The Face in the Cemetery

by Michael Pearce

  ‘But she had to be professional. There was a tenor, I remember, who was very popular for a while and who was always being invited to sing at evenings. He liked her to accompany him. And he would stand at the piano looking down soulfully at her, and she would sit looking up at him with her great round eyes, and it was all very romantic, and people loved it. They thought it was really like that, that he and she…

  ‘But of course it wasn’t. She was just being professional. She knew that was what they wanted and she gave it them. But when it turned out not to be like that, I think they felt disappointed. They felt cheated. And, do you know, I think it could have been a contributory factor to them turning against her. They felt let down. Then, of course, when she…It made it so much worse.’

  He looked down at his glass.

  ‘Do you think I could have another one?’

  ‘They won’t let you.’

  ‘Give me yours and get another one. They’ll let you.’

  He took Owen’s half-empty glass and poured what was left into his own.

  ‘When she…?’ prompted Owen.

  Puttendorf looked at him blankly.

  ‘Why did they turn against her?’

  Puttendorf made an effort to continue but Owen saw it slipping away from him.

  ‘Why did people turn against Hilde Langer?’

  Puttendorf tried again but failed.

  ‘It was good then,’ he said, his mind beginning to wander. ‘People cared for each other.’ He began to weep. ‘No one cares for Puttendorf,’ he said. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘They do. You just don’t see it.’

  ‘Only God cares for Puttendorf. And do you know why? Because Puttendorf is dead.’

  Owen left him weeping silently and went up to the bar.

  ‘Where does he usually go next?’

  ‘Fritz’s?’

  ‘He’s just come from there.’

  ‘Simoun’s?’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Round the corner from Fritz’s.’

  ‘I’ll take him there.’

  They went this time through the Gardens. Owen thought he remembered fountains there. If not, there was the lake.

  They found a fountain just inside the gate and Owen made Puttendorf duck his head into the bowl. It seemed to revive him, and as they walked on through the baobabs and papayas he looked around appreciatively.

  ‘I used to come here,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you still?’

  Puttendorf shook his head. It cost a piastre to come in.

  They went past the bandstand.

  ‘Wind,’ said Puttendorf disapprovingly. ‘Wind, and percussion. That’s all.’

  A native band was playing there. There was the wail of bagpipes.

  ‘What is the line between the barbarians and the romantic?’ asked Puttendorf. ‘I find the native bagpipes barbarous. But the same bagpipes, played by the Scots, are romantic.’

  ‘Was Hilde Langer romantic?’

  ‘She must have been. Otherwise why did she go off with that Egyptian?’

  He stole a glance at Owen.

  ‘Or perhaps she was just being barbaric.’

  ‘What did people think?’

  Puttendorf was silent for so long that Owen thought his mind had gone wandering again. It hadn’t though; he was thinking.

  ‘They were shocked. At first they couldn’t believe it. Not that nice Hilde Langer. But then, she had always been a little odd, hadn’t she? Staying on here alone when she could have gone back. And after the Knippers had been so good to her! Like a father and mother. And then, just when she might have repaid some of that care and love, she goes off on her own and tries to become a pianist! That is unfeeling. Worse than that; it is not normal.’

  Puttendorf laughed to himself.

  ‘Hah, it is not normal to become a musician and the little burghers of Cairo feel uncomfortable. They do not like it. But they would not have found that out if it had not been for the Egyptian. That made them see her in a new light, the true light. There are degrees of oddity, yes, and to be a musician, well, that is at the very limit of acceptability. But to marry an Egyptian, that is to go beyond the limit. And so it was out, out for our dear little Hilde. Out, out into the darkness.’

  Chapter Six

  Mahmoud came threading his way through the tables towards him. At every table someone jumped up and shook his hand. It was the custom in Egypt and yet Owen was a little surprised. He had not suspected that Mahmoud had so many acquaintances. He had always seemed a very solitary man. He spotted Owen and waved a hand, but then someone folded him in a deep embrace. It took him some time to work his way across the café.

  At this hour, the hour when Cairo came alive again after its siesta, the tables were all full. The young office workers, who only a few hours before had streamed exhausted from the huge office blocks around the square, from the Credit Lyonnais, the Tribunaux, the Poste and the Dette, had returned, revived, to make the most of the evening. There was an atmosphere of conviviality, almost of gaiety.

  Mahmoud at last arrived. He threw his arms round Owen.

  ‘So long!’ he cried. ‘So long since I have seen you!’

  ‘Too long! See what comes of getting married!’ Mahmoud had married shortly before. ‘How is Aisha?’

  ‘Well. And Zeinab?’

  ‘Well, too.’

  He told Mahmoud about the move into the shared apartment. He had been afraid that the strait-laced Mahmoud might disapprove, but he seemed genuinely pleased.

  ‘That is good,’ he said approvingly. ‘It is best for a man. Or so I have found.’

  He laughed, a trifle self-consciously. Owen thought he had changed, in even a few weeks. He seemed more confident, more relaxed, less intense. Happier?

  ‘You too,’ he said, laying his hand affectionately on Owen’s arm in the Arab fashion. ‘With Zeinab.’

  ‘Thinking about it,’ said Owen.

  Mahmoud dropped into the chair opposite.

  ‘But you must not blame Aisha,’ he said. ‘The fact is, I have just taken up a new job.’

  ‘Promotion, I hope?’

  ‘Well…Let’s say I tell others what to do now instead of doing it myself. Which usually means that it’s done less well and so I have to do it again myself.’

  Owen could imagine that. Mahmoud set high standards for himself and was astonished when other people did not do likewise. It was not just a matter of personal morality but was bound up with his intense nationalism. He could not bear Egypt to fall short.

  ‘And so you work late, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Much to Aisha’s annoyance, I imagine.’

  ‘“Mahmoud,” she says, “why cannot you be like other men?” My mother, she also says that.’

  As was the custom in Egypt, they lived with his mother.

  ‘But then,’ said Mahmoud, ‘she always has!’

  They both laughed. Yes, thought Owen, he had changed. In the past he would never have been able to laugh at himself. It must be Aisha’s doing. He felt a twinge of—what was it? Nostalgia? Envy?

  ‘It is good to see you,’ he said.

  ‘And you too. I have been meaning to invite you round, but somehow have always been too busy. So it is good that we have been brought together.’

  ‘The woman at Minya?’

  Mahmoud nodded.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said soberly. ‘The Parquet owes you an apology.’

  ‘No, really—’

  ‘We do. The case has been very badly handled. Very badly. I saw that as soon as I looked at it. I feel ashamed. I have spoken to the people concerned.’

  ‘Not on my account, please.’

  ‘No, not on your account.’

  Mahmoud was silent. Owen knew exactly what he was thinking. It was another example of Eg
ypt falling short. Sometimes Mahmoud despaired.

  ‘It is not themselves they have let down,’ he said darkly. ‘It is Egypt.’

  ‘I have spoken to the Swiss Consulate,’ Owen said. ‘I told them that the case was in good hands.’

  ‘I have spoken to them too,’ said Mahmoud, ‘since I got back from Minya. They did not seem too sure.’

  ‘It’s not just you,’ said Owen. He told him about the exchange with the Consulate man. ‘He was concerned, I think, that, what with the war, and her being a German, she might fall through the cracks.’

  ‘Fall through the cracks?’ The phrase was new to Mahmoud. He tasted it and quite liked it. ‘No,’ he said, ‘he is right. We must see that she doesn’t fall through the cracks.’

  ‘Tell me about Minya,’ said Owen.

  ***

  How many people there were in the house, he had never quite succeeded in working out. There were children, certainly, a lot of children, and they belonged to several different families. There were brothers, perhaps three of them, their wives, presumably, and their mother. But then there seemed to be others. Sisters? Sisters’ husbands? He was never quite sure.

  For a start, he couldn’t quite see them because in the house it was so dark. There didn’t seem to be any windows. And then they couldn’t all get in the room. He could hear people moving about in other rooms and there were certainly people listening in the doorway. It was like addressing a village meeting.

  And then for the most part only the men spoke.

  He asked them how long they had been in the house.

  ‘Two years,’ said one of the men.

  ‘We came when Aziz came,’ said another of the brothers.

  ‘You work in the fields?’

  ‘In the fields!’ said the first brother indignantly. ‘What do you think we are?’

  ‘Do you think we’re fellahin or something?’

  ‘Where do you work, then?’

  ‘At the factory. Sometimes.’

  ‘Loading cane?’

  ‘It’s busy now,’ said some evasively.

  But not busy at other times, thought Mahmoud. Most times.

  ‘There are many of you,’ he said.

  ‘God has been bountiful.’

  ‘My family has always been fruitful,’ said a woman’s voice determinedly. The grandmother, presumably.

  ‘Who does the cooking?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘All of us.’

  ‘You can’t expect me to,’ said the grandmother, ‘not when I’ve got four daughters-in-law in the house.’

  ‘We take it in turns,’ said another woman.

  ‘And prepare the food together?’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘The foreign woman too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There seemed some dissent.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘She kills the food,’ said another voice.

  There was general agreement about that.

  ‘Useless!’ said the grandmother. ‘Can’t cut up, can’t cook, can’t have children, can’t do anything!’

  ‘She does her share!’ objected a younger voice.

  ‘Speak when you’re spoken to, Fatima!’ said a man’s voice.

  Mahmoud decided to have a private word with Fatima.

  ‘But then she feeds it to the cats!’ said someone.

  ‘No wonder she came and got her!’ said someone spitefully.

  ‘What?’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘The Cat Woman. That’s what happened in the end. The Cat Woman came and got her. And good riddance, too!’

  ‘What woman is this?’

  ‘The Cat Woman. She lives in the cane.’

  ‘She jumped over the wall,’ said someone.

  ‘You saw this?’ said Mahmoud sceptically.

  ‘No, but I saw the footmarks.’

  ‘I heard the thud,’ said another man, ‘and went out.’

  ‘And did you see her?’

  ‘No, but that was because she had jumped back again.’

  Mahmoud decided that the session was disintegrating and sent them all out.

  ***

  Then he had gone in to see the husband. He had found him, as Owen had, lying on a bed in a darkened room, so dark that Mahmoud couldn’t see the expression on his face, something he never liked when he was questioning people but which on this occasion he put up with out of respect for the man’s grief.

  Aziz Hanafi answered his question almost inaudibly.

  Mahmoud said that the news must have come as a terrible shock to him. Hanafi inclined his head slightly. Mahmoud asked when it was that he had first heard. Soon after the body had been found, he said. The omda had come straight to him.

  And that was?

  In the morning. About mid-way through the morning. Men working nearby had seen that a grave had been disturbed and had told the omda, the village headman. The omda had fetched the mamur and together they had unwrapped the bandage. And then the omda had come and told him.

  ‘Were you surprised?’

  Surprised? He had lifted his head.

  ‘Had you feared that something like this might have happened?’

  ‘No. How could I have feared? Something like this…It is not to be thought of.’

  ‘Not exactly like this, perhaps. But did you not fear that something bad might have happened to her?’

  ‘No. Not like this.’

  ‘Had you not feared, when you came home from your work at the factory, and found her not there?’

  ‘Not at first. I thought she had gone to the market.’

  ‘But then, as time passed?’

  ‘Then I feared, yes. But it was not…not this that I feared.’

  ‘What was it that you feared?’

  ‘That she had left me.’

  The words were almost inaudible.

  ‘She had talked of that?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘But you guessed, perhaps, that she had thought of that?’

  ‘She was troubled, I knew that.’

  ‘About the marriage?’

  ‘It had never been easy. And now it was getting even harder.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘It was a mistake coming here!’ the man broke out. ‘If we had gone to the city there would have been others…others she could have talked to. Here…there were only my people.’

  ‘Your family?’

  ‘We could not go to them. They came to us.’

  ‘You were the one with the job?’

  ‘I had responsibilities to them. She could never understand that. I said: “It is our way—to care for our people.” She said: “Your mother, I can understand. But everybody?” I said: “I am the one that God has blessed, and therefore I must see to the others of my family.”’

  ‘You quarrelled about this?’

  ‘Quarrelled? No, not quarrelled. We never quarrelled, not even with all the hard things that have happened to us.’ His voice broke. ‘She was an angel of light,’ he said. ‘She was my all.’

  ‘But you knew she was unhappy. And so, when she did not come home, you began to fear?’

  ‘I began to fear, yes. But not this!’ Mahmoud could see him beginning to shake. ‘Not this!’

  ***

  On the way out he met the doctor, Mr Kufti.

  ‘You had better go to him,’ Mahmoud said.

  Kufti nodded.

  ‘I will give him a sedative,’ he said.

  Mahmoud waited until he came out.

  ‘I have read your report,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A very helpful one. There is one thing, though, that I wish you could clarify for me. You are confident about the cause of death?’

  ‘Arsenic,’ said the doctor
. ‘There was no sign of an external injury.’

  ‘Quite so. But are you able to tell me whether the arsenic was taken in one large dose or in several doses?’

  The doctor smiled.

  ‘The former being more consistent with self-administration. Suicide or…?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I am afraid not. Perhaps your laboratories in Cairo will be able to be more precise.’

  ‘I don’t know that we could get the body up there now. Or whether it would be worth it. There is another question, though, that I would like to ask which is related. Can you give me any indication of when approximately the poison was ingested?’

  ‘As you say, the answer relates to your former question. I am unable to be specific. Within the forty-eight hours prior to her death, certainly. But whether…If you pressed me,’ said Mr Kufti reluctantly, ‘I would say that the symptoms are consistent with it being administered in several doses over two or three days.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mahmoud.

  ***

  Before leaving the house, Mahmoud had summoned Fatima, the dissentient voice in the general meeting with the family. When she appeared, a man was with her. This was normal. In Egypt a stranger might not address a married woman directly. Any remarks or questions had to be put to her through a male relative, usually her husband, and this was adhered to even in the case of a police investigation. It was, therefore, the man whom Mahmoud had addressed.

  ‘I wish to ask,’ he said, ‘about the preparation of meals in the household in the days immediately before Mrs Hanafi’s death.’

  ‘She doesn’t know anything about it,’ said the man.

  ‘And in particular,’ pursued Mahmoud, ‘the extent to which Mrs Hanafi herself was involved in the preparation.’

  ‘She hasn’t got anything to say,’ said the man.

  ‘Oh, but I think she has,’ said Mahmoud, looking now directly at the woman. ‘For did she not say, when we were all together just now, that Mrs Hanafi assisted sometimes in the preparation?’

  ‘I certainly did,’ said the woman.

  ‘Fatima, you shut up!’ said the man.

  Fatima turned to him.

  ‘I said it, didn’t I? And it’s true. So why should I deny it?’

  ‘Fatima, one word more from you and I shall give you a good beating!’

  ‘Beat her,’ said Mahmoud, ‘and I shall beat you!’