The Donkey-Vous

by Michael Pearce

“They’ve been quiet since the last time we gave them a dusting,” said an officer who hadn’t previously spoken.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’ve given up,” said the eager young subaltern who had read all about it. “According to this chap, they’ve got tentacles all over the place. Chop one off and they merely stretch out another.”

  “The French have more to worry about than we have,” said John.

  “Yes, they’re strong in Tunisia and Morocco, of course. But this chap says they’ve got ambitions all over North Africa. And Egypt, he says, is a special target.”

  “Suez,” said one of the young men knowledgeably.

  “India,” said another.

  “Yes, they could threaten our supply routes, all right.”

  The subalterns looked grave.

  “And you think they could be behind these kidnappings, sir?” one of them asked Owen.

  “No, no, no. Highly unlikely.”

  “But I’ve heard—” said the first young officer doggedly.

  “Just a possibility.”

  “All the same—”

  “I don’t think Captain Owen wants to say any more just now, Stephens,” one of the others, more senior, cut in.

  “Oh, I see. Sorry, sir!” said Stephens, abashed.

  “I think we all understand, sir,” said the more senior one, turning to Owen. “You can count on us.”

  “Well, it’s not quite—”

  “The civilians. We understand, sir.”

  “The civilians. Of course!” said the others.

  “Don’t want them to get rattled,” said someone.

  “We won’t say a word. You can rely on us. But when you need us—”

  “We will be ready,” someone finished for him.

  “Thank you,” said Owen, at a loss.

  John led him out, leaving the subalterns gathered in a tight group, heads all together, quiet but buoyant.

  “What the bloody hell’s all this?” asked John, the moment he got Owen outside.

  “I didn’t say anything!” Owen protested.

  “Yes, but is there anything in it?”

  “No!” Owen told him.

  “Nothing much to go on,” said John. “In fact, bloody nothing to go on. Hope it doesn’t get around, though. The Army twitches whenever it hears the word ‘Senussi.’”

  ***

  The Army twitched. Owen’s phone never stopped ringing. He was asked by all and sundry for “appraisals” of the Senussi threat. Losing his patience—Mahmoud wasn’t the only one who was volatile—he took to referring them to Army Intelligence as this was an Army matter. Ah yes, said some of the inquirers, but what about the civilian threat? What civilian threat? said Owen, and banged the phone down.

  Curiously, the whole business redounded to Owen’s credit. The Mamur Zapt, it was well known, was a deep one. If he denied something you could be sure he had his reasons for doing so. Of course he wouldn’t let on. You couldn’t expect him to. He kept a cool front, went to the opera, went to the Club as usual, played tennis. But behind the scenes he was very active.

  He was, for instance, in close touch with the Sirdar. Not directly, of course, he was too wily for that, but he had been seen playing tennis with one of the Sirdar’s aides. You could make of that what you would! The Army, certainly, was making preparations.

  Owen knew what he was doing, there was no doubt about that. But he had his problems. Those damned Gyppies! Could they be relied upon? Take those kidnappings: there was talk that the Senussi were involved, and certainly the Mamur Zapt was taking quite an interest in them. But the Parquet’s investigation hadn’t got very far, and why was that? It was because when you got down to it those damned Gyppies weren’t sure whose side they were on. How hard were they trying? Did they want to clear things up? Or were they content not to press things too hard, not wanting to rock the boat so far as the Senussi were concerned in case there might come a time when it would be politic to have been friends with Senussi agents.

  The word “Senussi” was on everyone’s lips. How it came there Owen could not be sure. But wherever he went he couldn’t escape it.

  When he went to Shepheard’s, for example, to check with Mahmoud how things were going (Mahmoud wasn’t there), he saw Lucy Colthorpe Hartley on the terrace and went out to have a word with her. She was talking to Naylor and Owen overheard part of their conversation.

  “It’s the Senussi, you see,” he heard Naylor say as he approached.

  “The Senussi?”

  “They’re a sect, a great Mohammedan sect, based out in the Sahara. In fact, to all intents and purposes, they control it. They French have no end of trouble with them. Tunisia, Morocco, Libya—they’re strong in all of them. And they’ve got their eyes on Egypt. Well, they’ll find us a harder nut to crack than the French, I can assure you. We’ll be ready for them! Just let them come our way and we’ll give them

  what-for!”

  “Yes, but how exactly—I mean, poor Daddy—”

  “Oh, they’re behind it.”

  “But why should they pick on poor Daddy?”

  “Money. They need money to buy arms. And to finance their filthy propaganda.”

  “And so they kidnap Daddy?” Lucy glanced up. “Oh, hallo, Captain Owen. Do come and join us. Gerald was telling me about the Senussi.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” muttered Naylor, a little embarrassed.

  “I’m sure you know all about the Senussi, Captain Owen.”

  Owen had no intention of entering into competition.

  “A little. But there’s no real evidence that they have any connection with your father’s disappearance, Miss Colthorpe Hartley.”

  “Just a possibility,” muttered Naylor, backing off shame-facedly.

  “I’ve heard of the Senussi,” said Lucy unexpectedly. “Aren’t they very fanatical?”

  “They’re very strict in their behavior. They are not allowed to smoke or drink or even take coffee, which is quite a hardship for an Arab, Miss Colthorpe Hartley. They have to give up all things of the flesh—”

  “Oh dear!” said Lucy.

  “—and that includes such things as dancing—”

  “I don’t think I’d like that.”

  “—and conjuring.”

  “Gracious!”

  “All levity. That would be a blow for you, Miss Colthorpe Hartley!”

  “Thank you.”

  “They are forbidden to have any dealings with Christians. That includes doing business with them, buying things from Christian-owned shops, even talking to Christians.”

  “That is puzzling,” said Lucy, wrinkling up her nose. “I thought you and Mr. El Zaki were sure that it was someone working at the hotel. If they were doing that, how could they be Senussi?”

  “They needn’t be Senussi themselves,” Naylor broke in. “They could just be an accomplice. And it’s not just one. They’re all in it, you know, the whole pack of them.”

  “Yes,” said Lucy. “I remember you saying that before. Do you think they have an accomplice in the hotel, Captain Owen?”

  “They could have. But actually it wouldn’t be necessary to go outside the Senussi orders for that. A certain category of Senussi is permitted dealings with Christians. For business purposes only, of course. They’re called Wekils.”

  “And you think there could be a—a Wekil on the hotel staff?”

  “I don’t think we have to assume that there’s necessarily any Senussi connection at all, Miss Colthorpe Hartley.”

  “Quite,” said Naylor, remembering that he was not supposed to be alarming the civilians. “Quite so. You mustn’t be alarmed, Lucy. The Army is here to protect you.”

  “If the Army is all like you, Gerald, dear,” said Lucy, “I am sure I feel greatly encouraged.”

  ***
/>   There were fourteen for dinner at the Chargé’s. There were two couples from the French consulate, another couple from the Italian, Owen and Zeinab, Madame Moulin and the Chargé, a Syrian businessman and his wife, who hardly said anything the whole evening, and a visiting American lady who spoke a great deal, which served Paul right, who was supposed to be looking after her.

  Madame Moulin had taken a fancy to Zeinab and after dinner motioned to her to come and sit down on the chaise longue beside her. The Chargé had gone Arab to the extent of having dispensed with chairs and the guests sat around on cushions. In deference to senior visitors, however, which would shortly include his mother, who was, he informed Owen, very demanding, he had acquired a low chaise longue. Zeinab swept elegantly across the room and soon she and Madame Moulin were chatting happily away.

  French was, actually, the language Zeinab naturally spoke. The Egyptian upper class was thoroughly French in style. The children grew up speaking French and went to French schools; the women took their fashions direct from Paris; the men used French rather than Arabic in their normal intercourse at work. It was customary for wealthy Egyptian families to spend some part of each year in France, either on the Riviera or, more often, since Egyptians were unimpressed by mere sunshine, in Paris. They read French newspapers, went to the French theater, enjoyed French music (not Arabic) and Italian opera, collected French paintings.

  They also brought back to Cairo a taste for French-style conversation and the level of intellectual discussion was much higher among educated Cairenes than it was in the expatriate communities. The bright young men around the Consul-General and the Sirdar were much more at home in these French-speaking native Egyptian circles than they were among the stolid English. Paul was often in despair after another dour evening with the British élite and greatly preferred the company he met at Samira’s. The only drawback was that even at the most elevated levels you were unlikely to meet women on equal terms. The Ministers all preserved their harems. Even a person as free-thinking as Nuri Pasha, Zeinab’s father, would never think of inviting his wife or wives to a gathering such as the present one. It was only in circles where there was a combination of wealthy, relative youth, and a slight Bohemian flavor that women would be present who were at all emancipated.

  Zeinab, who was as strong-willed as her father and as independent as her mother, a famous courtesan who had rejected Nuri’s itself emancipated proposition of a formal place in the harem, found only a few circles in which she was acceptable, so she rather enjoyed social occasions like the present one.

  Madame Moulin, whose shoulders bore, though at a certain remove, some of the burden of the French Presidential mantle, was glad of the opportunity to talk to one of the daughters of France’s dominion abroad. She still considered Egypt part of that dominion, believing the present to be merely a temporary hiccup in the natural process of historical continuity. As with many French people, her imperialism took a cultural form and she was delighted to find so striking an example of exported French culture as Zeinab. Indeed, she was a little daunted, for Zeinab was more Parisian than she was. Her clothes rather exposed the provincial character of Madame Moulin’s own dress and they were worn with an elegance which, Madame Moulin assured her, could be found only in Paris.

  Zeinab appeared to lap this up, though that could well have been just politeness, for Zeinab took all this pretty much for granted. She was, however, intrigued by Madame Moulin’s description of domestic Provençal life, which seemed to her as exotic and, it must be confessed, unsophisticated as that of the Shilluk tribes in the furthermost reaches of the Sudan.

  After a while Madame Moulin beckoned Owen over.

  “You have a beautiful fiancée,” she informed him.

  Taken by surprise at this sudden formalization of their relationship, he found himself falling back on the Chargé’s “Naturally. Naturally.” He stole a glance at Zeinab’s face. It was expressionless.

  “I certainly think so,” he said.

  The French made much less fuss about the nature of relationships, whether formal or informal, than the English did. It was part of their general belief that whoever shared the French culture was French. It was quite all right, therefore, for a white to marry a black, or, in this case, a brown a brown.

  “What is important,” declared Madame Moulin, “is character.”

  Zeinab, puzzled, was half inclined to take this as a personal reflection.

  The Chargé, overhearing, thought that Madame Moulin was getting at him again.

  She was, however, thinking about the unfortunate Berthelot.

  “He should have been in the Army,” she said, looking at Owen. “It would have made a man of him.”

  Now it was Owen’s turn to feel uncomfortable.

  “Comment?” said Zeinab, at a loss.

  “Berthelot!” said Madame Moulin firmly. “This gambling of his. It is weakness of character. It runs in the family. On Moulin’s side. How many times have I told Moulin not to encourage him! But he took no notice. I told him again last year when Berthelot came. ‘To go is to encourage him,’ I said. But go he would.”

  “To Cairo?” Owen hazarded.

  “No, no!” said Madame Moulin impatiently. “To Cannes. Last year. When Berthelot came. He wanted Moulin to go back with him. ‘At your age!’ I told Moulin. ‘You ought to know better.’”

  “Monsieur Moulin was going there to play?”

  “What else does one go to Cannes for?” asked Madame Moulin scornfully.

  ***

  Nikos knocked on the door discreetly and stuck his head in.

  “He’s here now,” he said.

  “OK, show him in.”

  A stocky, gray-haired figure in a white galabeah but without either turban or fez came into the room. He was carrying a skullcap, which he fingered uneasily.

  “Greetings, Sidky,” said Owen.

  The man looked uneasy at this familiarity with his name but responded with the usual courtesies. Nikos took up position against the wall, from where he could see the man’s face. It was Nikos who had found out the details.

  Owen motioned Sidky to a chair, on which he perched uncertainly, as if the object and situation were new to him.

  “You have good fields, Sidky. What crops! Peas, beans, cauliflowers, pumpkins, mangoes, figs! And the watermelons! I have never seen such big ones.”

  “The earth is good,” said Sidky modestly.

  “It is good because it is well-watered.”

  “Mother Nile has been kind to us.”

  “Such a plot must be highly sought after. Was it always in your family?”

  “Since my great-grandfather’s time. The plots were small then. There was not much on that side of the river then—just the fields along the river and around the villages.”

  “The other water that builds a plot is the sweat of the men that work it. For many years now it has been your family’s sweat that has watered the fields.”

  “True,” assented Sidky.

  “Then why do you wish to sell your land now, Sidky? It is good land and you are not a poor man.”

  Sidky seemed troubled. He stared at the ground and fumbled with his skullcap. After a while he raised his head and looked at Owen.

  “It is good land,” he said, “and my family’s land. I had not thought of selling it. But one came to me and said, ‘That is good land and I will pay you well for it, Sidky.’ ‘That may be,’ said I, ‘but you will not pay me what the land is worth to me.’ ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Sidky,’ the man said; and he named a figure which took my breath away.”

  “Who was that man, Sidky?”

  “You know the man,” said Sidky, glancing at Nikos. “Otherwise I should not have told you. Izkat Bey.”

  “Did he tell you what he wanted the land for?”

  “He wanted to build there.”

  “
Building is fine,” said Owen, “but it seems a waste of such good land.”

  “That is what I told him. ‘If you want to build,’ I said, ‘there is plenty of land for that. Try Rhoda Island.’ I know about the island,” Sidky explained, “because my camels carry rubble for the building works there. That is why I am rich. It is not the farming. Farming is an honest trade and my fields yield well, but there is no money in it. With the money I made from farming I bought camels and with the camels I carry rubble. That is how to make money.”

  “And you have made enough money to be able to move away from your village and into the city.”

  “I sometimes think that was a mistake. My wife tells me it was. She preferred the village. She would still like to go back there. And perhaps we will one day.”

  “It will not be the same. Especially if Izkat Bey builds on your land.”

  Sidky shrugged. “I am getting old now,” he said. “My days of working are past. We have not been blessed with sons, so there is no one to work the land after I am gone. It would have to be sold anyway. My daughters’ husbands could work the land but they are not that sort.” Sidky stared sadly at his cap. “I have three daughters,” he said to Owen. “Three!”

  “Three!” said Owen in commiseration. “And no sons?”

  “No sons.”

  “For a man such as you,” said Owen, “the dowries expected would have been considerable.”

  “They were,” Sidky agreed fervently. “And still they expect more! It is my daughters now. ‘Our children will need providing for,’ they say. ‘Sell the land! Then after you have gone you will know that your grandchildren and their children and their children’s children will be able to hold up their heads with honor.’”

  “Honor is not just how much money you have.”

  “Try telling them that!” The wrinkled face broke into a smile.

  “How many grandchildren have you?” asked Owen, laughing.

  “None so far.”

  Nikos disapproved of this levity.

  “Have you any idea what is to be built?” he asked.

  Sidky shook his head.

  “No,” he said.

  “Izkat Bey already has a fine house. Surely he does not need another?”