“Ambitious sons do not wait for their fathers to die,” said the chief curtly. “In any case, though Omar is the eldest, the khalifa has younger sons from other wives. Uthman also is a son and he is seen as a successor because he has intelligence, strength, and the characteristics of a ruler. The khalifa trusts him the most, though perhaps he wishes that Omar would mature and become his successor. But given the political situation, we need a hard person as a king. This is the khalifa’s view. I am merely repeating it. I know that Omar is aware of the fact that he may not be the khalifa’s successor.”
“I see. You conjecture, I think, that the drying up of revenues from the slave trade and from Sawākin is creating internal instability and stoking disaffection in the people and that Omar is trying to take advantage of the matter.”
“Yes,” nodded Ismail El Kachief.
“Surely it would be an easy matter to detain him.”
“It may seem so, but it is not. He is usually with his brothers or friends, and his father is fond of him. We do not have adequate proof—in fact, technically, we have none. We only have whispers. Why did he travel to Darfur alone last month and the month before? Why does he travel to Khartoum so often without warning? Why did he travel to Jeddah and Mecca without informing us? He has no answer when we ask him directly. He refuses to answer. The assassination attempts have come immediately after these visits.”
“To travel to Mecca, he must go through Sawākin, is that correct?”
“Yes. And Haya is on the way. Which is why we are suspicious since another attempt happened there very recently.”
“We shall be glad to assist you if you think we would be useful.”
“The khalifa has ordered it,” shrugged the chief. The meeting was over.
As we moved out, Father Bąkiewicz spoke. “Will you keep us informed of any new development? We plan to be here for a day or so. Here is the location.” He scribbled the area where we had camped on a piece of paper. The chief agreed.
***
“An interesting conjecture, Holmes. The son of the khalifa is suspected!”
“Interesting, but very thin, very thin, indeed. We have not seen the slightest proof. Moreover, we have not met this young man. Does he indeed have the temperament needed to plot against his own father while functioning in his palace? Yes? No? There is more to this than meets the eye, Watson. Did you not find something peculiar in that last interview? No? Ah, nevermind. Let us make inquiries. Hasso would be a good source.”
We reached our camp and Holmes discussed the case with Hasso, who promised to gather some information about the matter.
“Is it not surprising that the khalifa has entrusted us with so much information and wants us to help him in such a sensitive matter, Holmes?” I asked.
“Quite so, Watson. As usual, you scintillate! But I suspect he has a number of other indirect motives.”
“Such as?”
“He may not even be interested in having us solve this problem. He may just wish to observe our sincerity before allowing us to proceed to Napata. Or it may be better for everyone to see that an outsider is helping solve the issue. He is possibly suspicious of everyone he deals with. It would send a message. Or he is playing into the hands of some advisors who would like to keep him occupied. A son is always a blind spot for a father. You do recall the case of Sussex vampire—how difficult it is for a father to believe his much-loved son is capable of any error.”
“Astute observations, Holmes.”
Hasso returned.
“All that I could learn was that Omar is known to be a dreamy youth with an artistic temperament. While he, like his mother, is the khalifa’s favorite, he is unlikely to ever become his successor. He is mostly preoccupied with writing poetry and singing songs. He has quite a talent for it. There is a belief that he really does not want to be the khalifa after his father.”
Holmes frowned. “That is puzzling. And yet, the chief guided us in his direction, as if he wants us to implicate the khalifa’s son. To me, that suggests that the real culprits are known but no one wants to confront them. Is the khalifa’s son a convenient scapegoat? It does not make sense. And yet, we cannot rule it out. Some of the most vicious murderers I have known have been gentle, anaemic men of great sensitivity, perfectly happy to spend the afternoons in meadows writing poetry. No, I do not have enough to proceed in that direction. But there is enough circumstantial evidence, we are informed, to assume that the son meets his fellow conspirators in Khartoum.”
The next day brought no news. We travelled to Omdurman but Uthman and the khalifa were busy. The chief of security was also preoccupied. We returned to Khartoum and walked about the old town with Hasso and a couple of Tuaregs.
In the late evening, a messenger arrived from the chief, summoning us urgently back to the khalifa’s residence.
Ismail El Kachief looked tense. “We think we have found the house where Omar goes. Can you keep a watch on it? No one will suspect you.”
We agreed readily and returned to Khartoum yet again. The escort took us to an old and poor area of the city, through winding little streets. At a corner, he spoke with Hasso.
“You may find him in the third house on the next street. I will not come, as someone may have seen me earlier.”
Khartoum at night did not feel safe. The streets were dark and narrow. There were no gas lights as in London and the buildings themselves were small and packed. There was an unpleasant smell everywhere and the heat, while not extreme, was still enough to make us uncomfortable.
Suddenly, we heard the most beautiful singing from one of the windows of the watched house. It was a male voice, not very loud but distinct and melodious. The song was laden with emotion, though we did not know what he was singing. I would venture to say that it was haunting and deeply moving. It left a profound impression on all of us. We looked at each other in the dark.
After about fifteen minutes, the door to the house opened.
In the moonlight, we could see a slim young man emerge, slightly bent. He wore traditional Sudanese attire and his manner suggested that he was preoccupied.
He walked by us, quite lost in thought. He was followed by two tough-looking men who had been standing unobtrusively just outside the house.
Father Bąkiewicz and the messenger followed him at a safe distance. In due course, the man did cross the Nile and entered Omdurman and finally the residence of the khalifa.
He was clearly Omar, the son of the khalifa.
On Father Bąkiewicz’ instructions, Hasso and I stayed behind and watched the small house from which Omar had emerged. Nothing happened for two hours. We returned to our camp.
This series of events recurred on two subsequent nights. During the day, it was observed that the street was very busy, though there were the two sturdy men always at the door.
“An accomplished young man, would you not say, Watson?” asked Holmes perfunctorily, strumming his violin in our tent one night.
“Yes, indeed,” said I. “What ails him? I find the story of the attempted assassinations being engineered by this man quite plausible. His behaviour is secretive and he refuses to explain his travels. Why do we not enter the house and find out what is going on? What of the two bodyguards—they certainly look dubious. Could it be a safe house for the assassins, Holmes?”
“A fertile imagination, Watson. You expect to meet veiled men with daggers and poisons, jumping out of shadows, do you?”
“If we believe that he is some kind of mastermind, then that is possible. He does not give answers and he was seen travelling alone to Darfur, which is in ferment. Then he travels to Haya and Sawākin and even Jeddah. He again gives no explanations. Meanwhile, his father faces assassination attempts. And his own chief of security casts doubts.”
“Capital! Capital!” Holmes clapped his hands in appreciation. “I almost see Lestrade whispering in your e
ar, Watson!”
I felt pleased, though there was something in Holmes’ manner that was odd.
On the fourth day, Ismail El Kachief himself came to our camp in the afternoon.
“We shall have to act today, I am afraid. Once again, an assassination attempt has been thwarted. An adder was found coiled in the personal effects of the khalifa. The attendant has been arrested but claims innocence. It is time to detain Omar. I cannot take any further risk.”
Father Bąkiewicz was disturbed. “I am not convinced, Ismail El Kachief, but you have to do your duty. Let us catch Omar in the act, then, perhaps tonight.”
About ten of us gathered in a tiny building opposite the house where Omar was expected to visit and sing.
The night was unusually chill and the stars shone from the sky with particular intensity. By about nine-thirty, Omar was seen entering the street and then the building. His white billowing robes marked a ghostly presence in the dark night. The two guards who had been lingering in the shadows sprang to attention and stood at the door.
We waited for him to enter. It was agreed that we would enter the house when he started to sing, perhaps to catch him at his weakest moment.
Nothing happened. There was no singing for almost an hour. And then began a quiet and distinct sobbing. A man was in deep distress.
“Now!” cried Father Bąkiewicz.
We rushed forward, overpowering the surprised guards who were quickly subdued. Then we broke open the door and went in, pushing aside a protesting old man who happened to be in the way just behind the door. We came upon a most remarkable scene in the flickering candlelight.
A young woman lay on a modest bed, her eyes closed, covered with a sheet up to her shoulders. She was of the Negro race and possessed an ethereal beauty that had remained during her last moments. On the floor sat Omar, his forehead pressed against the frame of the bed, his body heaving with sorrow, weeping bitterly. I rushed forward and searched for a pulse. There was none. I examined her pupils. She had just died.
Ismail El Kachief had the grace to hold himself back. We had burst rudely into the scene of a deeply private mourning but we left quietly, mortified. We left Omar to grieve for the woman and stood just outside the door.
Ismail came out momentarily, his face sombre. He left two guards behind with instructions to escort Omar back to the palace, walking at a respectful distance.
Readers will recall that Holmes and I have stumbled more than once. The assigning of a dark motive to a person’s behaviour comes easily because we tend to assume the worst. We then embark on a train of related action that appears to be logical. And yet, the explanations may be completely different. Holmes always had the grace to accept that he was capable of making errors of judgment because of long years of always assuming the worst of human behaviour.32
From being asked to believe that Omar was a potential mastermind of a palace coup to discovering that he was actually visiting a young woman who was on her deathbed was deeply upsetting.
Holmes said, much later, that he did harbour such a suspicion, but at that time, he did not have enough to go on. Be that as it may, it was an absolutely mortifying error in judgment.
***
A day later, we sat with Omar and the old man, trying to understand this peculiar tale. Uthman also joined us, though Father Bąkiewicz had requested he avoid speaking. Omar was in mourning.
The old gentleman sat quietly, looking down at his prayer beads. He was thin, perhaps about seventy, and weatherbeaten and frail, not looking quite typical of the robust stately Sudanese men we had encountered thus far.
“Who was she?” asked Father Bąkiewicz. His manner was most kindly.
“Amani,” whispered the young man. “And now she is gone. Gone.” Omar buried his face in a cloth and wept again.
“Who are you?” Father Bąkiewicz turned to the old man.
“Ibrahim. I am Omar’s slave. I did no wrong.”
“We never said you did,” responded Father Bąkiewicz gently. “Tell us about Amani.”
“I am a Dinka,” said Ibrahim. “So was she. She was my niece. Omar loved her but could not marry her. That is why he visited her secretly.”
Father Bąkiewicz raised an eyebrow and looked at Uthman.
“Marrying Dinka slaves is forbidden,” Uthman explained. His tone was matter-of-fact.
Ibrahim continued. “This boy, Omar, is a great poet and musician, yes, very great. He met my niece on a visit to Bahr El Ghazal where he had come to buy some slaves. She too was to be sold. He purchased her but fell in love with her and decided not to treat her as a slave. He purchased me, too, to look after her. They were both fond of music. She taught him many songs.”
“What was her ailment?”
The old man was silent for a period. He spoke with some difficulty. “She died of grief.”
“But why? Was Omar not there?”
He shook his head. “It was not about Omar.”
“Then?”
“Her parents had been taken to a slave market in Darfur. When Omar purchased Amani, her parents had already been sold off. She begged him to find them and purchase them, too. He tried very hard, the poor boy, very hard. He went to Darfur, Kordofan, even Cairo, I think. He went to Sawākin, too. He tried to find her parents for more than a year. He finally did.”
“And?” prompted Father Bąkiewicz gently.
“They had been sold to an Arab family and taken first to Jeddah and then elsewhere inside Arabia. Omar went to Jeddah and traced them. Unfortunately they had both been killed by their master for some mistake the master thought they had committed. He came back to her with the news. She was grief-stricken and could not be consoled. He sang to her, the poor boy, but she could not bear the loss. I explained to her many times that this was our fate as slaves. We cannot hope to live like free men. It is our destiny to be slaves and suffer in every possible way. We belong to our masters, not to each other. We teach this to our children so that they do not develop bonds of love with their parents. But she, Amani, she clung on to hope. And finally, when Omar brought her the news, she simply died of a broken heart. She loved her parents very much.”
Omar had moved to the far side of the room and sat on the floor with his back against the wall. His eyes were glazed.
Uthman sat next to him.
“Brother, come with me,” he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
Omar did not stir.
“Brother, come with me,” Uthman repeated.
Then he said something most unfortunate.
“She was only a slave, brother.”
Omar turned slowly and stared hard at his younger brother.
I saw a true man. A man who deserved to be the next khalifa.
Uthman lowered his eyes.
The old man spoke. “Let me read this poem that Omar wrote for Amani. He sang it to her in her ear just before she died.”
“You can read?” Uthman was surprised.
“Yes. I learned secretly.” The old man was almost apologetic; perhaps it was not quite right for a slave to be literate.
The old man took out a sheet of paper. He cleared his throat and read out the poem in Arabic. The rough translation is here:
Amani, I tried.
I looked. I searched.
I saw you in Badr El Ghazal, Amani
You sat with your brothers
And your sisters.
And your father
And your mother.
Waiting for a buyer.
Waiting, waiting.
When I saw, I knew.
And so did you.
Fate had brought me to you
Coins were handed over
My heart beat fast. How could I buy love?
I shall be back to take her, I said.
In a week. Only seven days.
I shall be back to take her.
And her family
I returned a day late.
The owner had sold your father
And your mother
They had been taken away
On that hellish journey
to the north.
The slave trader apologized.
“There are so many more,” he said.
“Of far better quality.
Younger, healthier.
You may have them free
For you are the khalifa’s son.”
I took you away
And removed the wooden collar
Burying it deep in the sand.
Only then was I able to hold you close.
I have tried to find them, Amani,
I went to the slave markets in Egypt
I travelled to Haya.
Some said they had been seen
In a ship to Jeddah
They walked endlessly to Unaizah
Chained together in the hot sun.
And I rushed to find them
To buy them back.
Again a day late.
Here is proof, Amani
Do you see?
The wooden collar your father wore
While he was alive.
From the heavens they now watch
From there they send music
For you to sing, Amani
For you to sing.
Sing to me, Amani
Sing to me.
The translation, while perhaps adequate, does not capture the beauty of the old man’s recitation in a high, thin voice in his language. Omar sat with his face in his hand, tears streaming down. Uthman sat with him, holding his brother by the shoulder gently.
We stood up and walked away slowly. Hasso was also quite moved.
“Watson, a favour, please.” Holmes’ eyes were unusually bright.
“Of course, Holmes.”
“If ever you find me strutting about, mocking at love and related foolishness, just whisper the words Omar and Amani.”
“Yes, Holmes.”
***
The next day, we visited the khalifa’s residence again. He spoke to us privately, out of earshot of Uthman.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 25
