The Women of the Souk

by Michael Pearce

And they were beginning to stir. They were beginning to come out from behind their veils and say something. That was what the awalim’s singing was all about. It was there in the voices of the young. The girls of the Khedivial, for example. Bright, lively and questioning. If revolution came to Egypt it would come from them. The Laylas and Maries, yes, and in the future, perhaps, the Minyas.

  It was a thought that had not really struck home before. Men didn’t see women in Egypt. They shrank into the background. Men took them for granted. But would they be able to do so when girls like Layla grew up?

  There was movement at the back door of the club and several people came out. Among them was the Shawquat boy. Owen went across to him and put his arm loosely around his shoulders in the intimate Arab way. In the darkness Ali took it for the action of a friend and went with it as Owen pulled him away from the group.

  ‘Greetings, Ali Shawquat.’

  ‘And to your greetings,’ the Egyptian replied automatically, and then looked at Owen and pulled away.

  Owen tightened his clasp.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘I don’t think I know you,’ said the Egyptian suspiciously.

  ‘I am a friend of Marie Kewfik.’

  ‘Marie!’ said the boy, and then, unexpectedly burst into tears.

  ‘How is Marie?’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’

  ‘How is that? She was with you.’

  ‘She was with me but – they took her away!’

  ‘So where is she now?’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She is with … friends.’

  ‘No, she is not. She is with enemies. Tell me.’

  ‘She is with enemies, yes. But – but they won’t hurt her!’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘They – they want money.’

  ‘From the Kewfiks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they will hold her until they get the money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘That is what they said.’

  ‘They said, when?’

  ‘When they took her.’

  ‘You were with her when they took her?’

  ‘Yes. I – I tried to stop them but there were too many for me. They knocked me to the ground and stood over me. And when I looked up, Marie was gone and I shouted and cried out to them. But they bade me be silent or harm would befall me and her.’

  ‘They took her when she was walking with you: how was that?’

  ‘I couldn’t stop them! They were many and I was but one.’

  ‘But they knew you would be walking together?’

  ‘Yes, we always walked home together. After music.’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Yes. I used to play after school. In the playground. People wanted me to play, so I did, every day. And Marie came and listened to me. And then, at the end, when I had finished playing, we went home together.’

  ‘So they knew you would be walking home together at this time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did it regularly?’

  ‘Yes, I used to walk her home to her house, but not go in. The Kewfiks have a big house on the edge of the Geziret but I would not go in. They were too great for me.’

  ‘But they knew that you walked home together?’

  ‘They had watched me.’

  ‘Having seen that was what you did regularly.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded and looked down at the ground.

  ‘And perhaps I had boasted.’

  ‘Boasted?’

  ‘About Marie. She was great and I was little and I was proud. Proud that she would have to do with one such as me. And I boasted about it. I am ashamed now. Very ashamed. I am evil!’

  ‘Did you do bad things with her?’

  ‘No! Never! I’ve asked but she won’t let me. She said: “When you are famous then it can happen but not until then.” I would have kissed her but she pushed me away. But I did not mind that. I do not wish to treat her lightly. For me she is – a superior being, superior in all respects. Beautiful, and kind, and good. I want to be with her for ever. And I thought I could make it so with my nay. I am a good player, I know I am a good player. And she believes in me! I know, with her beside me, I can be a success. We speak of it often, of when we could be together. With her beside me, I – I will work harder. I can feel myself becoming better. As a musician you know these things, and I know I can do it. I can become worthy of her, and worthy of the music that speaks through me. Not all the time, only sometimes. But sometimes there is a flash and I can feel it inside me. And when it comes out I say: “Only you could do this!” and I think: when I am famous they will let me marry her! And so we dream together!’

  ‘How came it about that you fell in with evil men?’

  ‘They heard me playing. I used to play at school. At lunchtime or after school, when we had finished for the day. Of course, I wasn’t playing what I play now. Then, I used to play, well, what children like. Now I play the old songs. The awalim teaches me. She sings and I play. The songs are not written down, you have to learn them by ear. And then, of course, you have to shift them to make them suitable for the nay. Well, I can do that, not everybody can. But I can do it well. Sometimes I gather with other musicians and we listen to a song and then we play it among ourselves and come to remember it. Only we don’t all remember it in the same way. An ’ood player remembers it differently from a nay player. And then we all come together and there is a singer as well, and it is beautiful. Perhaps someday I will play some of them to you—’

  ‘I would like that,’ said Owen.

  ‘Marie likes that too. We go together to places like the Serpent and I would listen to the nay player and learn the songs. And then go through them with Marie.’

  ‘You would do this together?’

  ‘We did, yes, and it was wonderful!’

  ‘Why, then did you betray her?’

  ‘Betray her?’

  ‘You boasted of her. And drew the attention of those bad men to her.’

  The boy didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said: ‘It is true. I shamed her and shamed myself and in doing so, God forgive me, brought about her kidnapping.’

  ‘Why did you do this?’

  ‘I lost touch with myself. My true self. My true self loves Marie and plays music. But at the time there were so many other things going on about me. It seemed that the whole world was waking. A new Egypt was coming into being and we all wanted to be part of it. So we threw stones. It was childish, I know, but we wanted to do something to show that we were part of this awakening. Now, the men egged us on. And then, when we wanted to stop, when we did stop, they sneered at us. “Is that all you can do?” they said.

  ‘And then they turned to me. “You go with that Kewfik girl,” they said. “What do you do with her? Do you do with her what a man does?” and I, God forgive me, said, “Yes.” But it wasn’t true. She’s never let me, and I – well, for me she is holy. I would never wrong her. Never!’

  He began to cry.

  ‘And yet you let them take her.’

  ‘What could I do? They were many and I was but one. But, yes, I should have done something. I could have done something. But I was frightened, and it all happened so quickly, and when it came to it I did nothing, God forgive me! I did not even speak of it. I could have spoken of it to you, couldn’t I? But, to my shame I did not. Afterwards I wanted to kill myself. I still want to kill myself. If anything happens to her, I shall kill myself!’

  He buried his face in his hands and tears were running down his face. ‘Let me die!’ he said. ‘Please let me die!’

  SIX

  Minya came skipping through the school gates, singing. She came to the main road, stopped, and looked both ways, as Marie had instructed her to. Far away
in the distance there was an arabeah coming towards her but it was still too far away to be a danger. She continued skipping and singing, across the road, and there, on the far side, was the nice policeman.

  ‘Why, it’s my little pigeon!’ said Selim, affecting surprise.

  Then he scooped her up and carried her a little way, through the next crossroads before setting her down. Walking Minya home was no longer officially part of Selim’s duties but he saw it as a legitimate extension of them. Besides, only that morning he had seen a badmash lurking about near the school gates and decided to keep his eye on him.

  Minya continued carolling.

  ‘What is that you are singing?’ asked Selim.

  Minya continued.

  ‘The perfection of your eyes has quite overthrown me!’

  Selim joined in.

  ‘… and the music has increased my madness, I am left bereft and weeping!’

  ‘Why is he weeping?’ asked Minya.

  ‘Because it is all so beautiful,’ said Selim. ‘His heart overflows.’

  ‘Does your heart overflow?’ asked Minya.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Selim. ‘When it is nice music. Although not as often as it used to.’

  ‘It’s not my heart,’ said Minya. ‘It’s my feet. When I hear lovely music I want to skip.’

  ‘I might,’ said Selim. ‘But it’s one thing you skipping and it’s another thing me skipping!’

  ‘Perhaps you could dance,’ suggested Minya. ‘Men do that sometimes.’

  ‘I can still jump in the air,’ said Selim.

  ‘I’ll bet you can jump really high!’

  ‘Pretty high,’ said Selim modestly.

  ‘Go on. Show me!’

  Selim gave a mighty bound.

  Minya clapped her hands.

  Selim was about to repeat his bound when he realised that the arabeah had caught up with them and the arabeah driver was watching with interest.

  Selim converted the bound into a shuffle and then into a nonchalant walk.

  ‘Got children of my own!’ said the arabeah driver sympathetically.

  Selim dropped Minya off at what had become a familiar point near her house and went on his way. Then, ahead of him, he saw a little group of people standing around a recumbent form lying in the road.

  One of the figures turned to him.

  ‘You’d better get the Parquet,’ he said.

  Selim looked at the motionless figure.

  Yes, it was definitely a matter for the Parquet, and not for the hospital. He thought he’d better stay by the figure, and sent one of the bystanders to report the matter at the offices.

  Then he turned his attention back to the prone figure. The man was an ordinary working man, dressed in galabiya. There was a big patch of blood on his back. Neither the prone figure nor the patch of blood were uncommon things in this part of Cairo.

  ‘Any idea who he is?’ he asked the people standing around.

  ‘He works at the Kewfiks.’

  Kewfik? It wasn’t just that the name rang a bell it would anywhere in Cairo, but it rang a particular bell with Selim just at the moment. He didn’t know much about Marie’s kidnapping but he knew that his little pigeon was something to do with it, and that was enough.

  ‘At the Kewfiks?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. In the stables.’

  And now that it had been mentioned, there was a definite whiff of the stables in the air. Selim looked at the man’s hands and that confirmed it.

  He sent another man to the Bab-el-Khalk.

  Owen was talking to Georgiades when the messenger arrived. They both, of course, knew Selim, and while they had great respect for his physical strength and ability, this did not extend to mental gymnastics. Nevertheless, on a thing like this they respected his judgement.

  ‘Want me to go?’ asked Georgiades.

  Owen nodded; and went with him.

  The small knot of figures was still standing there when they arrived.

  Georgiades bent over him.

  ‘It’s as it looks,’ he said to Owen. ‘A stab wound in the back, by an expert, I would say.’

  But then most of the wounds in this part of Cairo were. Nor were such incidents uncommon. In fact, there was nothing to detain their attention. Except for the name.

  ‘Kewfik,’ he said.

  ‘Worked in the stables,’ someone offered.

  ‘I’ll go along,’ said Georgiades.

  Owen nodded.

  He stood there for a moment looking around him.

  ‘Anyone see it happen?’ he asked.

  No one had, but then in this part of Cairo that, too, was not unusual.

  ‘Who found him?’

  Two of the bystanders put their hands up.

  ‘Both of you? Together?’

  It was always as well, in these streets, and with these witnesses, to have some corroboration.

  They had they said, just been to the souk, independently, and been walking along the Sharia Hara en Nabawiyeh – yes, to the Tribunal Indigence et Prisons, and what was wrong with that? – when they had seen this man lying in the road. At first they had assumed that he had been knocked over by an arabeah, these arabeah drivers drove like lunatics, and had gone over to help (and search through his pockets) when they saw the wound on his back and decided to get out of it quickly. But other men had come by this time and it was too late to get out of it unwitnessed, and, besides, there was much to talk about. And then this policeman had come along and started asking questions and they had given their names and now it was much too late, and, besides, it was obviously the hand of God and there was not much that anyone could do.

  Who was it that recognised that the man had worked for the Kewfiks?

  It was Alou, and Alou was produced, and, though overcome by the fame suddenly thrust upon him, confirmed that he had recognised the man. He worked in the Kewfik stables. Alou’s sister’s friend’s cousin worked there too and they knew each other. Not well, he added hastily, just a passing acquaintance, and now passing on the other side of the street.

  By now, probably thanks to Georgiades, the Kewfik house had been informed, and a woman came flying up the street towards them and threw herself upon the body. She, it turned out, was the dead man’s wife, or would have been his wife if they had got round to it. Certainly there were children, lots, the number growing all the time, and could the Effendi—

  No, the Effendi, although boundlessly sympathetic, could not. Anyway, the body had to be certified first, and that was a job for the Parquet.

  Who was this, then? The Mamur Zapt. Well, now, that was different. Half the bystanders hurriedly went away, and the other half crowded round the dead man’s wife, who, of course, had been standing there for some time.

  It was, that is, what happened every day in Cairo streets: a body, a crowd within seconds, much excitement, a million words and not a hard fact among them.

  Owen moved away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man in a smart suit and a natty red fez coming along the street towards them and knew it was the Parquet and that investigation should be handed over to them. The Mamur Zapt was not concerned with everyday crime in the streets, but only with political crime. And the only indication that this was a political crime at all was the name Kewfik; and that might just be an accident.

  However, he didn’t think it was.

  Georgiades was in the stables. As befitted such a great family, they were large. The Kewfiks ran to several carriages. At the moment hardly any were in use. The man of the house was in hospital. The wives were all tucked away in interior rooms, no doubt talking about the murdered stablehand. The servants were standing around outside where it was cooler. Two of the men, however, unliveried and with shovels in their hands, were talking. Not very animatedly, since this was just a minor stablehand and of no importance. Georgiades went up to them.

  ‘Just seen one of your chaps,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘He was dead.’

  ‘That woul
d be Ishaq.’

  ‘I was coming along to tell you, but you’ve heard already then?’

  ‘Man came ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Knifed.’

  ‘Another one. We’ve told Abdullah.’

  ‘Abdullah is your boss, is he?’

  ‘Yes, and he’ll be hopping mad. Another one! That’s two in the last week! He’ll be looking around for men if it goes on like this! And there was one last week, and another one the week before. It’s a good job the carriages are not much in use just now.’

  ‘The horses are still shitting, though.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And we’re still shovelling.’

  ‘And that’s true, too.’

  ‘Did I hear right?’ said Georgiades. ‘Four men in the last three weeks. That’s a lot!’

  ‘Four, yes, that’s right. Or wasn’t there another one?’

  ‘Are you counting Ali?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why so many?’ asked Georgiades. ‘Is there a war on?’

  ‘Sort of. It’s us against the Kauri boys.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look as if you’re doing too well.’

  ‘You should see them!’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything about this.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t. There was trouble in the souk last week and one or two people got hurt. It was us against the Kauri boys. And then the police stopped us and sorted them both out. And now it’s gone quiet because Abdullah says that with the Pasha in hospital, his wife, the senior wife, that is, doesn’t like trouble. So we’re holding our horses, so to speak, so I suppose the Kauri lads are doing the same. The bimbashi has been after them.’

  ‘About time too! They cause all the trouble.’

  ‘Ah, but do they?’ said Georgiades. ‘Some people were saying that it was your lot that had started it.’

  ‘Oh, no, come on—’

  ‘That’s what they said.’

  ‘It’s a pack of lies. He came to pieces in my hands!’ said one man, laughing.

  ‘Abdullah says, don’t let it happen again. Not for the next week or two, anyway.’

  The stables of the big Pashas were always at loggerheads, Georgiades knew that. But what had led to this latest outbreak?

  Owen had let Ali Shawquat go. The musician seemed harmless enough, but Owen had warned him to stay in the area, near or in the family house. Their chances of making contact with Marie’s kidnappers, and Marie herself might depend on this. The broken nay player had assured him that he would. He had failed Marie when the kidnappers had surrounded them and taken Marie away but he would not, he swore, fail her again.