The Camel of Destruction

by Michael Pearce

  ***

  The Agricultural Bank occupied the first and second floors of a large modern building in the Ismailiya Quarter. The ground floor was occupied by a furrier’s, which in the climate of Egypt might appear to err on the optimistic side. The Ismailiya, however, was the fashionable European quarter and its purchasers were thinking more of France than they were of Egypt.

  Owen asked about access to the Bank.

  ‘We don’t deal directly with the public,’ said the clerk to the Board loftily.

  He was another Copt, like Nikos. The original inhabitants of the city, before even the Arabs, the Copts seemed to take to administration naturally and settled in the Ministries like water finding its own level.

  The Arabs couldn’t understand it at all. They thought they had defeated them and now here they were being governed by them! It was another of the little things that didn’t help the popular attitude towards the Civil Service.

  ‘How do you deal with them, then?’ asked Owen.

  ‘We lay down policy.’

  ‘I thought you made grants to fellahin?’

  ‘We do that through the omda.’ The village headman.

  ‘And you don’t go out to the villages yourselves?’

  ‘I believe some people do.’

  He brought Owen minutes of the Board’s meetings and papers recently considered.

  ‘Self-explanatory, I think.’

  Owen detained him.

  ‘The thing I’m trying to establish is Mr. Fingari’s exact role.’

  ‘He represented the Ministry.’

  ‘I know. What did he do?’

  ‘He expressed the Ministry’s viewpoint.’

  ‘Which was?’

  The clerk gestured towards the papers.

  ‘It’s all in the minutes,’ he said.

  A Greek, expensively dressed and with an air of seniority, came through the door. Owen recognized him. It was Zokosis, one of the businessmen who had invited him to meet them at the Hotel Continentale. He shook hands.

  ‘I hope Petros has been helping you?’

  ‘We have some way to go.’

  ‘Ah!’ He sat down. ‘Try me.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m trying to establish what Fingari actually did.’

  The Greek laughed. ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘At least, I think so. I wonder what any of them do. Well, look, all I can do is tell you what he did for us. He attended Board meetings once a month. Meetings usually occupy the whole morning.’

  ‘And in between?’

  ‘Well, of course, there would be papers to read. Possibly he even drafted one or two papers. Although offhand I can’t… I’ll get Petros to check.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I really can’t recall…’

  ‘You know, Mr. Zokosis, you surprise me. You gave me the impression at the Continentale that his work was important.’

  ‘Did I? A businessman’s way of talking, perhaps.’

  ‘You wanted me to change the date of his death.’

  ‘Not quite as crudely as that, I hope. But certainly his death was inconvenient to us. You see, we were just negotiating—we thought we had negotiated, in fact—an important arrangement with the Ministry and we didn’t want to go through all that again.’

  ‘The arrangement was to do with what?’

  ‘An injection of funds. Well, no, perhaps that is to go too far. Let us say, the Ministry was going to underwrite a credit arrangement on our part.’

  ‘You were going to borrow money and the Ministry was going to guarantee it?’

  ‘That’s the general idea, yes.’

  ‘And Fingari’s role in this?’

  ‘He represented the Ministry in the negotiations.’

  ‘And was also on your board.’

  ‘Yes.’ Zokosis smiled. ‘It’s all right, Captain Owen. There is nothing underhand about it. The operations of the Bank are so crucial to the agricultural sector that it makes sense for the Department to be party to our deliberations. We requested the appointment because we wished to be open about our thinking.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. But that doesn’t seem to me to be quite the same thing as entering into a financial relationship.’

  ‘One is a natural extension of the other. Especially in the present situation,’ said Zokosis seriously, ‘with the whole agricultural sector in danger of collapsing. You are, of course, aware—?’

  ‘One has only to look at cotton prices,’ said Owen. ‘However, I am still wondering about Fingari’s role in the matter. Did he have the power to authorize the arrangement himself?’

  ‘Heavens, no! It had to go right the way up.’

  ‘And did?’

  Zokosis smiled. ‘I can see you’re still unconvinced. Would you like to have a word with our Chairman?’

  ‘You’re not the Chairman?’

  ‘Oh no. I’m merely Chief Executive.’

  He led Owen along the corridor, knocked on a door and entered.

  ‘Mr. Singleby Stokes,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, old man,’ said the white-haired, white-moustached man sitting behind the desk. ‘Don’t think we’ve met.’ He rose and shook hands. ‘Not been in the country long, of course.’

  ‘Four years,’ said Owen.

  ‘Ah well. Been here for forty years, myself. Started in currants in Alexandria. One thing led to another and here I am today.’

  ‘A banker?’

  ‘And other things. Plenty of irons in the fire. Safe pair of hands, that’s what I am. And if you’re like that, a lot of things come your way.’

  ‘Captain Owen was wondering about our arrangement with the Ministry. He wants to know if it’s bona fide,’ said Zokosis.

  ‘Bona? About as bona as anything is in Egypt, old boy. Absolutely copper-bottomed. Talked to the C-G myself.’

  ‘You’ve talked to the Consul-General?’

  ‘See him regularly, old boy. Tuesday evening, regular as clockwork. Get the old tables out. Whist. Bridge. Don’t go there to talk business, mind. Bad form, that. But the occasional word. Keep him posted.’

  ‘I see,’ said Owen.

  ‘You see,’ said Zokosis.

  Chapter Four

  ‘I myself,’ said the Under-Secretary impressively, ‘ordered it to be locked the moment I came in. And it has been kept locked ever since.’ Abdul Latif held up his hand.

  ‘The Parquet—’ he began.

  ‘Well, of course,’ said the Under-Secretary brusquely, ‘it was opened for the Parquet. But then it was locked again. Mr. Fehmi explicitly asked that it should be. And I, of course, was willing to conform.’

  ‘Mr. Fingari almost certainly had some appointments,’ said Owen. ‘Might not someone, the clerk in the office, perhaps, have come in to collect the diary so that they could cancel his appointments?’

  The Under-Secretary turned to the Chief Clerk. ‘Well?’

  The Chief Clerk shook his head. ‘Mr. Fingari handled his appointments himself,’ he said. ‘We had nothing to do with them.’

  ‘And you didn’t think,’ said the Under-Secretary sternly, ‘that when he died it might fall on you—?’

  The Chief Clerk studied the ground.

  ‘No, effendi. Besides, you had expressly said the room was to be kept locked.’

  ‘And you never went in?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Never, effendi,’ said the Chief Clerk positively.

  ‘The office was kept locked,’ said the Under-Secretary firmly. ‘Nothing in it was touched—’

  Abdul Latif twitched.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said the Under-Secretary impatiently. ‘The Parquet came to go through it. And then the Mamur Zapt came. they don’t count! No—one—else—went in. The room was left untouched.’

  Abdul Latif cleared his throat.

&
nbsp; ‘Abdul Latif,’ began the Under-Secretary, with rising fury.

  ‘Excuse me, effendi. But that is not so.’

  ‘Not so?’

  ‘No, effendi. The fact is, effendi,’ said Abdul Latif apologetically, ‘I went in. Well, I had to, didn’t I?’ he appealed to Owen. ‘If you don’t do the room every day, the sand comes in through the shutters and covers everything. You wouldn’t want to look at the papers, would you, if they were all sandy? So I came in and dusted.’

  ‘How did you get in, if the room was locked?’

  ‘I have a separate key. I have a key to all the rooms. This is my floor,’ said Abdul Latif proudly.

  ‘Separate key!’ moaned the Under-Secretary.

  ‘And where do you keep the key when you are not using it?’ asked Owen.

  Abdul Latif looked bashful.

  ‘I keep it next to my genitals, effendi.’

  ‘What?’ almost screamed the Under-Secretary.

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  Abdul Latif lifted the skirts of his galabeah and tugged out a massive bunch of keys from his woollen underpants.

  ‘Some keep them next to their heart, lest they get stolen. But I keep them next to my genitals, for that is a more sensitive place, is it not? I would know at once if a hand—’

  ‘Thank you, Abdul Latif,’ said the Under-Secretary. ‘That is more than enough.’

  ***

  Left alone, Owen went through the office once more. He had been through it already this morning and had little hope of finding the diary, but he wanted to make sure. Afterwards, he sat down in Osman Fingari’s chair and looked at Osman Fingari’s desk.

  The top was neatly arranged, with in-tray to the right, out-tray to the left, inkwell and brass pen-box directly in front. No doubt Abdul Latif had rearranged everything, but then he probably did that every morning and it looked as if Osman Fingari had been content to accept his orderliness.

  There was almost certainly a regular place for his diary. Abdul Latif, the other day, had looked straight at a spot on the desk and pronounced the diary missing. Its absence did not appear to be explicable in terms of ordinary office processes. It was beginning to look as if it had not just been mislaid.

  There was a knock on the door and Abdul Latif stuck his head in.

  ‘Would the effendi like some coffee?’

  He returned a little later carrying the tray Owen had seen before.

  ‘This is how Mr. Fingari used to like it,’ he said, placing the tray on the desk in front of Owen.

  ‘I see you know how to look after your master, Abdul Latif.’

  ‘Well—’ said Abdul Latif modestly.

  He poured Owen come coffee and stood anxiously by while Owen tested it.

  ‘Delicious!’ said Owen, smacking his lips with extra smack to show appreciation.

  Abdul Latif, relieved, poured him some more.

  ‘It’s good coffee,’ he said, ‘but not everyone likes this sort. They all bring their own little boxes, you know. This comes from Mr. Fingari’s, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Creatures of habit, are they?’

  ‘Never change a thing. But at least you know where you are with them.’

  ‘And Mr. Fingari was like that, too, was he?’

  ‘Well, he was. Or seemed to be. And then suddenly he was always going out. Especially at lunchtime. Mind you,’ said Abdul Latif loyally, ‘it wasn’t the way Musa says it was. He didn’t go out every day. And he certainly didn’t go at half past eleven!’

  ‘Popping out for some coffee? You surprise me, with such excellent—’ Owen took another sip.

  ‘No, no, no. And it wasn’t drink, either, despite what Musa says. No, it was business. He used to have these lunches. And I know it was business because once he forgot to take some papers with him and he sent back for me to bring them to him.’

  ‘He was in a café, was he?’

  ‘Yes, effendi. But it was not one of your ordinary cafés, such as you or I might go to, or, perhaps, you might go to. It was a place where rich men of business go and talk about important things.’

  ‘Really? Do I know it, I wonder?’

  ‘It is in the Sharia es Shakhain, not far from here.’

  ‘I think I know it. But are there not several restaurants in that street?’

  ‘I don’t remember. But this was one is where Greeks go.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Very splendid it was. There was an orderly at the door in a beautiful uniform, and he said: “This is not the place for one like you.” And I said: “I have some papers for Fingari effendi.” And he said: “Give them to me.” And I said: “No, for I was told to put them into my master’s hand.” So he let me in and I saw that it was sumptuous.’

  ‘Did you see the people he was with?’

  ‘I did not mark them, effendi. I—I was overcome.’

  ‘Nevertheless, they couldn’t have done their business without you,’ Owen pointed out.

  ‘True,’ said Abdul Latif, struck. ‘True.’

  ‘And, plainly, it was as you say and not as Musa says: business was being done.’

  ‘Musa is like a pair of bellows,’ said Abdul Latif. ‘All wind.’

  He picked up the tray and balanced it one-handed while with the other he dabbed at a spot on the desk and straightened out the pen-box.

  ‘You are a man of method, Abdul Latif,’ said Owen, watching him, ‘and therefore I am surprised that you cannot tell me when the diary went missing. You dusted the papers every day. Did you not dust the diary, too?’

  ‘Yes, effendi, I did,’ said Abdul Latif. ‘It was there on the desk. Until the Parquet came.’

  ***

  Owen took Zeinab to the restaurant for lunch. She was quite pleased about this as she had spent the morning in the Ismailiya Quarter shopping.

  ‘Greek would be all right,’ she said, ‘as long as it’s not full of boring businessmen.’

  It was full of boring businessmen but by this time, having traipsed around the Ismailiya all morning and then having come by stuffy arabeah to the Sharia es Sakhaim, she was prepared to settle.

  She was the only woman in the restaurant. Even in the modern European quarters it was rare for women to mix with men in public. In advanced upper-class circles, where the culture was heavily French, it was increasingly common for them to appear at private parties. But that was at home and among friends. It was the exceptional woman, or the foreigner, who dared risk opprobrium by appearing in public.

  Zeinab was quite prepared to play the foreigner when it suited her. Speaking French as naturally as she spoke Arabic, thinking French, and accompanied by someone who was manifestly foreign, she found this easy; and quite relished the assertion of her independence.

  Even so, in deference to local susceptibilities, she dressed in black and wore a veil, although her attire owed more to Paris than it did to Islam. Like many upper-class Cairene women, she conceded as little as she could to local fashion and tilted as much as she dared in the direction of Paris, from where she acquired the majority of her dresses, at prices which made Owen flinch.

  He flinched now when she showed him her spoils of the morning. Not that he had to pay for them; Zeinab received an allowance from her bewildered father, a wealthy, Europeanized Pasha. But Owen had lately begun to think seriously of marriage and was wondering now how Zeinab’s tastes squared with his income.

  ‘Stunning!’ he said, as she showed him the handbag she had just bought; though he was thinking less of the handbag itself than of its price.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it? Of course, it won’t do for everyday wear. Nor for special occasions. But I’m keeping my eyes open.’

  The restaurant was already full, so full that a latecomer, a Greek, like the majority of the clients, had to have a table brought for him.

  ‘Ah
well,’ said the newcomer, as the patron tried to squeeze him in, ‘at least you’re in the right business. You know what they say: serve food to Greeks and you’ll never be short of customers.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said the patron, calling for the waiter to give the table a perfunctory wipe, ‘the customers are short of money.’

  ‘You too?’ said the Greek, picking up the menu. ‘You know, that’s just what I’m finding.’

  ‘Everyone’s finding it. There just isn’t the money about. An apéritif?’

  ‘Why not? Better not have anything after that, though. They count every millieme these days.’

  The patron poured him a glass of sweet Greek wine and took one himself.

  ‘Work for the Government?’

  ‘If only I did!’

  The patron laughed.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they never seem short of money, do they? I get quite a few of them in here, you know. From the Ministries. It’s a good steady trade. It’s that that keeps me going, really. Of course, there aren’t many of them in today, it being Friday.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said the Greek, ‘I was hoping to meet one of them. A Mr. Fingari. He told me he often came here.’

  The patron looked round. ‘Not here today,’ he said.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Been here quite often lately.’

  ‘He was going to introduce me to some of his friends.’

  ‘He’s often here with friends. But I don’t think any of them are here today.’

  ‘You’d recognize them, would you? Look, I’ve got a job over here and I’ll be popping in most days for a bit. Perhaps you could point them out to me if you see them?’

  ‘Sure,’ said the patron, making way for the waiter.

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked Zeinab.

  ‘It’ll do,’ said Owen.

  ***

  ‘He’s claimed for lunch every day this week,’ said Nikos indignantly.

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I hope it is all right,’ said Nikos. ‘We’re running out of money under that heading.’

  ‘Journal transfer some in from another account.’

  ‘Are you crazy? We’d have to ask Finance for permission first. And that would direct their attention to it. Is that what you want? Overspent the hospitality allocation?’