‘All you are doing is making the world a juster place?’
‘Exactly!’ agreed the storyteller, pleased.
‘For a suitable fee, no doubt?’
‘Not much of one. Enough to buy a crust of bread, perhaps. Or a bowl of durra when things go hard and we can’t get a job. Times are often hard,’ said the storyteller sadly, ‘for storytellers.’
‘I weep again. But tell me; you say “we”. Do all storytellers, then, do as you do?’
‘No, no, no. Only those of us who are-’
The storyteller stopped.
‘Organized?’
‘Well-’
‘There is an organization, then, for storytellers?’
‘Only for some storytellers,’ said the man reluctantly.
‘And who are they?’
The storyteller swallowed.
‘If I went to a storyteller who was not organized,’ prompted Owen gently, ‘no doubt he would tell me who were organized. So why don’t you tell me?’
‘We’re trying to break in,’ said the storyteller reluctantly.
‘Ah!’ said Owen. ‘Now I think I begin to understand. You are the storytellers who are telling the new stories?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You tell neither the stories of Abu Zeyd nor the stories of the Sultan Baybars?’
‘That is correct.’
‘I have heard some of your stories,’ said Owen, ‘and like them.’
‘You do?’ said the storyteller, pleased. ‘Well, they are rather good. Take, for instance, the story of-’
‘Well, not just now, perhaps. We are talking of other matters. The stories you tell: where do they come from?’
‘They are old stories. They are the ones we heard as children, the ones that were on our mother’s lips.’
‘You are remembering them, then?’
‘Well, it’s not always easy to remember them when you are old. You remember pieces of them, fragments.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘Well-’
‘You go to someone, perhaps, who has a store of these old stories?’
‘Well, yes. It’s not quite as simple as that, though. We have a piece of an old story and we give it in, and it may be that another man has a different piece, so that the two pieces can be put together and perhaps fitted into a third-’
‘And then you share the complete story?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is written out for you?’
‘Well, you can get a copy, and I’m not saying that some storytellers don’t do that. But I don’t like that myself. It’s not the proper way. No, you hear the story, you hear it once or twice, and then you’ve more or less got it. You take it away and, well, you do things with it, you sort of make it your own.’
‘A storyteller of distinction,’ said Owen, ‘always tells his own story.’
‘Absolutely right! That’s what I always say. And that’s why there ought to be different prices for different storytellers. The trouble is,’ said the storyteller, eloquent on this particular subject at least, ‘that there are too many people in the market right now. It brings the prices down. Oh, they’re not bad, some of them, but the worst ones drag the prices down. People are prepared to settle for any old sort of rubbish these days.’
‘And then, of course,’ said Owen, ‘the old storytellers, the Abu Zeyd ones and the Sultan Baybars ones, are so established! It must be hard to break in.’
‘Oh it is! That’s why-’
He stopped.
‘That’s why you have to join together?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘It is like a sort of club, isn’t it? By joining together you can help each other.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me, when you say to a gang: “Such and such a place would be a good one to try,” do they pay you directly or does the money go to the club?’
‘It goes to the club.’
‘And then the club pays you?’
‘Yes. Not all the money. Some is put aside for us to draw on when we are old or sick.’
‘You think that? You think that it will really be there?’
‘Some was given to Faroukh when he was sick.’
‘Ah! So it is really there. At the moment. Tell me who is the master of the club?’
The storyteller was silent.
‘He who keeps the store of stories?’
‘Well-’
‘I marvel,’ said Owen. ‘I had always thought those who lived by story were upright men.’
‘It may have been so,’ said the storyteller, ‘in the time of Sultan Baybars.’
The bookshop was in a small street off the Clot Bey. The street was near the Coptic church and some of the other shops dealt in relics. Owen looked to see and, yes, one or two stocked ikons. The bookshop contained some Coptic books, displayed prominently at the front in an effort to tap the Coptic custom, but since the books were chiefly theological and in Old Coptic, Owen thought it unlikely that sales were prolific. Inside the shop, the books were lined on shelves, as in a European bookshop. There was a musty smell in the air and the books, too, were old and musty: French and Arabic equivalents of the Coptic works seen from outside. European in style the shop might be; nevertheless, it came as something of a shock to see that the assistant was a woman. Despite the veil, Owen recognized Katarina.
He went inside and began to look along the shelves. Katarina came up to him.
‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’ she hissed.
‘I need your help.’
‘I’ve told you-’
‘They’ve got hold of explosives. I thought they would be safe in Suez docks until they were paid for. That’s why I took the gold. I hoped I could stop it all without it coming to anything. But the explosives have slipped through. Someone’s got hold of them. I must find out who that someone is.’
‘Why ask me?’
‘You know who Sorgos meets.’
‘I know you have seized Djugashvili.’
‘It’s someone else.’
‘Why do you keep coming to me? I will not help you. I have told you, I am with my grandfather.’
‘In everything?’
‘Yes!’
‘In explosives?’
‘Yes!’
‘Please help me.’
Katarina looked around wildly. A man came forward out of the darkness at the back of the shop.
‘Can I help, my dear?’
‘The Mamur Zapt!’ said Katarina. ‘My father!’ she said to Owen.
‘Your father!’
‘The Mamur Zapt!’
‘I thought you were in Paris!’ said Owen.
The man recovered and came forward with outstretched hand.
‘I was. I have only just returned. Two days ago.’
He shook hands with Owen.
‘And not a moment before time,’ he said, ‘if what I hear is true.’
‘I wrote to him,’ said Katarina.
‘I came at once. How could I not? My father-what can I say? He is an old man and, not to put too fine a point upon it, no longer responsible for his actions.’
‘He has always seemed to me exceptionally alert.’
‘That is kind of you. But he has, I know, caused you considerable alarm. At a time when, I imagine, you would have preferred to have been preoccupied by more serious matters.’
‘You think the alarm was unnecessary?’
‘Well…’ Katarina’s father spread his hands. ‘Passions are running high over the Grand Duke, I know, and I daresay my father’s passions have been running higher than most, but I feel you may have been mistaking rhetoric for action-’
‘I know what the gold was for,’ said Owen.
Katarina’s father went still.
Then he sighed.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘why deny it? Since you know so much? But, Captain Owen, can I plead with you to make allowances? He is a very old man. I thought he could defy time forever but, coming back, after
an absence, I see…Captain Owen, will you allow me to take the blame for whatever my father has done? I am the man responsible. I should not have left him. If I had been here, none of this would have occurred.’
‘He would have felt differently?’
Katarina’s father made a gesture of hopelessness.
‘He would have felt exactly the same. But I would have restrained him. Captain Owen, is it too late? I promise that I will see he is no trouble to you. He will not leave the house until the Grand Duke’s visit is over. I promise you that. That is the least I can do and I assure you that it will be done.’
‘That may be for the best. My concern, I should say, is less about him than about others.’
‘Concentrate on them, Captain Owen, and leave me to take care of my father. He will be no further trouble to you, I assure you. Let me be his guarantor.’
‘Very well.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for your sympathy and understanding. My father, as I am sure you know, speaks very warmly of you.’
‘Even now?’
Katarina’s father smiled.
‘Less warmly, perhaps.’ He glanced at the book Owen was holding in his hand. ‘Can I help you?’
He took the book.
‘The Mabinogion?. Oh, of course, I was forgetting: my father told me you were Welsh.’
‘I am afraid the impression your father has of Wales may not be altogether accurate.’
‘No. Katarina has been telling me!’ He laughed. ‘He is right, though; the parallels are there. What makes a people? Language, as my father believes? Language is certainly significant but it is not all there is to Wales. Land? Important, too, but what about the Jews? Culture? I quite favour that myself, but’-he looked at the book again-‘culture can sometimes be a thing of the past. Oh, I know you will point to the Eisteddfod, you will say that things are still being written in Welsh, but-’
‘You make culture too narrow a thing.’
‘I tie it to language. That, perhaps, is my mistake. But even so, Captain Owen, I have a problem with Wales. The English came and took away the politics. What they left was the culture. But can there be culture without politics? I ask that because that in a way is the debate you are having with my father.’
He smiled.
‘I can say that because I am having the debate, too. I am for culture as opposed to politics. All the same, I cannot quite escape my father’s question. General question, that is.’
‘Are the Welsh a nation?’
‘You make it particular again. But, yes, that is the question. However, let us not go to war over it. There have been too many wars over such things already.’
Chapter 12
The first part of the Grand Duke’s visit had passed off without incident. He had arrived at Alexandria, transferred to the Khedivial Yacht and sailed to Suez; entrained to Cairo, spent two happy days, everyone was sure, with the Khedive in the Abdin Palace, and then embarked in a dahabeeyah, especially done up for the occasion at expense which made the Financial Comptroller tear his hair, for Luxor. All without being assailed.
So far, thought Owen, so good. It was the next bit, though, after his return to Cairo, that would be crucial. The time when he would be most exposed would be during the procession and it was then, if anywhere, thought Owen, that the attack would come. He had delegated responsibility, a shrewd political move, no doubt, but one that left him slightly uncomfortable. Passing the formal buck was all very well, but at the end of the day there was still the question of real responsibility and Owen had a disagreeable feeling that it was his.
He had salved his conscience by doing all he could. His agents were everywhere in force. If there had been any whisper of a threat it would have been picked up by them. In the bazaars, however, which Owen regarded as the only accurate source of information in Cairo, there was no whisper. The initial barrage of protests made by ex-citizens of countries he had never heard of had died away. The only real follow-up his spies had detected had been that of Sorgos and his adherents in the Der of Babylon.
There, too, he had done what he could. Sorgos, if Katarina’s father was to be believed, and, certainly, so far he had kept his word, was safely confined to his house. Djugashvili was under lock and key. Other Georgians, most notably the restorers, were under constant observation. If it had not been for the explosives he would have felt he had things more or less under control.
But they were out there somewhere. And there, too, somewhere, was the other player in this game, the man or men whom Djugashvili knew but who somehow operated independently of him and the other people in the Der. Where were the explosives now, he wondered? In the Der, very probably. He had considered a search but Nikos had warned him in unusually strong terms against any such thing. It would provoke a riot, he said. The Copts in the Der, he said- and, after all, they were his own kind-discriminated imperfectly between one invader and another. Intrusion was a thing they would resist, whether it was by Saladdin, the Mamelukes, the Turks or the British. Keep out, he had advised. And Georgiades had reinforced this by pointing to the extreme difficulty of finding anything concealed in so labyrinthine a place. Tunnels, caves, pits, passages, he said, you’d need an army to get anywhere.
So Owen had ruled out a search. He was still, however, unhappy and had even gone to the lengths of tracing on foot the route the procession was going to take, noting carefully points at which explosives might be placed. On the day itself he would have men placed in as many of these points as he could. Cairo was Cairo, however, and although the procession would keep to the wider streets as far as it could, inevitably there were places where the old houses crowded in and the heavy, box-like meshrebiya windows overhung the route, which made it a nightmare to guard against bomb-throwing.
Again, he did what he could. Still, at the end, though, the doubt remained. Something still nagged.
He realized at last what it was. The question he had asked himself before still remained unanswered. Why had they chosen explosives in the first place? A bullet would have been much easier and was, if his impression of the life Sorgos and his friends had led in the Caucasus was at all accurate, a much more natural thing for them to use. Why go to all this trouble?
It must, surely, be something to do with the way in which they planned to end their adversary: the Grand Duke’s Grand Finale.
Why explosives?
At the end of the corridor, sounds of a scuffle. Voices saying, ‘No, you don’t!’ More scuffle. The door of the Orderly Room banging shut. Period of silence.
Broken by the sound of something hitting the shutters of his window. A bird?
Again! What the hell was this? Couldn’t be a bird, not twice, not unless it was hell bent on suicide. Again! Bloody hell, someone was throwing things at his window!
He leaped up and threw open the shutters. There, in the yard below, was a small figure he dimly recognized.
‘Effendi! Effendi! You remember me? Sidi!’
Sidi?
‘From the docks! You remember?’
Orderlies came tearing round the corner.
‘Hold on! Wait a minute! Bring him to me!’
Voices again in the corridor.
‘It’s bloody amputation for you! We practise Sharia law here!’
A dishevelled Sidi appeared in the doorway.
‘Effendi, they would not let me speak to you!’
‘How the hell did you get here?’
‘The train, Effendi. I sat between the wheels.’
‘All the way? Christ!’
‘It was important, Effendi. My honour had been besmirched. Not that it was my fault, it was those dolts in the office. Worse than dolts: knaves!’
‘You came all the way here to see me?’
‘What else could I do, Effendi? I had to speak with you and it would not have been wise to ask the man to let me use that thing we used before. Besides, Effendi, with that thing words can be passed, but can piastres be passed? Not,’ said Sidi virtuously, ‘that we are talk
ing of piastres. Not when my honour is concerned!’
‘How is your honour concerned?’
‘I had said I would watch over the box. True, it was only to myself that I had said it but I knew you would be expecting good things of me. Was it accident, I asked myself, that you had spoken to me? Sought my help in the first place? Heard my words? Treated me as a man with men and said I would receive the reward if I earned it? You had given me your trust, Effendi, and how had I rewarded it? By falling asleep at the crucial moment. And so the box was taken. You did not upbraid me, Effendi, but I upbraided myself.’
‘The fault was not yours.’
‘No, it was not. For whereas my fault was that of accident, theirs was the fault of design.’
‘How could that be?’
‘Because, Effendi, it was not through mischance that the box was released. A man came before and spoke to those in the office. And afterwards Abdulla Arbat went home and boasted of it, saying: “I have done a good deed this day and am the richer for it.” ’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because Sayid Sarmani saw the man come and Ahmet Arja heard the words.’
‘Who is Sayid?’
‘A friend, Effendi, as is Ahmet. Sayid was sitting in the road when the man came and he saw him again when the box was taken. And Ahmet’s sister lives next door to Abdulla Arbat and he was with her when Abdulla came home. They were out in the yard and they heard Abdulla come and speak to his wife and say: “Bring me beer, for fortune has smiled on me.” And then he said that he had done a good deed and was the richer for it.’
‘So the sister heard too?’
‘Yes, though her word cannot be relied on as can that of a man.’
‘And what about the words of your two friends? Can they be relied on?’
‘Sayid speaks truthfully, Effendi, although, between us, he is never going to soar to the heights of donkey man. He is a little slow, Effendi, though willing. Ahmet, on the other hand, is no fool. He notices what he sees. When I am rich, Effendi, I might even consider employing Ahmet.’
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