The Women of the Souk

by Michael Pearce

  ‘You could say that the strain was telling on Marie’s family and you were afraid her mother might die.’

  ‘That would only make them think they were getting somewhere. That we would have to give in soon.’

  ‘The strain might be telling on Marie, too. You could say that if they didn’t watch out, they might kill the goose that was laying the golden egg.’

  Owen shook his head.

  ‘That would be open to the same objection. If they really thought that, they might think that they were soon going to be able to close the deal.’

  ‘I just want to help.’

  ‘I know. But I don’t want to lose you as well as Marie. And we have to think of your parents too.’

  ‘They’re pretty tough …’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not. I know you want to help, and maybe there’ll be something you can do later. But not this.’

  ‘It’s just that nothing seems to be happening.’

  ‘But it is. And part of this is waiting for the other side to crumble.’

  ‘I suppose this is the way it has to be in negotiations?’

  ‘It is. And especially when someone’s life is at stake. None of us likes it.’

  As she went out, he said: ‘If I can see a place for you later, I won’t forget.’

  Nikos was conducting his operations from a small room in the Khan-el-Kalil, a corner of the great mosque area. It had belonged to one of the banks and was used by them as a poor man’s counting house – a place where poorer Egyptians went to settle their debts. There wasn’t much to it. It consisted really of a single room with a counter. Customers would come in and wait for their turn to be summoned to the counter. They sat on the floor with their back against the walls and went up to the counter when their names were called. They would sometimes wait for hours and the walls were grimy with the dirt from their turbans. At the counter, the coins would be placed on the surface and be literally counted by the two clerks. Then they would be put in a bag and either taken behind the counter to an office to be stored for a time before being passed on or else put down under the counter on to the floor to await collection, which would not be long.

  The sums dealt in were never large – the paper bags put on the floor contained a shop’s takings for the morning – and most of the money was paid out by hand. It was rumoured that the counting house was actually part of a larger bank which did not like to acknowledge this lesser side of its operations. Some people would never go to a big bank, they were put off by its impersonality and sheer size. They had always gone to a counting house and continued to do so. It had the confidence of its customers. Which was why it had been chosen as the operational site of the present transaction. All transactions took place in hard coin. Even grubby notes were suspect. This made settling difficult for a bank that had the job of finding the necessary coin if the sum was large, as it would be in this case.

  The room was small, dirty and dark. There was also an inner room into which people would go to hand over big transactions. It was probably a sign of confidence that the kidnappers had agreed to it. Nevertheless, it was equally possible that it was an indication of the unreality of their dreams.

  With so many of the ordinary poor in it, the room smelled strongly of garlic. There was no window and not much circulation of air. The room, like so many in Cairo, was underground and therefore – although this was aspiration rather than reality – cooler. Nikos drowned himself in eau de cologne before going in, which assisted negotiations because it convinced the clientele of the impossible richness of the man with the money.

  Nikos stayed in the smaller interior room throughout.

  At some point in the morning, three women appeared dressed in burkas and long veils. Two of them were actually not women; the third was Marie.

  A little later two more burka-clad figures went in. These were actually women. One of them was Layla, whose job it was to see that it really was Marie who was produced. Owen had thought a lot about this. He needed someone who could identify Marie. Her mother was too distraught to be able to manage this and he had considered a maid from the household. On further consideration, however, Layla would do it equally well, if not better. She knew Marie, of course and, Owen thought, could be guaranteed not to get in a flutter. Besides, it would make up for his rejection of her earlier offer.

  He went with her himself to the counting house where the inspection would take place, although he would not go in. Inside, Nikos would have a knife and a gun. Like all Owen’s men he knew how to use them. As a further precaution Owen insisted on the kidnappers being searched before allowing Layla to be taken into the room. They seemed inclined to demur but Owen insisted. Two further men joined the kidnappers’ side but did not go into the inner room.

  All this, thought Owen, and it was only an issue of a small portion of the exchanging money that was at stake. When the final exchange took place, of course, the money put down would be much larger.

  He met Layla beforehand in the Bab-el-Khalk. He thought hard about this too, but decided it would put the seal of authority on the proceedings.

  She would go to the counting house in the company of two burly women. Owen did not have any female police constables but he did have burly women in plenty. They, like Layla, were given careful instructions. One of them, Fatima, was Selim’s wife and huge, like him, a match, Owen considered, for any two normal men. She had been instructed by Selim to lay down her life if necessary to prevent any harm coming to Layla, and, probably, Marie. She needed no instruction, though. She and Selim were childless and children for them were sacrosanct.

  Owen said goodbye to Layla in the Bab-el-Khalk.

  ‘I won’t let you down,’ she promised, a little tearfully.

  ‘And I won’t let you down,’ he said. ‘All you have to do is give a shout.’

  A feature of the smaller room in the counting house was that there was a concealed observation window, installed by the bank for the protection of its staff. The interview with the kidnappers would be observed the whole time. There was also a door through which Owen’s men could burst in an instant if it was required.

  Owen himself occupied the observation room. He took an experienced, intelligent sergeant with him. With the two of them, the small room was stifling.

  He watched Nikos come in, then two men who he guessed were the kidnappers. One of them, it soon became apparent, had skills at counting. Owen made a note of him. Later, perhaps, they would pick him up.

  The kidnappers were nervous. If Nikos was, he did not show it.

  He produced two bags of coins and opened them on the table in front of the kidnappers, and then spread the coins before him. The men watched, spellbound.

  ‘Count,’ he instructed.

  The man the kidnappers had chosen as their counter ran expertly through the pile of coin. When he had finished, he nodded and the other kidnapper went to the door and signified that they could proceed.

  The three burka-clad figures had been sitting in the outer room, their backs against the wall. On the signal from the kidnappers inside, they passed into the counting room.

  Almost at once, Layla appeared with Selim’s wife. The third of their party waited outside.

  The identification was done in a flash. Marie removed her veil and Layla removed hers – although that was not part of Owen’s explicit instructions. The two girls stared at each other, both of them fighting back tears.

  Nikos nodded and Layla and Selim’s wife were shown out. As they had both instructed, they did not say anything to each other and proceeded to the Bab-el-Khalk.

  A moment later Marie left, accompanied by her guards. They disappeared into the souk. Although Owen had watchers, they lost sight of them.

  However, they now knew Marie was still alive. This was the main thing. Owen took encouragement, too, from the fact that everything had proceeded as they had arranged. That suggested that later, more complex arrangements could work too.

  All was proceeding as planned.

 
EIGHT

  Selim was agitated. He had been agitated all morning, ever since Fatima had gone off. Could they be trusted to get it right? Even Fatima?

  Eventually he could bear it no longer and went along to the Bab-el-Khalk. At the office they said that Owen was still out, and so was Nikos. What part Nikos had to play in all this, Selim was not sure. He had never quite been able to make Nikos out. He was different from everybody else at the police station. He stayed in his room and rarely went out. What he did in there all the time Selim couldn’t see. Something to do with paper. He always had papers in his hand and was always peering at them. Selim never peered at papers. His mind went into a fog at once whenever they were presented to him. Some people were born to play with papers, others not. Selim was definitely not. He had never been able to get on with Nikos, but knew that everyone thought he was very clever and that the boss trusted him, which was enough for Selim. Still, even demi-gods could slip up. And they had been gone a long time.

  He wandered out on to the street and back to his usual spot. It was early in the morning and the children were on their way to school. He looked out for Minya. He always did these days. He looked forward to seeing her happy little face, her cheerful little skips. If he had had a little girl he would have liked her to be like this. He had never been able to understand people who were unkind to children and it disturbed him. Lately he had fallen into the habit of going each day along the route on which he knew he would meet her. Often he gave her a sweet. Ever since he had seen her eyes light up at the scentmaker’s shop, he had got into the habit of popping into the shop and buying a boiled sweet for her. He had one in his pocket now.

  Ah, there she was! She had been looking out for him too, as she did every day now. It wasn’t just the sweet, she had got used to this big shambling man whom the Mamur Zapt, no less, had told to protect her. She knew he would. She could just feel it. She didn’t mind not going without Marie now, although she still thought about her a lot, and when she did would clutch hard at Selim’s great hand.

  This morning she was singing a little song to herself. It was one that Selim knew too, one that he remembered from his own childhood, and oftentimes he joined in, although he never sang it quite right. Sometimes she tried to correct him, although his voice would never go quite where it ought. It was, however, a comforting voice to have beside you as you went to school. Since Marie had disappeared, there had been other girls assigned to accompany her but after a while, recognising their redundancy while Selim was around, they had dropped out. Selim never dropped out. She had told her mother about him and how the Mamur Zapt had told him to look after her and her mother sometimes looked out for them both and gave Selim a cake, one of those sticky ones from the man at the corner.

  Things were going well for Minya this morning and she opened her mouth and sang out loud. Beside her, Selim joined in, in a low rumble and, hearing the two of them, sometimes other people joined in too. This morning everyone was singing.

  The Old Woman of the souk came out and listened and told her she was like a little bird. The Old Woman was talking to a lady this morning dressed in a long black dress, like a burka but not a burka. After a moment, this lady joined in too. She had a really lovely voice which thrilled Minya to the core. The lady was singing a song Minya thought she knew, but she didn’t quite, and when the lady stopped, she asked her what the song was. The lady said she didn’t know its title, she had learned it when she was very small, about Minya’s size, but she thought it was very beautiful. The Old Woman knew it too, and even tried to join in, but her voice was wavering and quavering and after a short while she stopped and said she couldn’t manage it these days. But the scentmaker came out of his shop and said that hearing such singing made his heart rejoice.

  Aisha, Mahmoud’s wife, on her way to school with her two small children, stopped for a moment to listen. It gave her an idea and that afternoon, when Mahmoud got back from his office, she suggested they go out for the evening. They hadn’t done that for some time but before the children had arrived they had gone out often, usually to a small club where they would dine and dance and listen to the music.

  Mahmoud lit up.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘before we get too old!’

  They discussed where they should go.

  The deciding factor was the music. Both of them were very fond of music but they had a very definite taste. Despite being a modern, Europeanised couple, and following French taste in many things, when it came to music they preferred the old classical style with its roots in traditional Arab music. Not the belly-wobbling style preferred by tourists and, these days, increasingly by working men, but the old music with its roots in folk song. But it had to be genuine and good. They both knew enough about it to shrink from the false folky rhythms that were springing up nowadays. The scene, though, would probably have changed since the days when they used to go out regularly. They wanted good players and a good awalim.

  And then Mahmoud remembered the Serpent of the Nile and what Owen had said about its awalim there.

  ‘Let’s go to the Serpent,’ he said.

  ‘Will it still be there?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Gareth said he’d been there very recently and the awalim was good.’

  Aisha looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Is this work or pleasure?’ she said.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Mahmoud firmly. Honesty compelled him to add, ‘Although, we might see that boy there.’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘The one who was going around with that Kewfik girl. Shawquat, his name is. Apparently he is a promising nay player. Although he probably won’t be playing tonight.’

  ‘All right,’ said Aisha. ‘If it’s a case of doing something for that poor girl, I don’t mind.’

  It was still early in the evening when they arrived and the place was only about two-thirds full. No singer was in evidence and even the main musicians had not yet arrived. There was just a kamanjah and a kanoon. The kamanjah was a kind of viol and the kanoon a dulcimer. They were often used as a low-key accompaniment to a singer. As soon as Aisha heard them, she knew that they had come to the right place. In the true old Arab music the tones were divided into thirds, which gave a distinctive softness and subtlety to the sound. Her Egyptian musical friends claimed that European music was deficient in the number of sounds it could produce. Certainly Aisha sometimes felt that Arab music was smoother and more subtle.

  They were still on their eggplants and quail when the awalim came in.

  The tall, black, imposing figure strode to the platform. The musicians, augmented now from the kamanjah and kanoon, sat at her feet. Aisha suddenly realised that the now-crowded room had fallen still.

  And then the awalim began.

  She sang first a very old, very simple song, a song which you might have heard in the nursery, and probably many of her hearers had. Then it modulated into an old, gentle love song, and then another, and then another. The music wasn’t like Western music. Her singing was part of the orchestral ensemble; it wasn’t being accompanied by the orchestra, it was integral to it. As it warmed up it seemed to flow, to become liquid. It poured around its hearers, until they too were part of the music, blended into it. The audience was absolutely quiet. Several of them were crying. Aisha felt herself crying too. The music seemed to reach right into the listeners, to go deeper and deeper until it touched the very roots.

  And then suddenly it stopped. No one seemed to be breathing, although several people murmured quietly, almost to themselves. And then, of course, the awalim broke off, bowed and stalked out. Behind her the room exploded.

  Gradually the applause died down and was replaced by a continuing appreciative murmur. People talked quietly, touched each other.

  Aisha became aware of a boy beside her, right at the front, next to the stage. He was weeping noiselessly. She wondered if it was the Shawquat boy.

  Moved by a sudden instinct, Aisha leaned across and patted him on the shoulder. He look
ed round at her, startled, as if he was coming out of a deep sleep.

  ‘Do you love her very much?’ she asked compulsively.

  ‘Yes!’ he said passionately. ‘More than—’

  He broke off, and the tears flowed.

  ‘Do you sing yourself? Or play?’

  ‘Play.’

  ‘What do you play?’

  ‘The nay.’

  And then another impulse rose in her, or perhaps it was a half memory.

  ‘Did you play for Marie?’

  Now the tears came irresistibly.

  ‘Or with her?’

  ‘How do you know about Marie?’

  ‘We’ve all been following.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I was at the Khedivial.’

  ‘Marie’s school?’

  ‘Yes. Although not at the same time. A bit before her. But in my mind she is still a schoolmate.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘Yes.’

  Aisha placed her hand on his.

  ‘She will be back. They will find her.’

  He wept unrestrainedly.

  ‘I let them take her away,’ he said brokenly. ‘I should have fought for her. As a man would have done.’

  ‘They were many and you were one.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let them take her.’

  ‘There was nothing you could do.’

  Of course others in the club could hear him crying. They looked at him, however, with nothing but sympathy. They didn’t know what it was about but they could understand that he was distressed, and, with the ready Arab sympathy, felt moved for and with him.

  Aisha decided to move him on.

  ‘You are a nay player? I like the nay. I tried to play it myself, but I was hopeless.’

  ‘It is not easy.’

  ‘When did you start playing?’

  ‘When I was three. My father didn’t like it. He said: “It is not an instrument for a man.” But my mother said: “He is not a man, he is a boy still, and a little one at that. And he has talent. You can hear it.” “I just hear noise,” my father said. “And so we should not listen to you,” my mother said. They let me play. And some of my father’s friends heard it and said: “The boy is good. And he will get better. And when he gets better, we will come and hear him.” And that pleased my father and he said: “Well, well, perhaps we will let him play then. Only he has to do other things as well. There are things to be done in Egypt.”’