The Last Cut mz-11

by Michael Pearce

  ‘He is very confused. I think it is because it is the first time he has met death. He cannot accept it. He knows, of course, in his heart of hearts, that nothing can bring Leila back. But he believes-half of him believes-that if in some way good could come from her death, that would probably redeem it, give it and her life a meaning which at the moment it seems to lack. That is why he came to me.’

  ‘Because of your work on circumcision?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am afraid I still don’t see-Do you wish me to dissuade him?’

  ‘Hardly! The reverse, if anything. The activity would do him good!’ Labiba brightened. ‘Yes,’ she said gleefully, ‘that would be good. To have the Mamur Zapt proselytizing on my behalf! They would really think I was formidable then! But, no, Captain Owen, that was not what I wanted you to talk to him about. It is the other half of him. The other half of him is angry. It is looking for someone to blame.’

  ‘To take revenge on?’

  ‘Well,’ said Labiba, ‘is that not our Egyptian way?’

  Macrae caught him as he passed.

  ‘We’re having a wee celebration,’ he said. ‘Tuesday, the Sporting Club, at eight. Burns Night. Would you like to come?’

  ‘Nothing I’d like more!’ Then a thought struck him. ‘But surely Burns Night isn’t for some time yet?’

  ‘Aye. But it goes down better if you have a few rehearsals.’

  Zeinab, stretched out beside Owen, had been hearing about his encounter with the girl’s father.

  ‘It is a good job my father is rich,’ she said sombrely. And enlightened. Relatively.’

  Zeinab always liked to hear about the women in his cases. She tended to identify with them strongly. It was as if, uncertain of her own position in society, she needed to try on other positions. It always made him feel guilty. He was aware that what would give her position was marriage. But the British Administration did not look kindly on its officers marrying Egyptians. And what about her father’s attitude? Nuri, he knew, would have preferred her to marry someone rich. That was the way, he thought, with fathers; perhaps not just in this society.

  What made the difference, though, between Zeinab and Leila was that Zeinab did not have to do just what her father said. Perhaps, however, that was an illusion. Perhaps in the end she did have to do what he said, perhaps there were limits to her freedom. Meanwhile, though, there was the space created by wealth, which allowed indulgence. And, to be fair, by enlightenment. Relative, that was.

  ‘I gather you’re going to talk to the boy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wait a minute: ‘gather’?

  ‘You’ve been talking to Labiba!’

  ‘Certainly. She is a remarkable woman.’

  That, no doubt, was another role that Zeinab had been trying on. Widow. Widow! Surely there were better solutions than that!

  Nikos looked up from his desk.

  A call for you. Urgent. From the Parquet.’

  ‘Mahmoud?’

  ‘Someone in his office. Would you meet him at the Mortuary?’ Again the slow journey by arabeah.

  ‘One has to think of the horse, Effendi. And of the people in the way. And of the flowers in the gardens and the doves in the trees.’

  ‘I’ll think about them. You think about getting me to the Mortuary.’

  In fact, they made speedy progress. At this hour in the afternoon, when the world was taking its siesta, the streets were empty. Search as the arabeah driver might for reason for delay, he could find none. Even the horse, made brisker by a little breeze from the river, and finding motion cooler than standing stunned in the sun outside the Bab-el-Khalk, quickened its usual step.

  Mahmoud was waiting for Owen at the door of the Mortuary, standing in its cool shadow. He was holding a piece of paper. ‘It’s an early warning,’ he said.

  ‘Warning?’

  ‘That they’re going to change the autopsy findings.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Cause of death.’

  ‘Not-?’

  ‘-what we thought. They’ve found a ligature around her neck. A thin cord very deeply embedded. They missed it the first time because of the condition of the body.’

  ‘So-’

  ‘She was garotted,’ said Mahmoud.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Garotted' screamed the newspapers.

  The news, despite Owen’s efforts, had leaked out at once. Ordinarily it would have created no stir. In Cairo people were being garotted all the time, or it felt as if they were, and what was one among so many, particularly if she was merely a water-carrier’s daughter? This time, however, there was something different.

  ‘Could there be a connection with the Cut?’ asked the newspapers.

  ‘No, there could not,’ said Owen, and to make sure he excised the suggestion from the newspapers. Censorship of the press was one of Owen’s barmier duties.

  The press, always resourceful, came back the next day, less directly.

  ‘Will this cast a blight over the forthcoming festivities?’ it enquired.

  ‘No, it won’t,’ said the Mamur Zapt, and in the interests of conviviality he cut that out, too. He knew, however, that in the circulation of rumour word of newspaper was less important than word of mouth, and sat back resignedly to await developments.

  They were not long in coming. There was trouble with the Muslim gravediggers, said Paul over the phone. When Owen got to the meeting, however, he found that the trouble, at first sight, was not what he expected.

  ‘There seems to be some problem about the Cut,’ said Paul, who had convened the meeting on behalf of the Consul-General.

  ‘It’s about who does the actual cutting,’ said Garvin.

  ‘I thought we’d settled that. Isn’t it the Jews’ turn?’

  ‘Yes, but if you remember, there was the problem about the pay. They wanted extra because it was the Sabbath.’

  ‘Well, we’ve fixed that, haven’t we? I got the Old Man to speak to Finance.’

  ‘Yes, but now the Muslims are saying, why should the Jews be paid extra? It’s rank discrimination. There’s a traditional rate for the job. Why should they be paid more?’

  ‘Because they won’t do it, otherwise.’

  ‘Ah, but the Muslims say they will. At the old rate.’

  ‘What do the Jews say?’

  ‘They say it’s their turn.’

  ‘Has this happened before?’ asked Paul.

  ‘It happens every year. There’s always been trouble about who was going to do the Cut. The way we resolved it is that they take turns. It’s worked up till now. It’s just that this year it’s different because it’s the Jews’ turn and the Cut falls on a Sabbath.’

  ‘Couldn’t the Jews still do it but at the old rate?’

  ‘They say that the Government would be going back on its word.’

  ‘Well, that’s not unknown, is it?’

  ‘They’re not going to like it,’ warned Garvin.

  ‘The Muslims are not going to like it either,’ said the Kadi. ‘They’re counting on getting the work now.’

  There was a little silence.

  ‘How about them both doing it?’ suggested Paul. ‘Together?’

  ‘They’d be at each other’s throats. And don’t forget they’d have spades and picks.’

  A further silence.

  ‘Why don’t we get somebody else altogether?’

  ‘What about the Copts?’ said the Copts’ representative eagerly.

  ‘There’d be a bloody massacre,’ said Garvin shortly.

  ‘I was thinking of British soldiers,’ said Paul.

  ‘There’d be a bloody massacre,’ said Owen.

  Yet further silence. Prolonged.

  ‘We could call the whole thing off. I suppose,’ said Paul. ‘After all, we don’t really need a cut, do we? We don’t even need water in the Canal. In fact, it would be better without it. Then they could get straight on with filling it in. Why don’t we just call the whole th
ing off.’

  ‘That way we really would have a riot!’

  The meeting adjourned without reaching a conclusion. ‘There’s still time,’ said Paul.

  ‘Not much,’ said Garvin. ‘The Cut is next week.’

  ‘I do think we should try to resolve this as quickly as possible,’ said the Kadi. ‘We wouldn’t want it to get out of hand.’

  ‘Why should it get out of hand?’

  The Kadi looked at Owen.

  ‘I understand something has come up about the girl? You know, the one found under the “Bride of the Nile”.’

  ‘The autopsy findings have been revised.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I heard.’

  ‘That Maiden thing? A lot of bosh!’ declared Garvin. ‘Muslim girl? Jewish diggers? A public occasion? Bad feeling? Big crowds? I don’t regard that as a lot of bosh.’

  ‘I don’t either,’ said Owen. ‘I’ve got people down in the Bab-el-Foutouh keeping an eye on things.’

  ‘If what I have heard is true,’ said the Kadi, ‘I think I would be down there keeping an eye on things myself!’

  At almost any hour of the day near the Bab-el-Foutouh, because of its position next to the Muslim cemetery, you would see a funeral procession coming down the street. First, you would hear the death chant and then into view would come a little procession headed by religious banners and closed by a horned coffin covered with a pall of brocade, borne high on the shoulders of the mourners, who surrounded it and took their turn in the work of merit. Sometimes there would be a bread camel carrying loaves for distribution to the poor and sometimes students of El Azhar carrying a Koran upon a cushion, or fikees reciting.

  When such a procession passed, the onlookers would first stand aside respectfully and then press forward behind it in sympathetic support.

  This time the procession was a small one and generating interest rather than excitement. Owen stepped in beside a vegetable stall to let it pass.

  ‘It won’t be like this when our Leila comes along,’ said one of the women shopping at the stall.

  ‘No. She’ll get more attention in her death than she ever did in her life,’ said another woman beside her.

  ‘It’s bad, though. She was a pretty little thing. And to think of her wasting herself on that old skinflint, Omar Fayoum!’

  ‘Ah, well, it didn’t come to that, did it?’

  ‘Perhaps it would have been better if it had!’

  ‘She was unlucky, that girl. Her mother ought to have seen to it before.’

  ‘She wasn’t there, though, was she? There wasn’t any family, either. There was just that mean old man and all he cared about was her bringing him his meals on time.’

  ‘Yes, but you’d have thought someone would have said. One of the neighbours, perhaps.’

  ‘They didn’t know. Not till they came to remove the hair.’

  ‘You’d have expected, though, that someone would have taken an interest in her when the mother died. With her being so very young. I mean, what happened when she started having her monthlies?’

  ‘She had to work it out for herself, I suppose. She wouldn’t have had any help from that old man, that’s for sure. Those water-carriers are a hard lot. Though they do say that when her father threw her out, Fatima took her in.’

  ‘Well, that was something. To think of that poor girl without even a roof over her head! In that condition, too!’

  ‘My old man says that Ali Khedri ought to be sewn up in one of his own water-skins and sent for a sail down the river!’

  ‘So he should! His own daughter! Mind you, she was wrong, too. Carrying on with that boy. When she was going to marry Omar Fayoum.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t carry on, if they were going to marry Omar Fayoum!’

  Both women laughed, then tut-tutted to themselves reprovingly.

  ‘We shouldn’t talk like this, should we? Not about the dead.’

  They completed their purchases.

  ‘I wondered where she’d got to. When I didn’t see her, I thought she might have gone back to her village.’

  ‘That’s where she should have stayed. Why did they have to leave? Water-carrying is no life for a man.’

  ‘She’d have been better off down there, that’s for certain. There’d have been women there who’d have known what to do. I’ve got no time for that old man but really you can’t blame him. This is women’s business. If she’d stayed down there all this might never have happened.’

  ‘Yes.’ They paid and began to move away. ‘Mind you-’ the woman hesitated. ‘They say it wasn’t that, you know. Not in the end.’

  ‘What was it, then?’

  The woman put her mouth close to her companion’s ear. ‘They say it was the Jews.’

  ‘The Jews? What would they want with her?’

  ‘What would any man want with a woman? Besides-’ Owen did not quite catch what she said but he saw the other woman stare.

  ‘The Cut? Oh, that’s awful-!’

  They moved finally away.

  Owen found a cafe in the Bab-el-Foutouh. Save for one thing, you could have gone past it without knowing it was one, since all it amounted to was an open door going down into darkness.

  Along the front, though, was an old stone bench, at one end of which some men were sitting.

  He sat down at the other end and mopped his face. At this season in Cairo the slightest movement made you pour with sweat.

  A water-carrier was passing on the other side of the street. One of the men hailed him.

  ‘It’ll be a bit easier next week, Abdul, when there’s water in the canal!’

  ‘It’ll be a bit easier for everyone else too,’ said the water-carrier. ‘They’ll be able to get it for themselves.’

  He came across to them.

  ‘From your point of view, then, I suppose it’s a good thing they’re going to fill it in?’

  ‘Until the pipes get here,’ said the water-carrier.

  ‘Pipes? What pipes?’

  ‘They have these pipes which send water all over the city.’

  ‘Well, I’m damned.’

  ‘Or will do. They’re doing it quarter by quarter. This one, thank God, is going to be one of the last.’

  ‘But it won’t be like the canal, though, will it? I mean, with the canal, all you’ve got to do is dip your pot in. You can’t dip into a pipe, now, can you?’

  ‘They’ll have spouts.’

  ‘But then it will all pour away, won’t it?’

  ‘No, there’ll be taps. You’ll be able to turn it on and off.’

  ‘Yes, but still-I just don’t see pipes getting anywhere. It’ll cost them money to put pipes in. Who’s going to pay?’

  ‘You are. They’ll charge you for the water.’

  ‘Charge for the water!’

  ‘Yes. And a bit more than I do!’

  ‘God preserve us!’

  Owen beckoned the water-carrier over. He gave Owen a little brass cup, undid the top of his skin, bent suddenly forward and shot the water over his shoulder in a glittering jet, straight into the cup.

  Owen thanked him and gave him a couple of milliemes.

  ‘No hurry,’ said the water-carrier, and stood patiently by while Owen drank.

  ‘Straight from the river?’ He took a sip. ‘Ah, it won’t taste like this when it comes from the canal!’

  ‘It never tastes the same,’ agreed the water-carrier.

  ‘It will this time,’ said one of the men. ‘The Jews are going to freshen it up!’

  ‘With a Muslim girl,’ said the water-carrier.

  The Muslim cemetery was not walled, although occasional piles of stones indicated its limits, but part of the open desert. The wind blew sand among the tombs, to such an extent that some of the older ones were nearly covered. Only the tops of the tarkeebahs, the stone or brick blocks above the vaults, were visible.

  The rich were buried in brick tombs with arched vaults, high enough for the persons inside to sit up comfortably when visited
by the two examining angels, Nakir and Neheer. The entrance was at the foot, below ground, so that after the body had been put inside, the earth could be filled in and the entrance concealed. It was not just the Pharaohs who had to bother about robbers.

  The gravediggers had just finished constructing the small porch in front of the door of a new tomb, roofed to prevent the earth falling in. Owen joined them in admiring their handiwork.

  ‘It’s not bad, you see,’ they said, inviting him to inspect. ‘The stones fit quite well, considering.’

  ‘Except there,’ said one of the men, pointing to a corner.

  ‘That stone was a pig!’

  ‘It doesn’t lie flat enough.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and get another, then, Hamid, if you’re not happy?’

  ‘Because that would make me even less happy.’ He looked round. ‘It’s hard work today. I could do with a drink. Where’s that idle sod of a water-carrier?’

  ‘He’ll be along.’

  ‘Why don’t we go and wait for him, then?’

  The men went over to lie in the shade. Owen went with them.

  ‘You need a drink on a day like this,’ he said.

  ‘Too true; and out here in the desert there’s not much chance of getting one.’

  ‘You’d do better by the river.’

  ‘We don’t get much chance of working there. The graveyards are all this side of the city.’

  ‘You’re probably glad when it’s your turn to do the Cut, then.’

  ‘We certainly are!’

  ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t do it every year,’ said one of the men. ‘Why do we have to share it with the Jews? What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘It’s always been like this,’ said another of the men. ‘One year it’s us, the next year it’s them.’

  ‘Yes. But why does it have to be like that, I’m asking? Why shouldn’t we do it every time?’

  ‘Because they’ve got their fingers in the pie and they’re not going to take them out.’

  ‘They’ll have to take them out after this. Because after that there’s going to be no pie!’

  ‘I don’t hold with that, either. Why do they have to fill the canal in? It’s doing all right as it is.’

  ‘Ah, yes. But that’s progress. That’s the modern world for you, Mohammed.’