But what next? Sa’ad Zaglul and the rest of the independence leaders had been deported. Many of the students and shopkeepers who had organized the street protests were locked up in the Citadel. Besides posters plastered up in the dead of night and the occasional strike or two, not much was happening. Yet the tension beneath the surface was palpable. All the cafés buzzed with talk about the movement. Even the European press was covering it.
He got off at the foot of the bridge. A European hotel stood not far off, three stories of balconies looking out over the Nile and the pyramids in the distant desert haze. At the ground floor was a terrace, carefully enclosed with an elaborate ironwork fence with spiked tops. The terrace was raised so this protection from the natives didn’t obscure the view of the whiskey and gin drinkers. Moustafa walked by on the street outside. None of those drinkers looked at him.
But he looked back at them. Many of his countrymen looked at Europeans with awe, thinking they were almost magic. Even those who made fun of Europeans behind their backs, or swore to kick them all out of the country, always did so with a trace of inferiority in their attitude.
Moustafa did not feel inferior. He had spent enough time around Europeans to see their virtues and their flaws. Yes, they were more clever than Africans in many ways. They were masters of engineering and far more organized than any of the other races, but at the same time they were as impulsive and spoiled as rich children. Look at the last war. Owning the world wasn’t enough for them and so they decided to fight over Europe too. The Russians, the Germans, and the Austro-Hungarians all lost their governments. The Austro-Hungarians had even lost their empire. The Ottomans had too. God had punished them for being foolish enough to join in a European war.
The British had dragged Egypt into that war too, diverting much of the grain and cotton to war use and “hiring” men for the Labor Force to serve in France. Recruitment had been left to village headmen who took bribes to overlook some men and grabbed the poorest to send to Europe. Many had never returned, and those who did found the price of food twice what it had been when they had left. Those poor men had become the core of the independence movement and now the English called them troublemakers.
Moustafa snorted as he left the road and followed the gentle curve of the riverbank down to the water. Typical European arrogance. They thought they could use hundreds of thousands of Egyptians to do their bidding without it affecting the situation back in Egypt. Oh, yes sir, we will be happy to dig trenches for you as the Germans shell our position with a thousand cannons. We will be happy to take your meager pay and then be sent back home without so much as a thank you. He had talked to the veterans of the Labor Corps. He had heard their stories. He knew their opinions. Every one of them supported independence.
As he reached the water, looking out over its glittering surface at the feluccas sailing along like quill pens, the palm trees waving in the breeze on the far shore, he heard the call to prayer lilt through the air. Noon already?
He looked around. The only minarets he saw were a fair way off. He’d have to retrace his steps.
“Brother!” someone called. “Come join us.”
Moustafa turned and saw a group of boatmen a little way down the shore laying down prayer rugs on the sand near where their feluccas were beached.
“We have spare rugs!” the boatman said.
Moustafa smiled and strolled over. The boatmen were all Egyptian, and while some Egyptians acted all high and mighty with dark-skinned Soudanese, these men were obviously true Muslims and knew that all believers were equal in the eyes of God.
Together they took off their sandals, hitched up their jellabas, and did their ablutions in the shallows. Once done, they took their places on the row of prayer rugs and prostrated themselves in the direction of Mecca. As Moustafa came up from his first prostration, muttering the familiar words of prayer he had learned as a child far to the south, he saw a European woman on the terrace of the hotel taking pictures. A trace of irritation passed through him but he dismissed it and focused on his prayers.
As he continued to pray, he kept glancing at the woman, who continued to snap photos. A couple of men joined her, drinks in hand. Now that the muezzin had finished his call to prayer he could hear the happy conversation from the terrace, jolted by the occasional sudden laugh.
Were the Europeans laughing at them? Was the sight of a scholar and some simple boatmen prostrating themselves, all equal before the Almighty, a source of amusement to them? He imagined himself and the boatman in that woman’s photo album, brought out at cocktail parties to impress and entertain all the drunks back home. Anger boiled in his veins.
“You have to control that anger,” Nur always said. “It does you no good, no matter how justified it might be. God had made the world according to his plan. There is no sense in shaking your fist at it.”
How many times had she said those words to him? Their children were growing up with those words. Nur was a village girl, just as humble and far less worldly than these boatmen he was praying with, and yet she saw some things clearly.
He finished his prayers and stood up. Just as he turned away and reached for his sandals, he turned around and went back to the prayer rug.
“Praying again, brother?” one of the boatmen asked, putting on his own sandals.
“My mind wasn’t on it,” Moustafa said with some embarrassment.
This time it was. He didn’t look at the hotel terrace even though he faced it, but rather imagined the holy city of Mecca far beyond. He ignored the woman with her camera and the men with their drinks and laughter, and focused on his submission to God.
When he finished, he felt that familiar clear-headed calm that prayer usually gave him. He put on his sandals and rolled up the prayer mat with a smile.
By then the boatmen had made tea and invited him to sit. They had a pleasant chat for a time about nothing in particular. Moustafa, remembering his purpose for being here, asked if they had seen any Europeans beneath the bridge recently.
“Ha! All the time,” the man who had invited him to pray said. He looked at where the bridge met the land. The level span of metal and macadam joined the gentle curve of the riverbank, leaving a portion of it in deep shadow.
“Really?” Moustafa asked.
“Oh yes. That’s where the easy girls gather.”
Some of the men chuckled. One of them, a bit sterner than the others, said, “Must we talk about this right after prayer?”
“Easy girls?” Moustafa asked.
“A whole group of them. You see the Europeans every evening, strolling along and eying the merchandise.”
“I thought they went to belly dancing bars for that sort of thing,” Moustafa said.
“You seem to be quite the expert,” the stern one said.
“I work for a European,” Moustafa hastened to explain. “Not that sort. A good man. But one of his … associates might have been loitering around here and he wants to find out why.”
“He wasn’t the man who got robbed, was he?” one of the boatmen asked.
“Robbed?”
“I’m surprised it doesn’t happen to all of them, walking back and forth in the dark like that,” he said.
“That’s because Aziz the Pimp keeps most of the thieves away. Bad for business,” another said.
“Who was robbed?” Moustafa asked.
“Some European the night before last. English, I think. A man came up from behind and put a garrote around his neck. Then two more rushed in and stole his wallet, his watch, his ring, everything.”
“Did they kill him?”
“Oh no. Once they had everything they choked him until he was unconscious and left him there. The strange thing is, the easy girl who was with him swore the thieves were European.”
Moustafa leaned in with interest. “So she got away?”
“Here’s the strange part. They didn’t do anything to her. They kept her from shouting or running away, of course, but didn’t hurt her at all. The
y even gave her some of the European’s money!”
“That’s odd.”
“Aziz was furious, of course, but now he’s gone missing. None of his girls have seen him.”
The boatmen knew nothing else, so Moustafa changed the topic to trivial matters for a time before finally excusing himself.
He headed for the bridge, cringing at what those kind boatmen would think of him for inspecting such a place. As he approached the bridge, he studied the shaded area beneath. No one was there the moment, and besides some fish heads and some bits of broken crockery, typical trash along the Nile, he didn’t see anything.
The shade of the bridge felt cool after the noonday heat. He studied the metal struts and the flat span of the road that stretched like a roof above him. The vibration caused by the lorries and carts passing overhead made the metal bridge hum. He studied the sand under his feet too, but saw no disturbance. It didn’t look like anything had been buried here or dug up.
Holding the meter stick vertically, he moved toward where the bridge met the riverbank, hunching as he did so. When he got to the point where the bridge was a meter above the ground he looked around again. Nothing.
The other end of the bridge was equally lacking in interest.
What was he missing?
Shaking his head, he caught a tram back in the direction of Mr. Wall’s neighborhood. He was no closer to deciphering the note than he was before, but he had figured out one thing.
The Apaches were taking territory from local criminals. That pimp named Aziz wouldn’t come back, or if he did he would come back as a body floating in the Nile.
12
Faisal walked down the street, trying to steady his breath. He’d seen a lot of ugly sights in his life, but that head without a body had been the worst. These European Apaches weren’t like the ones in the Wild West at all. Chief Mohammad had honor. He’d never cut off an innocent person’s head like that. He wouldn’t threaten the Englishman, either, because the Englishman had honor too.
He didn’t like having to tell the Englishman how baboons could slip through the window because that was his only way into the house. Now the Englishman would keep the window closed. Luckily Faisal had foreseen this trouble and fashioned a thin bit of metal that could slip between the window and the frame and open the latch. Still, it was inconvenient, and he didn’t like having to break into his own house.
But how long would it remain his house? Faisal’s shoulders slumped. Not only had that woman come to visit the Englishman with her brother, now he was taking her for a carriage ride with her mother. Or maybe that old woman with the deadly parasol was the matchmaker. The woman’s family had obviously made a deal with the Englishman and now they were spending a bit of time getting to know one another and planning the wedding.
When would she move in? A month from now? A week? Then Faisal would be back on the street. If only he could earn enough money to buy another spell!
He needed to earn six piastres honestly somehow. Perhaps they’d give him more money if he found out something about the Apaches, but how was he supposed to do that? Moustafa assumed that just because he lived on the street he knew all about the local gangs. He knew enough to avoid them, that was for sure. There had been rumors that some of the gang leaders were being roughed up, that a new gang was pushing for territory, but that sort of talk only made him avoid the gangs even more.
But now he had to find out about them. He needed time to think about how to do that without ending up a head inside a stone box.
A plaintive voice broke him out of his thoughts.
“Do you have any food, Faisal?”
It was Abdul, one of the smaller ones. He got beat up a lot and didn’t know how to beg right. He was a head shorter than Faisal and even dirtier. Despite his grubby face, Faisal could make out a partially healed black eye.
“Here,” Faisal said, giving him some bread and one of the apples he’d gotten from Moustafa.
“Thanks,” Abdul said around a mouthful of food. “It sure must be nice working for the Englishman.”
Faisal smiled. A lot of the street children looked up to him now.
“You doing all right?” Faisal asked.
Abdul shrugged. “Sure.”
“I’ve heard there’s a lot of trouble with the gangs.”
Adbul nodded eagerly. “Yeah. Mohammed the Club got stabbed the day before yesterday and is in bed not knowing if he’ll live or die. And Amir disappeared. No one has seen him.”
Faisal thought for a moment. Those were two gang leaders that had territory near the Citadel.
“Anyone know who did it?”
“No. That’s all I heard. I stay away from those guys, just like you told me.”
“Good.”
“I have to go,” he said.
“Are you doing something for the Englishman now?” Abdul asked.
“Yes.”
“Can I help?”
“No, this job is for men. Stay safe, boy.”
Faisal hurried off in a random direction. He didn’t want Abdul dogging his footsteps all day. The smaller ones did that sometimes, knowing he had food and that they’d be safer with him around. They weren’t independent like he was.
Once he shook Abdul, he slowed his steps. What to do? He had no idea how to hunt down the Apaches.
Then it struck him. Baboons were used by entertainers! He needed to ask another entertainer.
He hurried to the square where Tariq ibn Nagy usually set up his show and to his relief found him there, busily entertaining a trio of children while their father looked indulgently on.
“… and the Great Chief Mohammad flew into a rage. He vowed that the vile Snaketongue would never have Princess Fatima as his bride. He took up his trusty tomahawk …”
Faisal closed his eyes and imagined the show he had seen so many times. This was the best part, when Chief Mohammad and Snaketongue had their duel. He could imagine every swing of their tomahawks, every dodge and feint, and the cries from the three children told him they were happening right on time.
What a hero he was! If only Chief Mohammed were here. Too bad America was so far away, further north than Europe even. Chief Mohammed probably didn’t even know that bad Apaches were in Cairo dishonoring the name of the good Apaches.
With a final “oooh” from the children, the duel came to an end, Snaketongue’s head flying off his shoulders and Chief Mohammed striding away with the Princess Fatima. The children clapped.
After the father led the children away, Faisal went up to Tariq ibn Nagy. The entertainer turned and smiled at him.
“Ah! Back so soon? And where is your Englishman friend?”
“Oh, he’s busy. He sent me to do a job for him.”
Tariq ibn Nagy bowed. “I must admit I doubted you when you said you worked for an Englishman. Now I see you are a young man full of potential.”
Faisal nodded eagerly. “I need your help to find a baboon trainer.”
“A baboon trainer? What does your Englishman want with a baboon trainer?”
“It’s, um, for a party. He wants to see the best trained baboon in all of Cairo. Two baboons, actually. Do you know someone who does a show with two baboons?”
Tariq ibn Nagy scratched his little pointy beard for a moment, deep in thought.
“No, I don’t know anyone like that. The animal trainers all tend to live together. They don’t make the best neighbors, as you might guess, so they have their own neighborhood well away from everyone else.”
“Where?”
“In the City of the Dead.”
Faisal gulped. The City of the Dead was a vast cemetery not far from the Citadel. Only the poorest of the poor lived there, turning the old family mausoleums into houses. He had never ventured there, had never wanted to. There was nothing worth stealing in that neighborhood and the gangs there were tougher than anywhere else in Cairo.
Tariq ibn Nagy seemed to read his thoughts, because he said, “It would be better to spend some time
in the big markets waiting to see one of the baboon shows. Then you could ask them without having to go.”
The storyteller’s words tempted him, but he sighed and shook his head. “No, this needs to be done quickly. I guess I’ll have to go.”
“The Englishman’s party is so important?”
“Um, it’s more than that, but I can’t say what. If you hear anything about a trainer with two baboons, tell me, won’t you? He’s thin, and about your age, with a short beard. But don’t tell anyone I’m looking for him.”
Tariq ibn Nagy raised an eyebrow. “What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Faisal?”
“Not me, the Englishman.”
“Well, if you’re going to the City of the Dead for him, he better give you more than a ride to Giza in his motorcar.”
Faisal grinned and waved as he ran off. “He already has!”
The City of the Dead was a long walk from Ibn al-Nafis street in the heat of the day. Faisal had to stop at a crumbling old public fountain to get a drink of water. As he refreshed himself, he looked around uncertainly. Dust choked the broad avenue, and all the people and buildings looked unfamiliar. In the distance, he could make out the thick ramparts of the Citadel through the haze. Up there were hundreds of English soldiers, and enough cannons to blow Cairo apart. To the south, past an old aqueduct, was a miserable bazaar to which only the poorest went, and beyond that, he knew, lay the City of the Dead.
He had never been further than the bazaar, and there only once. He had found little worth stealing, and the hungry eyes of the people who worked the stands made him to afraid to try.
But he had been hungry that day and decided to chance it. He had waited for the right opportunity, sidling up to a date seller while the man talked with a customer. He had slipped a handful of dates into his pocket and casually walked away.
He had made it three steps before they grabbed him.
He didn’t remember much of what happened next. They had beaten him, slapping his head with their sandals until he fell down and then a whole circle of them kicked him. He thought he would die that day, but the date seller and his friends had tired of the game and carried him out of the market and threw him onto a pile of trash. He lay there for more than an hour, trying to recover, while local children jeered and tossed offal at him.
The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus Page 13
