Mr. Colthorpe Hartley emerged from the hotel and walked determinedly across to join his wife and daughter. As he passed Monsieur Moulin he nodded very deliberately. Monsieur Moulin gave a start and then nodded back. Mr. Colthorpe Hartley sat down, stretched his legs and said loudly: “I’d like some tea, my dear.” He took the cup and settled back. “Hot, this afternoon,” he said.
“Golly, Daddy, you are good,” Lucy whispered.
Mr. Colthorpe Hartley meditated over his tea for some time, then looked again very deliberately at Monsieur Moulin. He looked away and then looked back. Something was troubling him. He leaned across, put his hand in front of his mouth, and whispered confidentially: “Fidget!” The Greek looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Come on!” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley urgently: “You know.” He demonstrated with a violent twitch of his body. The Greek looked even more baffled. Mr. Colthorpe Hartley repeated his demonstration. The Greek caught on and responded with a violent jerk. Mr. Colthorpe Hartley gave him an encouraging nod. The Greek, evidently concluding that Monsieur Moulin had suffered a fit of some kind, racked his body with violent spasms. “That’ll do, old boy,” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley. “Mustn’t overdo it, you know.” The waiters watched spellbound.
Mr. Colthorpe Hartley went back to his tea. Another actor stepped on to the stage. This was one of the hotel dragomans dressed for the occasion in a splendid robe and great curving red slippers. He bent impressively over Monsieur Moulin for a few seconds and then stalked across to the terrace railings and looked imperiously down into the crowd. The vendors lining the railings fell back uneasily. Spotting his chance, another vendor rushed forward and thrust a bunch of flowers up at the dragoman. Indignantly the other vendors pushed him out of the way. The dragoman watched the mêlée impassively. Then he turned and stalked back to Monsieur Moulin. He bowed down so that his long, drooping moustaches were dangling almost in Monsieur Moulin’s face, muttered something to him and then strode majestically into the hotel.
The little Greek clerk seemed rather overcome by his encounter and huddled deeper into his chair. Mr. Colthorpe Hartley glanced up, glanced away again and sipped his tea. A moment later he looked again. This time he frowned. Again the confidential whisper: “I say, old chap, it’s time you went. Imshi!” The Greek shot out of his chair, then stopped and looked to Mahmoud for instructions. Mahmoud came up the steps.
***
So far, so—moderately—good. It was what came next that was tricky, for now Mahmoud had nothing definite to guide him and was dealing only in possibilities. He had worked out three alternative scenarios. In the first one Monsieur Moulin was to rise from his table and simply walk back indoors. The second envisaged him walking down the terrace steps; and the third saw him being forcibly taken down the steps.
The first one was soon played and was indeed a bit of an anticlimax. The Greek stand-in got up suddenly and walked off and that was that. The spectators clearly wanted more. Mahmoud asked the residents on the terrace whether they had seen anything like this and they said no. He tried the waiters. They were divided. Some claimed to have seen him and described what they had seen in great and implausible detail. Others, equally definite, had seen nothing. The hotel reception was just inside the doors and if Monsieur Moulin had re-entered the hotel he would have passed in front of their counter. They were fairly sure they hadn’t seen him. On the day in question McPhee had checked with them virtually as soon as Moulin had been reported missing and they had said the same thing. One of the receptionists was Nikos’s informant and Nikos had said he could be trusted.
The second option had envisaged Moulin walking down the steps. Everyone acknowledged that this was a possibility but no one had actually seen him do it. But if Moulin had done that, what had he done when he reached the bottom? The arabeah-drivers and the donkey-boys were adamant that he had not approached them; they were even more confident that no one else would have picked him up—they guarded their rights too jealously for that. Of course, he could simply have walked off into the crowd. But walking was anything but simple for Monsieur Moulin and although it could have been easy for him to disappear into the crowd, he would have found it hard going to make his way through the crush and reach some harbor on the far side. No witness had seen him doing that. Mahmoud tried the tumblers and vendors, some of whom were sharp, observant men, but they had no recollection of an elderly man trying to push his way past them. The snake charmer was so bemused that he could hardly be brought to say a word.
By now Mahmoud’s arrangements were coming under severe strain. The crowd had grown still more and now stretched right across the street, blocking it in both directions. A few stranded arabeahs stood out above the sea of curious faces. Some way up the street a wedding procession had come to a complete halt. It was evidently a rich man’s wedding for there were musicians mounted on camels as well as the palanquin for the bride. There were probably jesters and mirror-bearers but they were lost in the crowd; although, as Owen watched, he caught the occasional flash of glass sparkling in the sun. This bride, thought Owen, was one who was definitely going to be late for her wedding.
The defensive ring of constables had already given way once or twice under the pressure of the crowd but each time, under the instructions of McPhee, had managed to reassert itself. It had lost ground each time, however, and one more cave-in would see the space at the foot of the steps disappear altogether.
Mahmoud evidently thought the same thing, for he hurried on with the third scenario. This envisaged Monsieur Moulin somehow being compelled down the steps. This sounded unlikely and proved so in practice. The pretending Monsieur Moulin had been allowed a little resistance and in fact he struggled so vigorously that his would-be kidnappers couldn’t get hold of him at all until one of them, a constable carried away by his role, tapped him on the head with his truncheon. The little clerk collapsed into immobility. Even so, the kidnapping party found it hard to carry him off down the steps without causing so much commotion that even those people at the far end of the terrace who were not in on the plot looked up to see what was going on. Mahmoud had initially tried two kidnappers only but as the difficulties multiplied had been obliged to add a third. Eventually they got the “body” down the steps; but what then?
Mahmoud had had several possibilities in mind. First, he tried to get an arabeah to the foot of the steps. This proved quite impossible, given the crowd. Indeed, for some time no arabeah had been able to leave its rank at all and the arabeah-drivers were complaining loudly. Then he had envisaged the kidnapped Moulin being smuggled away through the crowd somehow bundled up in a cloak. The little clerk recovered at this point and struck out feebly with his arms, which made wrapping him up difficult. The constable produced his truncheon again but was restrained by McPhee, to the detriment, however, of the realism of the scenario. Eventually the protesting form was concealed but then another problem presented itself. So tightly packed was the crowd that the kidnappers were wedged in, quite unable to move. After a few abortive efforts they stood there looking blankly at Mahmoud.
Mahmoud came down the steps and tried to force open a path for them. As fast as two people were prised apart, however, someone else stepped into the breach. The kidnappers left Monsieur Moulin standing and joined their efforts to Mahmoud’s. Unsupported and unable to see, Monsieur Moulin slowly toppled over. One of the kidnappers made a despairing effort to save him and was pulled over on top of him as he fell.
“Don’t remember this bit at all,” said the donkey-boys, straightfaced.
One of the constables abandoned his part in the defensive ring and came to help. Immediately, the ring caved in. The people who had been leaning against it fell into the space too on top of the kidnappers. One of the more public-spirited of them, finding himself up against one of the kidnappers and believing the whole incident to be real, not simulated, grappled with him in an attempt to prevent his escaping. Fighting broke out.
In the middl
e of all this the outrunners of the wedding, who had been patiently forcing their way through the crowd, arrived at the foot of the steps.
“Make way for the wedding!” the donkey-boys called ironically to the mass of people struggling on the ground in front of the steps. The leading camel of the palanquin broke through the crowd and sniffed, astonished, at the recumbent forms. The little Greek clerk, who had all this time been struggling to free himself from the wrappings which enveloped him, at last succeeded. As his head emerged he found himself gazing straight into the eyes of the camel. He gave a scream and burrowed back beneath the wrappings. The camel, startled, retreated with a loud jingle of bells.
“By God!” said the snake charmer. “That’s it!”
The palanquin threatened to capsize and the bride joined her screams to the general uproar.
Owen suddenly became aware that Lucy’s captive sub-altern, Gerald Naylor, was standing beside him. He was watching with fascinated disgust.
“What a shambles!” he said. “What a shambles!”
Chapter Five
Madame Chévènement?” said Zeinab. “But I’ve met her!”
“You have?” said Owen, astonished.
“She dresses at Jacques Griffe’s. That’s the one, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that she’s Moulin’s protégée.”
“I don’t know about Moulin,” said Zeinab, “but she’s certainly the sort of woman who would be someone’s protégée.”
“How did you come to meet her?”
“She was at Samira’s. She’s been there several times in the past month.”
“Samira’s!”
“What’s wrong with Samira’s?” inquired Zeinab, taking umbrage. “She may be fashionable but she is still—” Zeinab hesitated, searching for the word, and then used the French version—“intellectuelle.”
“No, no. It’s not that. It’s just that it’s a bit, well, high. Higher than I expected. Socially, I mean.”
The Princess Samira was a cousin of the Khedive’s. She had been married off at the age of twelve to an eminent official at the Ottoman court and had lived for many years in Constantinople. When her husband died the independent-minded Samira seized the opportunity to marry how she wished. Her choice fell on an elderly Bey living in Algiers. He continued to live in Algiers after their marriage; but one of the conditions of the marriage settlement was that for most of the year Samira could maintain a separate establishment in Cairo. She thus achieved both status and independence, two things difficult for a woman to achieve in an Islamic society, and was able to live her life pretty much as she pleased.
Zeinab, who wanted the same things, was impressed and instructed her father, whenever he raised the issues of marriage, to find her an elderly Bey permanently resident in Tunis; but not yet.
Nuri Pasha, one of the old, near-feudal landowners of Egypt, moved in the same society as the Princess Samira and, although Zeinab was an illegitimate daughter not even by someone in her harem but by a famous courtesan, this conferred on her something of the same standing. Samira welcomed her at her soirées, and Zeinab was glad of the opportunity to meet men, especially the intelligent, sophisticated men whose society Samira enjoyed.
Samira’s house had much the same role in Cairo society as a Parisian salon. At her soirées or afternoon teas one would meet people from the major Embassies, up-and-coming politicians, senior civil servants and interesting foreign visitors. One even, on occasion, met the Consul-General; certainly one met his bright young men. One also met members of the Khedive’s own family and entourage.
Although the criteria for being asked a second time to Samira’s were personal rather than social—Samira couldn’t stand dullness—there was a certain exclusiveness about her guests; and so Owen was a little surprised to find Madame Chévènement achieve so easy an entrée.
Zeinab considered the matter.
“She is agreeable,” she said, “but not original. I don’t think Samira would have invited her for her own sake. She must be doing someone a favor.”
“I didn’t think Samira needed to do anyone a favor.”
“She doesn’t. But sometimes it is politic to do one.”
“When the person who asks is important?”
“If they are important enough.”
“You mean…?”
“I don’t mean anything,” said Zeinab. “I’m just guessing.”
“Could you try and find out?”
“Why don’t you try and find out? I’ll be there this afternoon. You could come too.”
***
Owen walked in past the two eunuchs, named according to custom after precious stones or flowers, across a crunching gravel courtyard where cats dozed in the shade of the palms and in through a heavy wooden outer door. When he came to the inner door which led directly into Samira’s apartment he stopped and called out “Ya Satir—O Discoverer”—(one of the ninety-nine names of God), the conventional warning to ladies that a man is coming and they must veil. He heard scrambling inside and as he opened the door saw a female slave disappearing up the stairs to “warn” the Princess. He realized he must be the first male guest to arrive.
By the time he reached the drawing-room the ladies were already veiled. He saw Zeinab’s eyes sparkling at him from the other side of the room.
“I came early,” he explained to the Princess, “so that I could interrupt your merciless dissection of your male guests.”
“Why should you think that would interrupt it?” asked Samira. “However, I’m glad you came early. I haven’t seen you for such a long time and I want to talk to you. Come and sit beside me and make Zeinab jealous.”
The Mamur Zapt’s liaison with Zeinab was well known. In a place like Samira’s they could be a couple. When it came to entertaining within the British community, however, he was usually invited alone; which was one reason why he seldom went.
He did not remain the sole male guest for very long. First, a tall, thin, mournful-looking Egyptian arrived, the editor of the Palace “organ” and a fount of useful information which Owen meant to tap later; then two expensively dressed, rather languid Turks, who were, Samira told him, close to the Khedive. Next came a stiff young man from the French Embassy, new to these gatherings, who bent low over Samira’s hand. Samira, mischievously, introduced Owen as a great friend of France; then, as the young man began to express his very great pleasure, added: “Le Mamur Zapt.”
The young man’s words froze in mid-flow. Samira burst out laughing and then, repenting, eased his retreat.
“But, really, my friend, it is not so funny at all,” she said, “le pauvre Moulin! Why do you have to be so hard? Cannot you just let him go?”
“I’m not the one who’s holding him,” said Owen.
“Ah yes, but without you they would soon reach an accommodation.”
“I would be most happy for them to reach an accommodation.”
“You would? Then why…” She stopped to look in his face. “Tu es sérieux, chéri?”
“Absolument.”
“Well, then, perhaps it will all work out. But you know, my dear, you do have an inhibitory effect on things. Perhaps you should go away for a few days. Take Zeinab. Go to Luxor and see the temples. Haidar has a house there. I would ask him to let you borrow it. It’s a very nice house. There are orange trees and lemon tress. You would enjoy it.”
“I am sure I would.”
“No, think about it!” She linked her arm through his and patted his hand. “Seriously!”
He promised he would. She looked at him sceptically.
“You won’t, though, will you? Why so determined, my friend? Moulin is nothing to you.”
“I would be only too glad to see him restored to the bosom of his family. Or to the bosom of Madame Chévènement, which, I understand, is more appealing.”
&n
bsp; The Princess laughed.
“La Chévènement!” she said with a grimace.
“I understood she was a friend of yours.”
“The friend of a friend, let us say.”
“May I ask the identity of the friend?”
The Princess withdrew her arm.
“No,” she said, “you may not.”
***
It was the middle of the afternoon and the Street of the Camel was unusually quiet. Most of the residents of the hotel were taking their siestas and Shepheard’s famous terrace was empty. The normally importunate street-vendors had retreated into the shade. Even the donkey-boys had been driven reluctantly back along the terrace into the shadow cast by a slender potted palm.
On the other side of the steps the arabeah-drivers dozed in the shade of their vehicles or lay stretched out on the ground beneath them. Their horses drooped in the heat. Owen and Georgiades walked along the rank to where three men were sitting together idly casting dice in the dust. They looked up as Owen and Georgiades approached.
“Hello!” they said. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Georgiades dropped into a squat beside them.
“My friend,” he said, indicating Owen.
“We know you,” they said to Owen. “You’re the Mamur Zapt, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“We’re surprised you haven’t been along to see us before. Everyone else has.”
“Because everyone else has,” said Owen, “I have not.”
“Are you getting anywhere?” they asked. “You don’t seem to be.”
“I know some things now that I didn’t know before.”
“We do too. And one of them is how much a thing like this mucks up business.”
“You’re not going to run it all through again, are you?” asked one of the drivers. “The way you did it the other day? I can tell you that really did set us back. We were blocked in for hours. Couldn’t go, couldn’t get back. It cost us real money, that did.”
The Donkey-Vous Page 8
