‘Ah!’ said Miss Skiff. ‘But you don’t quite understand. In this case the responsibility is not general. It is particular. I used to include in my course a lesson on explosions—always very popular with the boys. One of the examples I used was the effects of combining picric acid with nitric acid. Hillal reminded me of it yesterday. We had been watching explosives and Hillal suddenly remembered that lesson. And if Hillal remembered it, perhaps someone else did, too.’
***
In the hammam the caged birds were singing sweetly. Recumbent forms were lying everywhere on the marble slabs. Some had pulled the screens across and from behind them came the subdued chatter of men either conducting their business or relaxing afterwards. The chatter in any case was almost lost in the continuous bubble and splash of the fountains. The fountains played into a large sunken depression in the centre of the room and men sat about on its edge, their feet dangling in the water. Around them graceful Moorish arches receded in all directions, some of them carrying the main dome, others the minor ones over the marble liwans and over the smaller baths. And everywhere men in loin cloths stooped over the recumbent forms and there was a kind of continuous staccato of cracking joints.
One of the recumbent forms was that of Georgiades. The Greek came now to the hammam every day and spent so much time there that Nikos had been moved to protest.
‘You’re not paid for just lying there,’ he complained.
‘Oh, but I am, I am!’ said Georgiades. ‘And it’s a lovely way of earning a living.’
‘Life,’ beamed the m’allim, ‘at least in my hammam, is a bed of roses.’
‘Take care,’ said Owen, ‘that among the roses there may not be thorns.’
The m’allim looked rather put out.
‘What thorns was the Effendi thinking of?’
Owen did not reply but continued to wander through the different rooms of the hammam.
‘What is the Effendi seeking?’ asked the m’allim, following him around uneasily.
‘I am just waiting,’ said Owen.
Georgiades, not a pretty sight, came through from the harara, wrapped in towels and dripping with perspiration.
Two men had just come into the meslakh. He nodded to them and then went on through to the beyt-owwal to dress.
The m’allim went up to the men and spoke to them. He did that to everyone who came in. He took their valuables and put them in a locker, saw that the lawingi had stored away their clothes and shoes, and then directed them on into the harara, where he assigned them a slab, saw that someone was attending to them, looked around the room to make sure that all was in order, and then went back to the reception room.
The two men who had just come in did not, however, seem to want to make use of the hammam’s services. After talking to the m’allim they went out again.
Owen followed them.
They went to a cart loaded with vegetables, the aubergines, tomatoes, and onions that the Egyptians loved. As they were about to climb up into it Owen stopped them.
‘Where is it this time?’ he asked.
The men looked at him stupidly.
‘The message,’ he said. ‘Where have you to take the message this time?’
‘We take many messages.’
‘The m’allim’s message.’
‘Did the m’allim give us a message?’
‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘As he usually does. Now that Hussein and Ahmet are not taking them.’
‘We know nothing about this,’ said the men uneasily.
‘Oh, but you do,’ said Owen. ‘I saw the m’allim giving you a message. And you have been taking many messages for him lately. You have been watched.’
‘There is nothing wrong with taking messages,’ said one of the men.
‘It depends what the messages are,’ said Owen. ‘Tell me about the message that the m’allim has just given you to take.’
Georgiades suddenly appeared behind the two men and took them by the arms.
‘Tell him,’ he said.
‘I know what message you have been taking lately,’ Owen said. ‘Did it not concern Sayed Ali?’
‘What if it did?’ muttered one of the men.
‘Tell me.’
‘They are not to come out for Sayed Ali now,’ said one of the men unwillingly.
‘What are they to do?’
‘Some are to go home, others are to hold themselves in readiness.’
‘For what?’
‘Things have changed. It will not be as was planned.’
‘So what will it be?’
‘Effendi, we do not know.’
‘You will have to do better than that.’
Georgiades tightened his grip on their arms and shook them.
‘This is the Mamur Zapt,’ he said. ‘Tell him.’
‘Effendi, we truly do not know.’
‘No?’
‘But—’
‘But?’
‘Something is to happen. We do not know what it is. But it will be something that all will remark. And applaud. And when it happens it will be a signal.’
‘For what?’
‘We do not know, Effendi. No one has yet been told. They have been told only to hold themselves in readiness. When the thing that is to happen, happens, then people will be told.’
‘And you have no idea what this thing is?’
‘No, Effendi.’
‘Do you know when it is to happen?’
‘Thursday, Effendi. So that it should not fall on the Sabbath.’
‘Because it is a bad deed?’
‘We do not know, Effendi.’
Owen turned to Georgiades.
‘Take them to the Bab-el-Khalk,’ he said, ‘and find out from them all the people to whom they have delivered messages in the last few days.’
***
Owen went back into the hammam. The m’allim came forward to meet him.
‘What is your will, Effendi? A fine bath? A soothing massage?’
‘Like the one you had Yussef give to Ziki?’
The m’allim gasped.
‘Effendi—’
‘Take me somewhere where we can talk.’
The m’allim led him to a small store room used for stacking towels. There was no window and it was very hot.
‘Effendi, you should not say such things!’
‘I say them because they are true.’
‘Effendi, I did not know this Yussef?’
‘Why, then, did you employ him?’
‘I needed another man, Effendi. To do the massaging.’
‘That is not what you told your lawingi. You said there was no need of another man. And then you employed Yussef.’
‘I changed my mind.’
‘That is true, perhaps. But why did you change your mind?’
‘Effendi, I—’
‘Shall I tell you? Because someone approached you. Perhaps they gave you money. They said: “Take this man into your service. It will not be for long.”’
‘No man came!’
‘Did he tell you to see that Ziki was served by Yussef?’
‘Effendi, I—’
‘Speak the truth. You did not speak the truth before when I asked you who had spoken for Yussef when you employed him. You said that Muhammed Ridwan had spoken for him and it was not so. Now that lie will count against you. Do not add to it other lies.’
‘Effendi, it is true that a man approached me but I do not know his name.’
‘Was he the man who came to you and asked you to deliver messages?’
‘Effendi, I know nothing about such messages—’
‘I think you do. Did you not get Hussein and Ahmet to deliver them for you? Messages, among other things, which, too, will count against you. And now, with Hussein an
d Ahmet gone, you have asked other carriers to deliver for you. They are in my hands and I have talked to them. So do not move from the truth.’
‘It—it may be as you say, Effendi.’
‘And was the man who asked you to deliver the messages the same man as the one who asked you to take Yussef into your service?’
‘No, Effendi.’
‘No?’
‘No. I speak the truth, Effendi.’
‘It was not the same man?’
‘No, Effendi.’
‘Who was it, then?’
‘Ziki, Effendi.’
‘I thought you said you did not know him? When we looked at his body?’
‘Well—’
‘Never mind, for the moment. Ziki was the one who asked you to deliver messages?’
‘Yes, Effendi. And he it was who first asked Hussein and Ahmet to deliver them.’
‘And the package?’
‘And the package, Effendi.’
‘Why did he not deliver them himself? Since he was a carrier, too?’
‘There were so many messages, Effendi. He delivered some himself but could not deliver all.’
‘So, then, it was another man who came to you about Yussef and who told you to see that he was assigned to tend Ziki?’
‘Yes, Effendi.’
‘And you do not know his name?’
‘No, Effendi.’
‘But you knew him?’
The m’allim nodded mutely.
‘You know him because he has been to the hammam himself?’
‘That is so, Effendi,’ the m’allim muttered.
‘Was he the one who came with Ziki? The man with fine clothes, who looked on people as if they were ants?’
‘That is the man, Effendi.’
‘The man smelling of roses?’
***
The effects of the changes in the High Commissioner’s security dispositions were not apparent at first sight. Owen continued to take direct responsibility for the Commission’s security, and British soldiers began to flood on to the streets only slowly. But flood they did, and after a while people began to notice.
‘I protest,’ said Zaghlul.
‘It’s no good protesting to me,’ said Owen.
Zaghlul gave him a sharp look.
‘So that’s how it is, is it?’ he said, giving Owen a friendly clap on the shoulder.
Zaghlul had been giving evidence to the Commission for almost two days now and, understandably, was looking weary. More than weary, drained. Even before his deportation to Malta he had not looked well and on his return Owen had been shocked at this deterioration.
As he left the room after giving his evidence he stumbled and would have fallen if Owen had not caught him.
‘It is nothing,’ he said, brushing the incident aside.
But Owen thought it was something and insisted on taking him to the hospital for a check-up.
He took him in his (Owen’s) car.
‘Hah!’ said Zaghlul, looking at it. ‘Privilege everywhere!’
‘Temporary only,’ said Owen. ‘I have to give it back next week.’
Zaghlul said nothing further, which was unlike him. Owen had always got on well with the Leader of the Opposition. He respected his prickly independence.
When they got to the hospital Cairns-Grant was, fortunately, there and piloted Zaghlul in to a series of tests.
Coming down the corridor was Zeinab.
‘What!’ said Zaghlul, aghast. ‘A woman! And an Englishman in charge!’ he added, looking at Cairns-Grant.
‘Aye,’ said Cairns-Grant, ‘and lucky for you, with all my best men away.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Abroad. Picking up knowledge which they can then pass on to Egypt.’
Zaghlul snorted.
‘And, incidentally,’ said Cairns-Grant. ‘I’m not English. I’m a Scot.’
Zaghlul, who knew Cairns-Grant of old, laughed.
‘Another oppressed people!’ he said.
Owen went back to his office. Just before he went home at the end of the day, a letter arrived from Zaghlul, thanking him for his help. He said that the tests had shown that he was diabetic.
‘Cairns-Grant assures me,’ he said, ‘that it can be treated and should not hinder me in any political career, provided I am sensible. “You will be able.” he told me, “to continue as a thorn in the flesh of everyone for years to come.”’
***
Miriam had taken to being Zeinab’s assistant like a duck to water. She loved every minute of her job. Nevertheless, she was seriously wondering whether she should go on with it.
The problem was not her but her brother. Asif had not said anything to her about her work in the hospital since his encounter with Miss Skiff but she thought he had gone on brooding about it. He seemed very cast down and Miriam could only conclude that it was because of her. She had expected anger and opposition but not this depression. Open hostility she had anticipated and was prepared, indignantly, to fight against. But not this sudden broken-downness, this near-collapse. She loved her brother and could not bear to see him like this. She knew how seriously he regarded his family duties and felt the weight of the responsibility left on him by the death of his father. She did not want to add to the burden placed on his shoulders but knew that she had.
Did she not have responsibilities too? Was not the burden left by the death of their father to be carried on her shoulders too?
She went to see Zeinab and said that, much as she loved her work, she would have to give it up.
Zeinab put her pencil down.
‘Are you sure about this? she said. ‘I would miss you greatly.’
‘And I, you,’ said Miriam. ‘I am so—so grateful to you for giving me a chance.’
‘Then why give it up?’
Miriam hesitated.
‘It is my brother,’ she said at last. ‘I know him and know that it is weighing on him heavily.’
‘But, Miriam,’ said Zeinab, ‘there are other responsibilities, too. To yourself, for instance. You should not give up everything just for your brother. You have a duty to yourself as well. And—and to other women in the same position as you. Didn’t you say that, yourself? Haven’t we agreed on that?’
‘We have, Zeinab, and I feel terrible about it!’
Miriam burst into tears.
Zeinab didn’t quite know how to handle this. She was herself a very self-contained person. She had always, in a way, had to stand on her own. She had never really known her mother or been able to draw on the support of family. Nuri, she knew, cared for her deeply but that was not the same thing. This was a kind of emotional intimacy that she had never known.
And so she did not know now how to handle Miriam’s tears. In a funny way she was more used to men crying. And men were often more labile in their emotions and were prepared to demonstrate them in public. They habitually put their arms around each other. She knew that her husband was still slightly disconcerted by this. He was quite prepared to put arms around her, even in public, which she herself, Zeinab, found rather shocking. Men, yes, but men and women? Faintly lewd at best, certainly immodest; and absolutely, impossibly, sexually explosive. Such behaviour should be kept for the house. Even Zeinab, who considered herself extremely liberated, felt this.
And now this crying!
Zeinab put her arms around Miriam. It seemed the right thing to do.
Miriam continued to sob against her for some time and then withdrew.
‘I am sorry,’ she said.
‘Of course you can give it up if you want to,’ Zeinab said. ‘But think it over first.’
Miriam got back to her forms and Zeinab, after a little internal shrug, did likewise. After a while she was able to think of a reason why she should go and call
in on one of the labs.
***
Zeid stuck his head in at the door and said that the boy, Salah, had something he wanted to tell him.
Salah entered beaming.
It had happened, he said. Something beyond his wildest dreams. He had been allowed to sit in the front seat of the De Dion and get his hands on the wheel.
And he owed it all, the driver said, to Prince Hamid. Hamid—at last—had seen him hanging around and had asked the driver who the hell was that boy? The driver had apologised—they would kick the boy out on the instant, they had always had it in mind—but they had let him hang around because he was so keen on the cars, the De Dion especially.
‘Really?’ said Prince Hamid thoughtfully. ‘Really?’ Then he had laughed. ‘Well,’ he had said, ‘he shows good taste!’ And he had told the driver not to kick him out but to let him get behind the wheel. ‘Give him a run,’ he had said, ‘around the courtyard.’
The driver had done that. He had done it more than once. He had gone further. He had shown Salah where to put his hands and feet and had laughed indulgently when Salah had had difficulties in reaching the pedals. The Prince had laughed too. ‘Give him a couple of blocks!’ he had said, ‘so that his feet can get down there. Then—’ and this was what Salah now told Owen with bated breath—‘he’ll really be able to drive it.’
Yes—he had said that! ‘Really be able to drive it.’ And the driver had said he would teach him, since that seemed to be what Prince Hamid wished. So that in years to come—years, mind you, as there was much to be learned—Salah might even aspire to be assistant to one of the Prince’s drivers.
Salah was ecstatic.
Very nice, said Owen, but what about the job to which Owen had assigned him? What about the two men who had come to the water-cart depot? Had Salah talked to the driver of the De Dion? Had he found out who the two men were?
Oh, yes, said Salah airily, his mind now on other things. Definitely not the place to take a De Dion to. Hordes of urchins eager to get their filthy paws on the bodywork he had polished so lovingly. It would have been better if he had been allowed to take the car right into the depot. But the two men had insisted that he stop outside and wait for them.
The Mark of the Pasha Page 17
