The Camel of Destruction

by Michael Pearce

  This time, however, Paul was gone for a long time; so long that Owen decided he was not coming back and passed the contents of his glass into his own. Whereupon Paul, of course, came back.

  He saw his empty glass and stopped, astounded.

  ‘Even here?’

  Owen hastily signalled to the waiter.

  ‘Even here what?’

  ‘The liquidity base is shrinking. Or, as I suspect, the liquidity is shrinking and the base is taking over.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Owen. ‘Why are you rushing away all the time?’

  ‘It’s what I told you: cotton prices and all that.’

  ‘You’d better explain. I need to know how the Agricultural Bank fits in.’

  ‘Banks! I’ve had it up to here with banks lately. To start with, they work the wrong hours. Whenever you go along they’re closed and whenever you go to bed they start working. It’s all wrong. And do you know what’s at the bottom of it?’

  He sipped his glass and then, remembering that he might be called away at any minute, took another sip.

  ‘Modernization!’ he said.

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘It’s all these damned cables lying along the bottom of the ocean. Very dangerous, and not just for those unfortunate enough to be down there, the fish and the crabs and the lugs and so forth, but even for the rest of us up here. It’s all telegrams these days. You can’t get a decent gap between crises. Governments are crumbling because of it.’

  A telephone rang. Paul flinched and hastily took another sip. It was not for him, this time, however.

  ‘The banks are the worst,’ he said. ‘Especially right now. The cables are coming all the time.’

  ‘What are they coming about?’

  ‘Money, lack of; lending, too much of; borrowing, too much of. Belts needing to tighten. Bootlaces you need to pull yourself up by. I do find it provoking when banks take on this moral tune. It’s bad enough in church or in the Assembly. Coming from banks it’s, well, I was going to say, a bit rich, but that’s the one thing they claim they’re not.’

  ‘Paul. I need to know about the Agricultural Bank.’

  ‘The same as all the other banks: lent more than it’s got. Most of what it’s got it’s borrowed from somebody else. The trouble is that, with the general squeeze, the somebody else wants it back now.’

  ‘Who’s the somebody else?’

  ‘Other banks. Here and abroad. Hence the cables.’

  ‘Who owns the Agricultural Bank?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Oh no, now come on—’

  ‘I do. We all do. The Government does.’

  ‘You mean Zokosis, Singleby Stokes, that bunch of tricksters, work for the Government?’

  ‘The Government set it up. They manage it.’

  ‘They report to a Minister?’

  ‘Ah no. Well, perhaps at arm’s length. The length of the arm is particularly important because the Bank has to raise money in order to lend it to other people, it raises it from other banks, and banks trust banks and not governments. Why, I don’t know, unless it is that they trust them more not to ask questions and not complain about charges.’

  ‘They don’t seem to trust Zokosis and crew,’ objected Owen. ‘Not over this new loan, at any rate. They want a guarantee from the Ministry of Agriculture.’

  ‘Just at the moment,’ said Paul, ‘it’s a question of finding someone with the capacity to foot the bill. And financiers are always prepared to trust governments for that!’

  ‘I’m surprised the Government is even faintly interested.’

  Paul stared at him.

  ‘Don’t you realize?’ he said. ‘The whole of Egyptian agriculture is tied to the Bank. If the Bank goes under, so does just about everything else.’

  ‘It’s crazy to let yourself be put in that situation.’

  ‘It may seem crazy now,’ Paul admitted, ‘but when it was set up it was actually a very good idea. The fellahin had got so in debt to local moneylenders that the whole system was in danger of collapsing. The Bank was set up to make loans to small farmers at low rates of interest. It worked, too, until the recession came along.’

  ‘You think the Bank’s a good thing.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘The opposition don’t.’

  ‘Sidki and Abdul Aziz? They’re all in favour of lending the fellahin money. What’s upset them is that the Bank’s started calling loans in.’

  ‘They don’t like this deal with the Ministry over a guarantee.’

  ‘If the Bank doesn’t get that,’ said Paul, ‘it’s going to be calling in a lot more loans, I can tell you.’

  ***

  Barclay was waiting for Owen in a Lebanese restaurant just off the Clot Bey. He was sitting at an outside table and there was a young Egyptian with him.

  ‘You remember Selim?’

  Owen recognized the architect who had been working on the restoration of the blue-tiled mosque the day they had visited it.

  ‘He’s the one who put me on to it.’

  Grim-faced, Barclay led them through the tiny streets towards the Derb Aiah. Owen thought he recognized some of the places. Was not that the mosque itself just over there? Behind the houses? But the buildings pressed in, the heavy meshrebiya windows closed above him all aspect, even all light, was lost.

  It came as something of a relief when they emerged into a small square and saw the sky above them once again. There were some delightful old buildings in the square. One of them was so like the mosque that for a moment Owen was puzzled.

  ‘Surely—?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Barclay. ‘It’s a hammam.’

  A public bath house. But not unlike a small mosque. The façade was ancient and faced with the same blue tiles as the mosque had been. The design was not as intricate, the tiles not quite as gem-like. They did not collect the light and sparkle as those on the mosque had done. But to Owen’s untutored eye the buildings were of the same period and in the same spirit.

  When he came close, however, he could see that it was a hammam. The entrance was narrow and sunk below ground level. And a towel was hung across the door, which indicated that it was being used by women.

  Barclay led him past, turned abruptly up a sidestreet and then turned again so that they were, Owen judged, now behind the hammam and facing a tall derelict building.

  The smell hit Owen even before he got inside. It was an indescribable compound of rotting cabbage, sulphur, excrement and animal corruption. It was so awful that Owen could hardly breathe. He put his hand up over his mouth.

  ‘Sorry, old man,’ said Barclay, ‘but you’d better see it.’

  It was not very easy to see anything. At the far end, however, some daylight came down what might have been stairs and when their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom they edged towards it.

  Edged, because at every step their feet sank into something soft and rotten and foul, in which there were occasional little pieces of what felt like wire, which caught at them and threatened to trip them.

  The stairs at the end were not quite stairs because they were packed solid with the same sort of rotting material, so that they formed an upward plane rather than stairs.

  They went up and came out in the room alone. It had no roof, which accounted for the light. They could now see properly.

  The room was packed feet-deep with rubbish. There was household waste, green leaves, faded flowers, the offal of poultry and rabbits, broken pots and pans, rags and tatters of all kinds, peelings.

  In one corner of the room the rubbish appeared to be moving. And then Owen saw that there were dozens of cats, all tearing at something.

  A man came into the room with a wheelbarrow and tipped out some more rubbish.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ sa
id Owen.

  Barclay led him on. In the next room some goats were picking over the rubbish and there were more cats. Crouched down in the ordure were some legless beggars feeling over the slime.

  There was room upon room of rubbish and still the men were bringing more in. Some of the rooms were already full to shoulder height.

  The wall of one of the upper rooms had crumbled away and gave on to the roofs around. They went across to it and looked out. Immediately below, right next to them, was a series of domes from which puffs of steam were emerging.

  ‘It’s the baths,’ said Barclay.

  There were strange objects lying on top of the domes and it took Owen a moment to realize that they were cats. There were scores of them, stretched out, enjoying the warmth which came up from the baths below.

  There were also heaps of rags.

  One of the heaps got to its feet. It was a small boy, who greeted Owen warmly.

  ‘Effendi! We meet again! It is I, Ali!’

  ‘Ali?’

  ‘I arrange your meetings with Aisha.’

  ‘What?’ said Barclay.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Owen hastily.

  Ali came and took Owen by the hand.

  ‘Do you want a look?’

  ‘Look?’

  Ali gestured towards the domes.

  ‘You can look down through the holes where the steam comes out,’ he said. ‘You get quite a good view. Try this one! There’s a girl just down there…’

  ‘Thank you, Ali,’ said Owen firmly. ‘No!’

  A man, hearing voices, came up some stairs on the other side of the domes. He shouted indignantly.

  Several of the heaps of rags jumped up and ran off.

  The man shook his fist at them.

  ‘Those boys!’ he said furiously. ‘Always at it!’

  He saw the men through the wall and looked at them curiously.

  ‘A word with you,’ said Barclay.

  The man climbed out on to the roof and walked across.

  ‘Effendi?’

  ‘This,’ said Barclay, almost unable to speak. ‘All this!’

  He waved his hand at all the rubbish.

  ‘Keep me going for a long time,’ said the man.

  ‘It’s foul!’

  The man shrugged. ‘It’s handy,’ he said. ‘It’s not so easy to get wood these days. And by the time it’s got to you, it’s not cheap, either. Now this stuff, well, it’s not agreeable, I know, but it burns like wood and it’s a lot cheaper.’

  ‘You run your boilers on this?’ asked Owen.

  ‘That’s right. Fifty-six cartloads a month I take.’

  ‘That’s a lot of cartloads.’

  ‘We use a lot of fuel.’

  ‘There are more than fifty-six cartloads here,’ said Selim suddenly.

  ‘I like to think ahead,’ said the man.

  ‘You used to take fifty-six cartloads,’ said Selim. ‘Now you’re taking hundreds. Why?’

  ‘I told you. I like to think ahead.’

  ‘Why have you suddenly started thinking ahead?’

  ‘I’ve not suddenly started—’ The man stopped and looked at Selim suspiciously. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘what has it got to do with you?’

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ said Barclay, ‘and an extremely serious threat to people’s health in the neighbourhood.’

  The man shrugged again. ‘They’ve got used to it, effendi. It won’t do them any harm.’

  ‘What about the baker’s next door?’ asked Selim.

  ‘Look,’ said the man. ‘I’ve got to make a living the same as he has. If he doesn’t like what I do, he can get out. And that,’ he said pointedly to Selim, ‘goes for other people, too.’

  He shuffled back across the hot domes, kicking some of the cats out of the way. They came back again as soon as he had disappeared down the stairs. So did the boys.

  Barclay took Owen back down into the street.

  ‘Well, you’ve seen it,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen it. But—?’

  He had seen such sights before. They no longer shocked him.

  ‘There’s not much I can do about it,’ he said. ‘Try Public Health.’

  Barclay shook his head.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’s not that.’

  He looked at Selim.

  ‘It’s an old trick,’ said Selim, ‘if you want to get somebody out of a place. You make it unpleasant for them to stay.’

  ‘The rubbish, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Someone’s paying him to pile it up. He thinks he’s come into a fortune! He doesn’t realize his turn will come.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘It’s your friend again, the developer,’ said Barclay. ‘Only it’s not waqfs this time.’

  ‘I’ve looked at the map,’ said Selim. ‘Mr. Barclay has told me about the waqfs. I thought I would check on the properties affected. They’re in a straight line.’

  ‘The road?’

  Selim nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Owen. ‘I don’t understand. Which building is it this time?’

  ‘The baker’s. It’s right next to the hammam. Get that, get these houses behind the hammam, they’re all derelict—in fact, he’s probably already got them—take in the hammam itself, and what you’ve got is a whole big area.’

  ‘Why does he have to go to these lengths? Won’t the baker just sell?’

  ‘The baker doesn’t want to sell. He’s always lived here. The trouble is, business is being affected.’

  ‘By the smell?’

  Owen was sceptical. He thought Cairenes had a high tolerance for such things.

  ‘By the flies, the maggots. Even the Cairenes notice things like that,’ said Selim drily, guessing what Owen was thinking.

  They went round to the front of the hammam. The baker’s shop was tucked down one side. Perhaps they had even shared sources of heat at one time. The entrance, like that of the hammam, was below ground and a constant stream of small boys was coming out.

  They all held their arms out sideways, as if they had been crucified. Each arm was looped with bread. Egyptian bakers made their bread in rings which hung conveniently over an arm.

  One of the boys gave a pirouette as he passed.

  ‘Effendi!’

  ‘You again!’ said Owen, recognizing the monstrous Ali.

  Inside the shop the baker was talking to some of his customers. Owen recognized one of these, too: his friend, the barber.

  ‘You must resist, Mustapha!’ he was saying vehemently to the baker.

  ‘I would,’ said the baker, ‘I would! But what about these?’

  He waved an arm at his customers.

  ‘We will resist, too,’ said one of them stoutly.

  ‘We must get together!’ said the barber.

  ‘I’m all for that!’ said the baker. ‘Though I don’t think it will do much good.’

  ‘It will,’ said the barber. ‘You see!’

  ‘It’s no good,’ said the baker. ‘We’re up against the big boys.’

  ‘They can be beaten!’

  The baker looked sceptical.

  ‘In the end,’ he said, ‘it all comes down to power. And they’ve got it and we haven’t.’

  ‘We have powerful friends, too,’ said the barber.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said the baker. ‘Speak for yourself!’

  ‘The Widow Shawquat has, at any rate.’

  ‘The Widow Shawquat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What friends?’ the baker scoffed. ‘Hamid the Deaf?’

  ‘The Mamur Zapt.’

  ‘Very likely,’ said the baker.

  ‘And here he is!’ said the barber, catching sight of Owen in the doorway.

&
nbsp; ***

  As soon as he decently could, Owen extricated himself. There was no point in raising hopes he could not fulfil. There had been too much of that with the Widow Shawquat. He had allowed himself to be inveighled into promising help which he probably couldn’t give.

  He was beginning to wish now that he hadn’t responded to her letter, or that he had responded in a more guarded way. Nikos was probably right. The Mamur Zapt’s Box was a thing of the past. It might have been all right two hundred years ago when the Mamur Zapt had actually had power to do things and there was some point in getting in touch with him.

  Now there was no point at all. He didn’t have power to do things. All that sort of thing was handled by Ministries. OK, so they were unresponsive. That was not something he, Don Quixote Owen, could put right or compensate for.

  Nikos was probably right. In order to be able to function at all, they probably had to put distance between themselves and the people they served.

  See what a mess you got in if you wandered around! He would do much better to stay in his office like Nikos.

  ‘Something ought to be done,’ said Barclay.

  Heavens, he was at it, too. He really ought to know better. He was in the Public Service himself, wasn’t he?

  ‘Maybe, but I’m not sure I’m the one who can do it.’

  Barclay looked disappointed.

  ‘Who is?’ asked Selim.

  ‘It’s really a planning matter, isn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t have the powers,’ said Barclay dejectedly.

  ‘In that case it’s a matter for the politicians.’

  ‘But you are the politicians!’ said Selim.

  ‘No, we’re not!’ said Owen and Barclay together.

  ‘But—you’re the ones who exercise power.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, old boy,’ said Barclay. ‘Not much power about where I’m sitting.’

  Selim looked at Owen.

  ‘Nor where I’m sitting, either.’

  Selim made a gesture of helplessness.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but I don’t understand. I always thought—as an Egyptian—that the British controlled everything. Ministries have to do what they tell them. The Khedive is in their hands. The Army, the Police—’

  Barclay looked at Owen.

  ‘It doesn’t quite work like that. There are—limits. We have to work with others. The Ministers—the Khedive, even—we don’t just tell them what to do. We sort of—work at it between us.’