Death of an Effendi

by Michael Pearce

‘That is true,’ said Demetriades. ‘He committed little to paper.’

  ‘But I saw him with papers!’ said Owen. ‘That night in the tent.’

  ‘They must have been other people’s papers, then.’

  Mahmoud looked round the room.

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘He put it straight in the bank.’

  ‘Which bank was that?’

  ‘The British Bank of the Levant. It was the only one he trusted. It is British, he said, and they allow no one to rob but themselves.’

  ***

  Owen found he knew the manager of the bank. It was Jarvis, the Chairman of the British Chamber of Commerce, whom he had seen at the conference in the Fayoum.

  ‘Tvardovsky?’ Jarvis said, without enthusiasm. ‘Well, we knew him, of course. He was always in and out. But I can’t say we knew him well. He was always’—he hesitated—‘a bit odd.’ He shot a quick glance at Owen. ‘Ran a home for seamen,’ he said.

  ‘Tvardovsky?’ said Owen, astonished.

  The manager nodded.

  ‘Down on the docks,’ he said. ‘Well,’ he amended, ‘perhaps not actually ran it, but he had a lot to do with it. Had his office down there, too, not up here where you would expect. Well, I mean, it makes a difference. If you’re always running into a chap, you get to know him. But if he’s always hanging about with a bunch of layabouts and troublemakers—’

  ‘Seamen, you mean?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s no wonder the banking community found him a bit awkward.’

  ‘Awkward? In what respect?’

  ‘Take this De Vries and Boutigny business.’

  ‘De Vries and Boutigny?’ said Owen cautiously.

  ‘It’s a recent ruling of the Court of First Instance. There’s been a big to-do about it. I expect you’ve heard?’

  ‘Not sure I quite recall the details—’

  ‘Well, it declared that the City and Agricultural Land of Egypt, Ltd—a perfectly respectable company, mind you—was null and nonexistent!’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘Not only that,’ said Jarvis, gratified. ‘It went on to declare that all companies, all companies, mark you, similarly constituted, whose business was exclusively in Egypt and whose board meetings were held in Egypt, were also null and nonexistent!’

  ‘Is that so?’ gasped Owen, not having the foggiest.

  ‘Yes. Unbelievable, isn’t it? I don’t mind telling you that when I heard about it, I blew my top. Do you realize, I said to the Governor, the effect this could have? It could wipe out half the economy!’

  ‘My goodness!’

  ‘Yes. Something to think about, isn’t it? “Is that what you want,” I said? “To wipe us out?” “The law’s the law,” he said. “Well, yes,” I said, “I know that. But if it’s going to do things like this, you’d better see about changing it.” I mean, who runs this bloody country, us or the lawyers?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Owen, ‘but I’m afraid I still don’t see quite what the point at issue is.’

  ‘Well, the Mixed Tribunals are claiming that companies like that are formed under foreign law specifically so that they can evade Egyptian company law. Foreign law, I said? But it’s not foreign law, it’s set up under English law. And if that’s not good enough for a place like this, I’d like to know what is?’

  ‘Quite so. However—’

  ‘I don’t mind telling you I was stunned when I heard about it. Devastated! “It’s outrageous!” I said to the Governor. “It’ll go to Appeal,” he said. “Yes, I know,” I said, “but who will it go on Appeal to? Bloody lawyers, again!” The whole business community was up in arms about it, I can tell you. Except Tvardovsky.’

  ‘Not Tvardovsky?’

  ‘No. He said it seemed to him quite reasonable. “You don’t know what side your bread is buttered on, my man,” I said. He just laughed. He said that sounded very English. But what if you didn’t have any butter to put on your bread?’

  ***

  The seamen’s home was on the corner of the street. It was a long, low building which had perhaps once been a restaurant, for a stone mastaba ran along the front. The room they stepped down into, too, was underground. There were several men in it sitting at low tables. In a corner some Arabs were smoking from water-pipes, the little gourds on the ground beside them. There was a sweet smell in the air.

  A man rose and came towards them.

  ‘Effendis?’

  ‘Parquet,’ said Mahmoud.

  The man’s smile disappeared.

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘This time?’

  ‘You are always here.’

  Mahmoud sniffed the air.

  ‘What do you expect?’ he said.

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ said the man.

  ‘We want to talk about Tvardovsky,’ said Owen.

  ‘Again?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Mahmoud. ‘This is the first time the Parquet has been here.’

  The man shrugged.

  ‘Someone else, then?’

  ‘It matters,’ said Owen. ‘We want to find out how Tvardovsky died.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask them?’

  However, he led them to a table and indicated that they should sit down. A waiter in a dirty galabeah brought coffee. The men at the next table got up and left.

  ‘Strakhov isn’t here,’ said the man. ‘They came and took him away.’

  ‘Who is Strakhov?’

  The man looked at them in surprise.

  ‘He runs this place.’

  ‘Not you, then?’

  ‘I just help.’

  ‘And Tvardovsky?’

  ‘Tvardovsky provided the money.’

  ‘Why did he do that? Why was he interested in a place like this?’

  ‘It was the kind of thing Tvardovsky did,’ said the man quietly.

  ‘But why seamen especially? Had he been one himself?’

  ‘Tvardovsky?’ The man laughed. ‘Perhaps it was the connection with Strakhov,’ he said, however, after a moment.

  ‘What was the connection?’

  The man hesitated, then pointed to a door. To it was attached a notice which said: Russian Union of Seamen.

  ‘Tvardovsky was in the union?’

  ‘No, no. He was—sympathetic.’

  Mahmoud got up and went over to the door. It was locked.

  ‘They locked it when they took Strakhov away,’ said the man.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Soon after Tvardovsky died.’

  ‘Why was he taken away? On what grounds?’

  The man shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’d better ask them.’

  Owen and Mahmoud exchanged glances. Mahmoud came back and sat down.

  ‘Tell us about Strakhov,’ he said.

  ‘He was one of those who organized the Russian sailors’ strike of 1906. They broke the strike and then they tried to break the union. The organizers were arrested but Strakhov got away. He was smuggled on to a boat and escaped to Alexandria. Tvardovsky got to know him somehow and tried to help him. He gave him the money to set up this home. He may have helped him set up the journal, too.’

  ‘What journal was this?’

  ‘It’s called the Moryak, the Sailor. Well, then the union got in touch with him. They wanted to re-form. So, well, he set up a base for them here.’

  ‘With money from Tvardovsky?’

  The man hesitated.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how far Tvardovsky’s support went.’

  ‘You’re a member of the union yourself?’

  The man hesitated again.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mahmoud.

  The man showed them out. As they
went through the door, he said:

  ‘It didn’t take them long, did it? Once Tvardovsky was out of the way.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Shut us down.’

  ‘In Egypt,’ said Mahmoud, ‘we don’t shut unions down.’

  ‘No?’ said the man.

  ***

  ‘Who are “they”?’ said Mahmoud, when they got outside.

  ‘It must be the police. I’ll have a word with the Commandant.’

  ‘And meanwhile I’ll have a word with the local Parquet,’ said Mahmoud, ‘just to make sure. And I’ll try to find out about Strakhov.’

  ***

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Mathews, the Commandant of the Alexandria Police Force, ‘ask the Minister.’

  ‘Are you saying the Minister authorized the search over your head?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything; except that if you’ve got to ask somebody, then he’s the one, not me.’

  ‘You must have known. He wouldn’t have instructed your men without going through you.’

  ‘So one would have thought,’ Mathews agreed.

  ‘What the hell is this? Have you spoken to Henderson?’

  Henderson was the Adviser to the Minister of the Interior.

  ‘No,’ said Mathews.

  ‘I shall,’ said Owen.

  Mathews leaned forward and tapped his pipe out into a tray.

  ‘Some things,’ he said, ‘have got a smell. When they have, it’s best not to ask too many questions.’

  ‘But, Christ, he can’t do this over your head!’

  ‘So one would have thought. But then, one goes on to think, he knows that as well as we do. So—’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t known he could do it.’

  ‘That it was all right? That we would agree?’

  ‘That’s the way it strikes me,’ said Mathews, ‘after having been in the country a while.’

  This was a jibe at Owen. Some of the old hands had not been pleased when a man had come in from India and been appointed to the senior post of Mamur Zapt.

  Owen smiled.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re happy to let someone act over your head,’ he said.

  Mathews gave another tap to his pipe.

  ‘I’m not happy,’ he said. ‘Just realistic.’

  ***

  Alexandria, thought Owen, as he sat waiting for Mahmoud in a little café on the Rue de la Porte de Rosette, with its French place names, its Bourse and its Place, its neat municipal gardens and long promenades, was more of a French city than an Arab one. Or so he fancied. He had never actually seen a French city; hardly an English one, for that matter. He had been shipped out to India as not much more than a boy to join the Army there, and he looked now through Eastern eyes. Alexandria seemed to him a foreign city.

  As, of course, it was, with its large populations of Greeks and Italians, the numerous businesses with foreign names, and, perhaps above all, the sign on the large building further up the street which spelled out reality in uncompromising terms: British Army of Occupation.

  Part of its foreignness arose from it being the great international trading centre of Egypt. Here were the great international banks, here the stock exchange, and here the Appeal Court of the Tribunaux Mixtes, which dealt with cases, usually commercial, involving foreigners. And here, unsurprisingly, was the main office of the British Chamber of Commerce, which looked after British trading interests in the country, and whose chairman, significantly, had been one of the team accompanying the Governor of the National Bank to the meeting with the financiers in the Fayoum.

  Looking now at the city through Eastern eyes, Owen suddenly saw how to some Egyptians, to a Mahmoud, for instance, that foreignness might seem oppressive.

  ***

  ‘Minister?’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘Yes.’

  Mahmoud put down his cup.

  ‘That explains it,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What happened to me. First, I went to the local Parquet Office. They knew nothing about the search. So far as they knew, the investigation started when I arrived. So then I went to the police. They couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell me anything.’

  He looked at Owen.

  ‘Now I know why. Well, after a while I realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere. So then I asked about Strakhov. This worried them. Why did I want to know, they asked? I said I needed to know as part of my investigation. They went away and thought about it and then came back and said that Strakhov was nothing to do with the investigation. I said I was the best judge of that. Then they said I couldn’t see him because he was being held under special provisions. Tell me about these provisions, I said.’

  Mahmoud made a gesture of dismissal.

  ‘Of course, they couldn’t tell me. So then I said they were holding him illegally and demanded to see him. They were very uncomfortable but still refused. They would have to ask someone higher up, they said. Well, we went higher and higher and by the end of the afternoon we still hadn’t got high enough—’

  ***

  The copy of the will was waiting for them when they went back.

  Mahmoud glanced at it.

  ‘Made very recently,’ he said.

  ‘The week before he died,’ said Demetriades. ‘He came in one day and said he wanted to make his will.’

  ‘On the spot,’ said Atiyah. ‘We had to do it while he waited.’

  ‘He said that it was so that we would know what to do if anything happened to him.’

  ‘If anything happened to him?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Who are the beneficiaries?’ asked Owen.

  ‘There was only one; an old lady living in the Fayoum.’

  Chapter Five

  When Owen got back to Cairo that evening he went straight from the railway station to an art gallery in the Ismailiya where he was meeting Zeinab. An exhibition was just coming to an end. Unusually, in that most cosmopolitan of quarters, it had been confined to native Egyptian art and, perhaps as a consequence, had made fewer sales than hoped. The proprietor, however, undaunted, had decided to hold an end-of-show party, to which Zeinab, who had friends among the artistic community, had been invited.

  He saw her as soon as he went in. She was one of four women in the room—which was pretty advanced for Egypt, even in artistic circles—but the only Egyptian. Unmarried, there was no husband to put her straight on behaviour; nor was there much to be hoped for in that respect from her father, who was both a Pasha, and therefore did not care a toss for what anyone else thought, and a freethinker who liked independence in women, although not for the usual reasons; he thought it made them more sexually attractive. Zeinab had, therefore, been able to annex to herself a degree of freedom unusual in Egyptian women.

  She was talking now, with some others, to the gallery’s owner.

  ‘All right,’ he was saying, waving his arms excitedly, ‘so it’s traditional. It has to be if you want to make money. But one day, you wait, I’ll put on an exhibition of exclusively contemporary Egyptian art!’

  ‘You’ll have a job,’ said one of the people he was talking to, ‘because there isn’t any.’

  ‘What about Abou?’ objected someone.

  ‘Abou is alive today: but that is his only claim to being contemporary.’

  There were cries of protest.

  ‘It is not that there is no contemporary art in Egypt,’ said someone hotly, ‘but that there are no critics who can appreciate it!’

  ‘I quite like Abou’s stuff,’ said Owen.

  ‘Hear the voice of the expert!’ cried someone.

  They all laughed. Owen’s lack of knowledge of things artistic was a general joke in the circle.

  Someone rushed, though, to his
defence.

  ‘It is because he is a Welshman. The genius of the Welsh people is for poetry not painting.’

  ‘You’ve put your finger on it,’ said Owen.

  Someone took the fruit juice from his hand—Muslims all, they were drinking fruit juice—and replaced it with something stronger.

  ‘What it is to be among friends!’ said Owen gratefully.

  He was used to their backbiting; but also to their warmth.

  ‘It is good of you to come,’ said the Golberg’s owner. ‘He’s only just got back from foreign parts,’ he told everyone.

  ‘Alexandria,’ said Owen.

  ‘Isn’t that a foreign part?’

  ‘I must say it felt like it,’ said Owen.

  ‘All the same,’ said someone, ‘that’s the place to be if you want to make money. All those Greek merchants wanting portraits of their children! Now, there’s a chance for you, Yussuf!’

  ‘I don’t think I could.’

  ‘Work for the rich?’

  ‘Do portraits.’

  ‘That is because he is such a traditionalist,’ said the critic. ‘Wasn’t that what I was saying?’

  There was no Muslim tradition of portraiture, not in Egypt, at any rate.

  ‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable.’

  The artist almost shuddered.

  ‘You see?’

  ‘I don’t feel comfortable even with that,’ said the artist, pointing.

  Further along the wall was a mummy portrait like the ones Owen had seen in the old lady’s house in the Fayoum.

  They all crowded round it.

  ‘It is very good,’ said someone, ‘but why have you got it in your exhibition, Raoul? It is not art.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘An antique.’

  ‘It is painting,’ said the owner, ‘and beautiful painting. What is that if it is not art?’

  ‘It may be art,’ objected someone else, ‘but it’s not Egyptian art. It’s Greek art or Roman art. Not Egyptian.’

  ‘Aren’t mummies Egyptian?’ asked someone. ‘What is it to be Egyptian? Is it only to be Muslim Egyptian?’

  Here, too, thought Owen, even in art, the questions of Nationalism arose.

  He stooped to examine the portrait.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah,’ said the owner, laying his finger to his nose, ‘that would be telling! And it’s not for sale, either. It’s only borrowed. A pity. Because if I could sell it I’d make a lot more money than I ever would from Yussuf’s, or even Abou’s, paintings.’