The Snake Catcher’s Daughter mz-8

by Michael Pearce

  When the snake’s whole body was clear of the hole, Jalila pounced, pinning it to the ground with her stick. It tried to rear but couldn’t. The head lifted and spat.

  Still pinning it with one hand, Jalila dangled a fold of her skirt in front of its face. The snake struck at it savagely, then withdrew its head and struck again. As it lifted its head back, Owen could see the yellow drops on the cloth.

  Jalila teased it again, and then again. The snake went on striking until it was exhausted.

  “The bag,” said Jalila, “bring me the bag.”

  Owen pushed it towards her. She opened it with one hand and then, quick as a flash, dropped the stick, seized the snake with two hands, lifted it and dropped it in, closing the neck of the bag quickly. For a moment the bag thrashed about. Then it went still.

  Unhurriedly, Jalila picked up the other snake, still drowsy about the brick, and dropped that in as well. Then she tied the neck of the bag.

  “Well, that was rather disappointing,” said one of the orderlies.

  “It all looked a bit easy to me,” said another.

  “I don’t think the snake was really trying. Probably knew it was a woman.”

  “Yes, you get more excitement with a man.”

  “Ah, well, that’s because snake catching’s not really a job for a woman.”

  “Lucky her father was here.”

  “Back inside!” said Owen. “All of you. The fantasia is over for the day.”

  He paid Jalila generously.

  “What about your father?”

  Jalila shrugged.

  “He can lie there until he comes to,” she said. “He won’t know where he is but that’s no different from any other time.”

  “You were very good,” said Owen. “It’s harder when you can’t see their tails.”

  Jalila was pleased and went off beaming.

  That evening, as he came out of the Bab-el-Khalk, she was waiting for him.

  “I want to thank you,” she said. “They wouldn’t have accepted it if you hadn’t made them.”

  “I had seen you with snakes,” he said. “Remember?”

  She fell in beside him shyly.

  “Yes,” she said. “That-that is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  In fact, for some time she didn’t say anything. As they passed a sherbet shop, Owen considered buying her a sherbet. It was, of course, a thing you did not do; but then, you didn’t walk down the street with stray young women, either, not unless they were very stray. Jalila, admittedly, was walking a step behind him, to keep things decent. The position was doubly respectable, since it was a little out to one side, where a suppliant might walk. A wife would walk directly behind. The darkness, however, was probably the greatest safeguard of Jalila’s reputation.

  “You were kind to me,” she said suddenly, “so I will help you. You asked me once if I saw the men who had taken the Bimbashi. I did not, but-”

  “Yes?”

  “I smelt them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the cistern. There was a smell.”

  Owen tried to remember.

  “There was a smell of snake?” he said.

  “More.”

  “Spices,” he said. “Palm oil.”

  He had a very acute sense of smell, which was not always an advantage in Egypt. He tried to conjure back the smells in the cistern. The air had been trapped, he had smelt something distinctly. Snake, he could remember, anyone who had ever kept a snake, even a humble grass snake, knew how the smell clung to your hands, and there in the cistern the smell- sour, acid-had been very pronounced. But what else?

  She held out her arm to him.

  “Smell,” she said.

  It brought back to him the smells in the cistern, pungent, spicy.

  “Ointment,” she said. “You make it from snake fat. Snake fat is the base and then you add to it various spices and other oils. But the main thing is the venom.”

  “It contains venom?”

  “Venom of cobra. You also take it internally. There is a drink called teryaq, where the venom is mixed with the juice and rind of limes. You take it in small, very small quantities, but you take it every day.”

  “It gives you protection?”

  “So they say.”

  “And your father has been giving it to you?”

  “Yes. But he is not supposed to. It is for the Rifa’i only.”

  “But, Jalila,” said Owen, thinking, “I do not understand. You say you smelt the men?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this was the smell?”

  “Yes. I smelt it in the cistern. The air holds the smell. I knew at once that someone else had been there.”

  “But, Jalila, you yourself-”

  “I know. But this was different. You see-I should not tell you, it is a secret, it belongs to the Rifa’i-the Rifa’i take it every year. Both the drink and the ointment. They go away for a month-that is where your own snake catcher is, he is not visiting his son, that was just an excuse-they go away for a month, and they take the ointment and the drink every day for a week, and then they have to lie and see there are no ill effects. And they work on things of the spirit. Then they come back ready to do their work. And after they come back, for a week or two the smell is fresh, and-”

  “And that was the smell you smelt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fresh?”

  She nodded.

  “My own smell, it is not fresh, because my father, he does not do it properly. He does not know the exercises. He only knows how to prepare the ointment and the teryaq. I wear the ointment all the time, the drink I take three times a year.”

  “That is too much.”

  “I take it in very small doses. A Rifa’i takes a thimbleful. I just cover the bottom of the thimble.”

  “And in the cistern it was-not your smell?”

  “It was fresh.”

  “Whoever it was had been treated recently?”

  “Within the last two weeks.”

  “And was a snake catcher?”

  “One of the Rifa’i. Yes, effendi.”

  “You needn’t worry about Demerdash,” Zeinab said. “At least, not about his marrying me. He thinks I’m a whore.”

  “Whence has sprung this revelation?”

  “He read it in the newspaper.”

  “Al-Lewa? ”

  Zeinab nodded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “One whore I can cope with,” said Zeinab, “especially if it happens to be me. It’s the other one I’m worried about.”

  “There isn’t another one.”

  “What about the one in your bed?”

  “That’s the same one, I think.”

  “Only this time it was her bed?”

  “Not even her appartement. She wanted to meet me.”

  “She certainly believes in making her meetings interesting. I suppose you will tell me you went there in the cause of duty?”

  “Of work, yes. She’s the wife of the man I told you about; that Greek, Philipides.”

  “Isn’t one man enough for her?”

  “She wanted to intercede for him.”

  “You swallowed that?”

  Owen hesitated.

  “I’m not sure. She seemed very passionate.” This, unfortunately, was a singularly ill-chosen word and it was some time before Zeinab could be persuaded to calm down.

  “It’s me they’re after,” he said eventually. “It’s just that you’re tied to me, for better or for worse. And, talking of for better or for worse-”

  Zeinab always liked him asking her to marry him. It was reassuring; and although she remained in a state of chronic indecision about her answer, considering the matter was very agreeable and tended to put her into a softer mood.

  “At least,” she said kindly, “the competition has now been reduced.”

  “Demerdash, you mean?”

  “Yes. If there ever was a suit, it has now been withdrawn. He has denounce
d me to my father.”

  “What’s it got to do with him?”

  “A lot, he thinks. He is concerned about the possible damage to my father’s reputation. In fact, he’s rather more concerned about that than he is about the damage to mine.”

  “Your father’s reputation is a matter for your father, I would have thought.”

  “Well, no. Not if he is to return to the political fold. Not if he is to be seen as a member of the ‘Government-in-Waiting’.”

  “Government-in-Waiting?”

  “That’s how Demerdash sees it, apparently. Things have reached such a pretty pass, he says, immorality and materialism everywhere, that it’s only a question of time before the Khedive dismisses his existing Ministers and looks around him for new ones who can regenerate the country. And when he looks, who will he see? A group of dedicated, experienced men, whose loyalty he can count on, men in whom the country will have confidence, men of standing, Pashas-”

  “Pashas?”

  “Yes. None of this nonsense about democracy. That’s where it all went wrong, when politicians started thinking of themselves as professionals and everyone else started thinking of themselves as politicians. It opened the gates of self-interest. Statesmen, though, are not politicians. They are above all that. Their concern is only for their country-”

  “Your father? Demerdash?” said Owen incredulously.

  “And the Khedive. What is wanted is a return to the old order, the old ways of doing things, the way it was before the British got here and the Nationalists started uprising, before all the rot set in.”

  “And your father believes all that?”

  “Of course not. But-he’s a politician, or was a politician, and, once a politician always a politician. You’re always awaiting, if not exactly expecting, the call. Who knows? It could come again. And if it does, he doesn’t want to be left out.”

  “So he listens to Demerdash?”

  “Let’s say he’s more concerned about my morals than you might think.”

  “But, damn it, he’s hardly in a position himself-”

  “It’s one thing for men, another for women. And how can he appear a pillar of the old virtues if his daughter-?”

  “Old virtues?” said Owen. “Old virtues?”

  Selim’s bulk filled the doorway.

  “Effendi-”

  “Oh, it’s you. Come in. You wanted to see me, I gather?”

  “Yes, effendi. It’s, well, it’s a private matter. I–I wish to ask a favour.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Effendi, one of my wives has just had a baby.”

  “Oh, congratulations! Very pleased to hear it. Not-that wouldn’t be Aisha, of course.”

  “No, effendi.”

  “Leila, was it? But I thought-?”

  “No, no, effendi, not Leila either. Fatima.”

  “I don’t think I’ve heard about her.”

  “Well, no, effendi, with the baby coming, you understand-”

  “Quite so. Not so central in your life.”

  “Exactly, effendi!” Selim beamed. “But now the baby’s come-”

  “Well, very pleased to hear it. Pass on my congratulations, will you?”

  “I will indeed, effendi. Effendi, I was wondering-”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it was Aisha who put it in my head. She said: ‘The Effendi has shown you favour. Ask him if he will extend it to the child.’ ”

  “Well, of course-”

  “If you could come to the seventh day naming, that would be a great honour.”

  “A pleasure.”

  “Abdul will bring you to my house, effendi. It will only be a small affair, since the child is a girl-”

  “A girl? Oh dear! Well, better luck next time.”

  “This is the third time. All girls. If she doesn’t do better with the fourth,” said Selim darkly, “she’ll have to go.”

  “Oh, well, yes. Perhaps you’d better give it a break before trying again?”

  “Aisha says we should consult the Aalima. I don’t believe in these things myself, especially after all that nonsense about casting out a devil. All the same, it might be worth trying. It’s a woman’s thing, unfortunately, so you’ve got to go along with them.”

  “Hmm, yes, well-”

  It transpired that McPhee had also been invited. This was normal, as McPhee was Selim’s direct boss-Owen borrowed constables when he needed them-and it was the practice in the Bab-el-Khalk for superiors to be invited to family festivities. Owen had been to many weddings and several circumcisions but never to a suboah, or seventh day naming.

  “A most interesting occasion,” said McPhee happily. “Pre-Muslim and even pre-Christian, I would say. Some resemblance to the Eleusinian rites. Definitely Greek influence. The strewing of flowers-Demeter? Persephone, perhaps? Anyway, definitely Greek.”

  “Again?”

  “Well,” said McPhee defensively, “Egypt is a country of mixed cultures and that goes back a long time. Popular ritual is rarely pure, you know. It contains a mixture of elements, incorporates contributions from different cultures. In a place like Egypt, that’s a good thing. It brings cultures together, blurs the differences between them. That’s half the trouble with the country. As the old popular rituals decay, there’s nothing to bring the different groups together, not in a sort of lived celebratory way. So they come apart.”

  “There’s some sense in that,” said Owen, “but there’s no going back now.”

  “But do we have to go onwards quite so fast?” asked McPhee. “It sometimes seems to me that the aspirations of the politicians-and of the people like Garvin who are always wanting to change things-are running ahead of what ordinary people actually want.”

  “Yes, well,” said Owen. “See you there!”

  Back in his office. Selim again.

  “Effendi, it’s not my idea,” said Selim, “it’s hers.”

  “What idea?”

  “To invite the Aalima. We need someone to preside at the ceremony and Aisha said why not try the Aalima? Effendi, I’m not too happy about this, mine has always been a respectable house, well, fairly respectable, and I said, what with the Effendi coming, not to mention the Bimbashi, I mean, what would the Bimbashi think, he might think someone was going to slip something in his drink, but, effendi, there won’t be anything like that, I mean, there will be something in the drink, but just for you and me, I’ll see to that, anyway, Aisha said why not ask the Effendi instead of just saying no-so would you mind, effendi?” concluded Selim, looking at Owen anxiously.

  “Mind?” said Owen. “No I don’t think so. No,” he said, “I don’t think so at all.”

  As Owen was passing the orderly room, he bumped into the orderly from whom McPhee had first heard about the Zzarr. “Greetings, Osman,” he said heartily. “How is your cousin?”

  “Cousin?” said the orderly unhappily.

  “Amina, I think her name was. Or wasn’t.”

  “She is well,” Osman muttered.

  “Good. And have you given back the hundred piastres, as you said you would?”

  “Not yet, effendi,” the orderly admitted. “I have not seen the man-”

  “A pity. I was hoping you were keeping an eye open for him.”

  “I am, effendi, oh, I am!”

  “I hope you see him soon.”

  Osman looked despondent.

  “And what did Zeinab think?” asked Mahmoud.

  “She wondered who the other whore was.”

  Mahmoud laughed, but uncomfortably. It was exactly her capacity to make this kind of remark that bothered him about Zeinab. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle it, coming from a woman. Mahmoud, like most young Egyptians of the professional classes, had had very few opportunities of meeting women at all; still less one of the ‘new’ European sort. In theory, he approved of female emancipation; encountering it in practice, however, made him uncomfortable. And then there was this business of sexual liberation. Again, in principle, Ma
hmoud was all in favour; in practice he felt uncomfortable about the relationship between Owen and Zeinab.

  “You may be interested, too.”

  “Well, I think-” began Mahmoud, even more uncomfortably.

  “Mrs Philipides.”

  Mahmoud shot bolt upright in his chair.

  “ Our Mrs Philipides?”

  Owen nodded.

  “The same.”

  “But-”

  He told Mahmoud about his encounters with the lady.

  “But this is wrong!” said Mahmoud. “Very wrong! Trying to influence the course of justice by favours. Bribery and- and sexual favours!”

  “She seemed to think that was the way to proceed.”

  “Well, I know that has been the practice in the past. But- but we’re trying to get away from it now. It’s outrageous!”

  “As you say, it’s the old way of doing things. Which Garvin, of course, is trying to change. And Al-Lewa, it appears, is anxious to go back to.”

  “That is a mistake!” cried Mahmoud. “They are quite mistaken. I assure you, that is not the position of the Nationalist Party. It is precisely that sort of thing that we wish to get rid of. It is humiliating, shaming!”

  He banged his fist on the table.

  “In this case,” said Owen, “it is also puzzling. Why does she address me?”

  “You’re the Mamur Zapt.”

  “Yes, but you’re in charge of the investigation. Why doesn’t she solicit you?”

  “Because she knows I wouldn’t-”

  “Thank you.”

  Mahmoud beat his brow with his fists.

  “What have I said? Forgive me, dear friend, forgive me!” He leaped up and embraced Owen. “I withdraw that! I withdraw that absolutely!”

  He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. The people at adjoining tables did not even look up. They took this as perfectly normal conversational behaviour.

  “Actually,” said Owen, “I don’t think it’s that, or just that. Or even that she’s so locked in the past that she thinks the Mamur Zapt is still the one to go to. I wonder, in fact, if this is about intercession at all.”

  Mahmoud raised his head and stared.

  “Well, of course it is!” he said. “It must be. What else?”

  “There were three of us attacked in that article,” said Owen, “and I wonder if it is just coincidence.”