The Snake Catcher’s Daughter mz-8

by Michael Pearce

  “There are always plenty of those,” said Jalila with a touch of scorn.

  “You don’t think they’re really possessed?”

  A loud blast of the dubertas and timbrels recalled Jalila to her duties. She stood up, a trifle regretfully.

  “We’ve all got a bit of the devil in us,” she said.

  He handed the bowl back to her. The move shot fresh fumes into the air.

  “It’s a long night for you in here,” Jalila said.

  Owen wondered if this was an invitation.

  “I’ll try not to fall asleep,” he said.

  Jalila laughed.

  Like a girls’ party, he thought. In the courtyard the children danced. It was more crowded now and there were women among them. He could see by the taller, fuller forms. There was girlish laughter, the occasional high-pitched giggle.

  Selim reappeared.

  “Hello!” he said, sniffing. “What’s this?”

  “What sent the Bimbashi to sleep.”

  “Those bitches!”

  “They don’t want me to see.”

  “I should think not! The way they dance!”

  “Is Aisha dancing too?”

  “Like that? I hope not. I wouldn’t have thought she had it in her. Do you think she has it in her?” he asked Owen in worried tones.

  “We’ve all got a bit of the devil in us,” said Owen.

  He wondered how Selim’s wife was faring. He hoped she was all right. What if the supposedly possessed were given special treatment, some special drug of their own? He ought to have thought of that earlier.

  “Smells a bit ripe in here,” said Selim.

  “Yes,” said Owen, thinking.

  After Selim had gone, he sat back slumped against the wall and did not move when Jalila next came in. He felt her cool hand touch his face. It hesitated, as if she were puzzled. Then she went out again.

  A little later, doors were closed over the arch which separated the inner courtyard from the outer. There was a sudden bleating of animals.

  Owen crept to the door.

  In the courtyard now everything was still. The Aalima appeared at the door holding what seemed to be a huge basin. The animals were led up to her. There was a huge black ram and then two young white ones stained red with henna. Behind them were other animals, ganders, doves, rabbits. A man was standing there, blind, Owen judged, from his white eyes. He held a long knife and as each animal was led up, he slit its throat and held it over the Aalima’s basin.

  The Aalima took the basin and went back indoors. Owen saw her appear at the other end of the mandar’ah. She went into the middle of the ring of women, dipped her arms suddenly in the basin and then threw blood all over them. The women screamed, then pressed forward, dipped their own arms in the basin, then threw.

  The music burst out in a savage frenzy. The women began to writhe, twisting from side to side, leaning back as before but now dancing round on their heels with their heads up and their hair dangling out behind them. As they whirled, the Aalima continued to throw blood. The white gowns were all bespotted with red now, blood was on the women’s faces, in their hair. Girls’ party?

  McPhee was disappointed afterwards.

  “But, Owen,” he complained, “didn’t you see?”

  “Well, of course I did,” said Owen defensively, “but-”

  “The vestments? You must have noticed alb, amice and girdle?”

  “Alb?”

  “The long white gown.”

  “Amice?”

  “A square of white linen. Worn formerly on the head. Now on the shoulders.”

  “She wore a sort of hood. That it?”

  “Yes. And did you notice-I thought it was very significant-that when she served at the altar-”

  “Altar? Oh, that table, you mean.”

  “Really, Owen!” said McPhee severely. “I thought you told me that your father was a minister in the Church of England?”

  “Yes, but, well, it’s not the same, is it? I mean, an altar is something you find in church-”

  “Ah! But that’s it, you see. For them it was the same thing as being in a church. The offerings-”

  “The animals, you mean? That old ram-?”

  “Think of Abraham. Animals came before money, you know.”

  “It seemed pretty gory to me.”

  “But that’s just what I’ve been saying! Religious elements- I do wish you’d observed it more closely, Owen. I was particularly anxious that you confirmed my perception that when she was engaged on ceremonies at the altar she raised her amice, raised it above her head; I mean, that’s terribly significant: Capuchin, would you say, or Dominican?”

  “Yes, but the gore-”

  “Religious elements, Owen, but pre — Christian at the core. Cultic influence, I am sure. Baal, perhaps? Or perhaps Tammuz?”

  “Well, I couldn’t say, offhand-”

  “Didn’t you ask her anything?”

  “We didn’t have a lot of time,” said Owen feebly. “She said she’d answer my questions tomorrow.”

  “Well, mind you ask her that. Even so, Owen, a missed opportunity!” McPhee shook his head sadly. “A missed opportunity!”

  “I spoke to Jalila.”

  “Jalila?”

  “She’s the one with the bowl.”

  “Charming girl, charming. But it’s a pity you didn’t speak to one of the acolytes.”

  “Acolytes?”

  “Deaconesses, I call them. The ones with the maniples.”

  “Oh!”

  “I did ask Jalila-Jalila you said her name was? — about them. I asked her if they were virgins.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “ ‘Virgins born, effendi.’ ” McPhee frowned. “But that, of course, is not quite answering my question.”

  “Well, I’ll ask it,” said Owen, “if I get an opportunity.”

  “And the initiates.”

  “What about the initiates?”

  “Ask if they were virgins, too.”

  “I don’t think I can go around asking everybody if they’re a virgin.”

  “Well, perhaps not,” said McPhee, disappointed. “Only it would be so interesting to know.”

  “It certainly would,” said Owen.

  Selim was disappointed too.

  “They shut the gate,” he complained. “Just when it was getting interesting.”

  “You missed the best part,” said Aisha.

  “There’s luck for you!” said Selim, crestfallen. “I was hoping that the next time I went round-”

  “Next time?” said Owen.

  “Well, that first time when I went to you, I didn’t go straight to you, if you know what I mean-”

  “We know what you mean,” said Aisha.

  “I thought there might be trouble later on, so I took a look around-”

  “Look?” said Aisha.

  “Well, all right, maybe a touch too, here and there.”

  “Someone gave me a touch,” said Aisha.

  “You?” said Selim, eyes starting out of his head. “You?”

  “Of course it might have been someone else,” said Aisha, eyes smiling meekly over her veil.

  Chapter 7

  "Is that Mustapha?”

  “Speaking.”

  “The line is bad. I wasn’t sure it was you.”

  “The line is always bad. It is best not to use it.”

  “I had to use it. Mustapha, I must warn you. They have seized Hassan.”

  “So?”

  “He is being questioned.”

  “What can he say?”

  “He can tell them things that lead to us.”

  “Hassan is too clever to do that. And if he did, we could always deny them.”

  “Mustapha, I’m afraid you don’t understand. Abdul Bakri has talked. They know he has given money to Hassan. It will lead to us.”

  “ ‘They’. ‘They’. Who are ‘They’?”

  “Garvin. Mustapha, he has had Hassan in-”
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  “Garvin is ‘he’, not ‘they’. Who are the others?”

  “Mustapha-”

  “Not Wainwright Pasha, I take it? No? The Consul-General, then? Is it someone around the Consul-General?”

  “I–I do not think so, Mustapha. I do not know. Mustapha, I-”

  “But this is important. Please. Are there others? Or is it just Garvin?”

  “Perhaps it is just Garvin.”

  “Ah!”

  “But, Mustapha, it does not make any difference. He will soon tell others.”

  “It makes a lot of difference. I need to know what is behind this. If it is just Garvin, well, I will go to Wainwright Pasha at once and knock this canard on the head. People are always saying things against us. That is the nature of our job. It has happened before, it will happen again.”

  “But, Mustapha, this is not anyone saying this, it is Garvin.”

  “One unsupported man, new to Cairo, credulous. What does he know about our world? People tell us things, we listen, because that is the nature of our work, but we do not always believe them. They offer us money and sometimes we take it, because that, too, is the nature of our work, but our intention may be different from theirs. Wainwright Pasha knows all this but Garvin, what does he know? A simple policeman from Alexandria!”

  “Mustapha, I do not think he is that simple.”

  “It is the nature of his work that is simple. Compared with ours.”

  “Mustapha, I still worry-”

  “And I worry, too. But not for the same reason as you. If things are as you say they are, then I do not worry. It is if there are things behind them that I worry.”

  “I hope you are right, Mustapha…But, please, what shall I do?”

  “Do not phone me again, that is the first. The second is: carry on with your work and do not fear. But the third is: let me know the moment you think it is they and not he that we have against us.”

  “An open-and-shut case, I would have thought,” said Owen, laying the transcript back on the table. Police office ink faded quickly in the light and heat of Egypt and the writing was already brown, although it had been written only five years before. “It’s a virtual confession, surely.”

  Mahmoud picked the transcript up and looked at it again.

  “There are problems about using this kind of evidence in court,” he said. “Were the words accurately recorded? Were they recorded at the time? Have the speakers been correctly identified?”

  “You’ve got the sworn statements of the recorders here,” said Owen, tapping a folder which lay before him on Mahmoud’s desk. “Signed, dated, witnessed. They were people who knew the voices, too.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mahmoud. “Garvin had it all worked out.”

  “Well, then-”

  “But shall we see what Philipides says?”

  Philipides was thin, almost painfully so. The prison report spoke of ulcers. Owen judged he was a worrying man. The small mouth beneath the neat moustache occasionally twitched involuntarily.

  He still denied the charges. Not so much the facts as their interpretation. Yes, his orderly, Hassan, had approached Sub-Inspector Abdul Bakri and solicited money in return for a promise of promotion; but this was merely part of a carefully planned, and officially inspired, attempt to probe allegations of corruption in the Cairo Police Force. As Mustapha Mir, the Mamur Zapt of the time, would confirm.

  The offer of promotion was not, then, genuine? Mahmoud asked. Certainly not; and the money would have been returned, with a severe warning.

  But, surely, offering money-as well as accepting money- was a grave offence and should have resulted in something more serious than a warning?

  “An official warning,” said Philipides. “It would remain on his file.”

  “Even so-”

  “Ah, yes,” said Philipides, “but corruption was so widespread-one could almost say it was the fashion of the country- that to come down heavily on a minor individual would have been manifestly unfair. He had probably thought he was merely following normal practice.”

  And then again, one had to be realistic. To proceed in too draconian a fashion might have left the Police Force so denuded of staff as to constitute a threat to public order.

  It was not the way to achieve things. The Egyptian tradition had always been to combine the threat of severity with the practice of clemency. The possibility of severity was always real and if, occasionally, by chance, that was what they got in the end and not clemency, well, that was the working of fate and seen not as injustice but as God deciding to exact full measure this time. You could hardly complain about that! If, on the other hand, the threat of severity was always followed by the practice of severity, people would perceive that as most unjust. It did not give fate a chance to work on your side, it allowed no escape for human compassion or indulgence. The system would be perceived as cold and inhuman. Not everyone understood that, said Philipides pointedly.

  Mahmoud, whose logic tended towards the severely linear, was probably one of those. However, Philipides’s remark was not directed at him.

  “They come in from overseas,” he said bitterly, “and they think we don’t know how to do things, when it’s just that we’re doing them in a different way.”

  “You are talking of Garvin effendi?”

  Philipides hesitated but then committed himself.

  “If he had been more patient,” he said, “he would have seen that it was not as he supposed.”

  “You are saying you are innocent of the changes?”

  “Garvin effendi refused to believe that we were merely setting a trap. And I ask myself why he refused to believe us.”

  “And what answer do you give?”

  Philipides lifted his head and looked Mahmoud in the eyes.

  “Because we were Egyptian,” he said; “because we stood in the British way; because he wanted our places.”

  Mahmoud said nothing but gave him the transcript to read.

  The mouth beneath the moustache twitched painfully. “How does this square with your story?”

  “It does not contradict it,” said Philipides defiantly.

  “No? ‘He can tell them things that lead to us’?”

  “I was afraid that it would look as if we really were accepting money in exchange for promotion.”

  “But why should you be concerned about that? Surely, all you had to do was go to Garvin effendi and tell him this was an official inquiry?”

  “I was afraid he would not believe me.”

  “You could have referred him to your superior.”

  “I was working on this occasion for the Mamur Zapt.”

  “Why was that?”

  “It was an inquiry into the police. Wainwright Pasha wanted it to be someone independent. He did not know how far it might involve senior officers. There were rumours-”

  “Rumours?”

  “About Garvin effendi. Some jewels. A present for his wife.”

  Mahmoud glanced at Owen, then made a note.

  “But you, too,” he said to Philipides, “were a member of the police, and if not a senior one, an important middle-ranking one.”

  “Mustapha Mir thought he needed help.”

  “Had he not men of his own?”

  “No. Well, yes, but they were special men. He needed someone inside the Police Force.”

  “Why did he choose you?”

  “I had worked with him before. He trusted me.”

  “Was this authorized by Wainwright Pasha?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And known by Garvin effendi?”

  “He knew I had worked with Mustapha Mir before, yes, but he did not know about this operation. That is why I was worried, why I telephoned Mustapha Mir-”

  “I do not understand this,” said Mahmoud. “If it was as you say, why was not the matter quickly cleared up? Surely, all Mustapha Mir had to do was get in touch with Garvin?”

  “He knew he wouldn’t believe him. That is why he went to Wainwright P
asha.”

  Philipides glanced at the transcript.

  “Look!” he said, pointing with his finger. “It says there that he is going to see Wainwright Pasha.”

  “In that case, why did not Wainwright Pasha speak to Garvin?”

  “He did. But Garvin effendi did not believe him.”

  “Did not believe him?” said Mahmoud incredulously. “But surely Garvin effendi was Wainwright Pasha’s deputy at the time?

  “He was. There was a terrible argument. And then Garvin effendi went over Wainwright Pasha’s head.”

  “To the Ministry of Justice?” said Mahmoud, puzzled. “But that is not in my files.”

  He looked at the big pile of folders on his desk.

  “Not to the Ministry of Justice,” said Philipides. “To the British Consul-General.”

  “Ah! Oh, I see.”

  “Wainwright Pasha spoke up strongly for Mustapha Mir. He said it was an injustice. But it was no good. They wanted Mustapha out, you see. That was what it was all about. He saw it at once. That was why he kept asking me if there were others or if it was just Garvin effendi alone. I did not understand, I was just a lowly inspector, I do not know about these things. But Mustapha Mir was clever, he did know about such things and he saw at once what was happening-”

  “Just one moment,” said Mahmoud. “What is it exactly that you are saying?”

  “That there was a plot,” said Philipides determinedly, “a British plot. That Garvin effendi saw an opportunity to discredit Mustapha Mir and force him out.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “So that,” said Philipides bitterly, looking at Owen, “his place could be taken by an Englishman.”

  “A lot of nonsense,” said Owen, when they were alone.

  “Is it?” said Mahmoud.

  “Yes,” said Owen, “it certainly is.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Mahmoud. “Garvin is an ambitious man.”

  “It wouldn’t have been Mustapha Mir’s job that he wanted,” Owen pointed out. “It would have been Wainwright’s.”

  “And he got it,” said Mahmoud.

  “That was later. That was nothing to do with this.”

  Mahmoud, however, looked thoughtful.

  “There are obvious weaknesses in the story,” said Owen.