill. But now he knew that he’d get to keep his friend, and that she wouldn’t be stuck married to an old man and locked away in his house forever.
Faisal looked at the little lean-to of reed mats and took a deep breath. The air still carried the faint smell of the food that had been cooked here all day. He smiled. Next time he came to get some ful, Mina would be allowed to speak with him again. Maybe she’d even slip him and extra portion like she used to.
Now for Abbas Eldessouky’s house. That afternoon he had asked around and found out the man was a successful cotton merchant and had learned where he lived. His house stood only twenty minutes’ walk away along a busy street. The house was narrow but four stories tall, and the walls looked hard to climb. The front door was shut and all the windows covered with latticework, of course, so there was little to see.
At night there was even less to see. A single light shone through a crack in the shutter on the top floor. The street was more used than the one where Mina lived, and even at this late hour a steady trickle of people walked past. There were even streetlamps here, not the new gas lights, just old style oil lamps, but they gave enough light that Faisal would be visible as he stood on the threshold.
Faisal bit his lip. How could he finish the spell without being seen?
All this he saw as he passed by the house without slowing down. Anyone seeing him would think he was walking somewhere just like the other people on the street.
A few doors down, he noticed the neighborhood watchman coming his way. He was a portly old man in a dirty turban with a large ring of keys in his hand that he jangled absentmindedly as he walked. The man gave him a suspicious look and Faisal quickened his pace like he was frightened. Ha! Like he’d be frightened of someone like that. He looked as stu
pid as Karim, and the way he jangled those keys, Faisal would know he was coming a mile off.
Still, it paid to be careful, so he walked some more before turning and retracing his steps. He could just make out the watchman far ahead, appearing in the pools of radiance cast by the distant streetlights and disappearing as he moved into the shadow. Faisal picked up the pace and drew closer to him. He could hear the jangle of those keys.
The watchman passed Abbas Eldessouky’s house and shortly thereafter a bend in the road hid him from view. The soft jangle of his keys could still be heard, gradually getting softer.
Faisal slowed down as he got close to the house, awaiting his chance. A small group of men walked in his direction. He slowed even more to let them pass, then doubled back to get to Eldessouky’s threshold. The men were walking away from him and the sound of the watchman’s keys had faded into the distance. No one else faced him.
He gave a quick glance at an alley that opened up on the opposite side of the street and a little toward where the road bent. He didn’t see anyone there either, and it might make a good bolt hole if someone saw him. Plus he could run either way down the main road. Good. You always needed at least two escape routes. Three was even better.
Faisal pulled the packet out of his pocket, opened it up, and as fast as he could he blew the powder out in all four directions. Once he was sure all the powder had been carried away by the breeze, he glanced around. The group of men still walked away, unaware. He could see no one else. Yanking a match out of his pocket, he struck it against the doorjamb and set the flame to the paper just as the match head flared up.
Faisal jumped as the flew open behind him.
“Tawfik, is that you?”
Abbas Eldessouky stood in the doorway, looking anxious. No light was on in the front hall behind him. Faisal got the impression that he had been standing on the other side of the door listening and flung it open the instant he heard a sound.
The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus Page 9
