A Cold Touch of Ice

by Michael Pearce

  ‘One moment, signor, one moment!’ she said, seeing Owen. The foreman was perfectly capable of disposing the loads by himself but she evidently felt that without her attention to stiffen him things might slide.

  Shouts from the street announced the arrival of the next group of camels and the foreman bustled out to deal with them. That left the porters to stack their loads undirected, which, again, they were perfectly capable of doing. The Signora, nevertheless, kept her eye firmly on them.

  ‘One moment, signor!’

  The arrival of the caravan was a key point in the life of the warehouse and Owen understood that for the moment even Mamur Zapts had to take second place.

  He walked out into the street to inspect the new arrivals. The camels’ flanks were heaving and they breathed noisily through their noses as their drivers made them lie down. Because of the camels already there, they had to lie further out in the street, and with their heavy loads almost spanning the gap between the warehouse doors and the houses on the other side, the road was closed yet again to further traffic. Custom, however, did not preclude protest.

  ‘Ya, Abdul! Ya, Abdul!’ came indignant shouts from behind.

  ‘One moment! One moment, O people!’ cried the harassed foreman. All the camels in the first group would have to be unloaded before he would be able to get a single one of them to move and so free space for the others. They had a strong sense of solidarity and refused to act except in a group.

  ‘Move your ass, Mohammed!’ came a shrill cry, rising above the hubbub.

  One of the drivers, a haughty desert man, looked round indignantly.

  ‘You shut up, you little bitch!’ he said.

  It was the ice man’s assistant, and there was the ice man himself, waiting despairingly with his newly loaded donkey, so loaded that it could not possibly squeeze past.

  ‘Ya, Abdul—’

  ‘One moment, Mustapha. One moment, that is all!’

  ‘The ice will melt, Abdul—’

  ‘Let me hold your hand, Amina, while you are waiting,’ pleaded one of the porters.

  ‘I know you, Suleiman,’ retorted the girl. ‘First it is my hand that you wish to hold; but then it will be something else!’

  ‘Your waist, Amina!’

  ‘Her tits, more likely,’ said one of the other porters.

  Suleiman turned furiously upon him.

  ‘You shut your mouth—’

  ‘She hasn’t got any,’ said the offended desert man, inspecting Amina closely.

  ‘If I had, they’d be too good for you!’ said Amina indignantly, and jabbed the rear of the desert man’s camel with something that looked suspiciously like a knife. The camel lurched protestingly to its feet, the driver swore and tried to force it back into position, the camel swung round and in the uproar the ice man’s donkey, prodded by the girl, managed to squeeze past.

  The driver cut at Amina angrily with his whip but missed as the girl ducked behind the donkey. The whip fell harmlessly on the packs of ice. The girl raised her head and stuck her tongue out mockingly at the driver, who brought up his arm for another blow. It was caught by Suleiman.

  ‘You do that,’ said Suleiman savagely, ‘and I’ll break it!’

  The desert man snatched out a dagger from his belt. Another porter grabbed him and wrestled. In a moment all was uproar.

  Owen stepped forward.

  Fortunately, the foreman got there first. With surprising strength he pulled the men apart and pushed Suleiman into the warehouse.

  ‘Suleiman, I shall speak to you! And as for you, Mohammed, you, a grown man, to let yourself be put out by a slip of a girl!’

  The other desert men gathered round the driver and pulled him back. But then they stood there in a little group facing towards the warehouse.

  Owen saw suddenly that the porters had formed a phalanx between the gates.

  ‘Get back inside!’ cried the foreman angrily.

  ‘I’ll kill him!’ shouted Suleiman, struggling against the hands that were holding him.

  ‘Get inside!’

  The porters hesitated.

  And then there came a voice from inside the warehouse.

  ‘Got any cotton this time?’ asked a crumpled-looking Greek standing among the bales.

  ***

  Cairo was always like that, thought Owen. One moment everything was going along peacefully; the next, they were at each other’s throats. It was what made policing tricky. There were so many quarrels waiting to happen: quarrels between those of different religion, different race, different nationality, even. It was the most cosmopolitan of cities. Italians, Greeks, Albanians, Montenegrins—they were all here alongside the native Egyptians, who were themselves a mixture: Copts, Nubians, Bedouin, Sudanese…

  And yet for the most part they got on together. Trouble was always threatening and yet so often a quarrel would be resolved just as it was reaching the danger point. And without any need for the police to intervene. As in this case, in the end.

  Everything simmered down. The porters went back into the warehouse, the drivers shrugged their shoulders and turned to their camels, the ordinary populace got on with its business, and bloody Amina and the ice man moved on. In a moment the street had returned to normal.

  ‘We haven’t unpacked the bales yet!’ the Signora was saying, in exasperated tones.

  ‘I thought you might have a list,’ the Greek said mildly.

  ‘Well, I have got a list, but just at the moment—’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ said the Greek, beaming, and wandered off to look at the loads still on the camels. A little later Owen saw him chatting happily to the drivers.

  ‘I have told you before, Suleiman,’ the foreman was saying, ‘that I cannot have this. You love Amina, yes, I know, but you are not her husband yet and the trouble she gets into is no business of yours!’

  Suleiman nodded sulkily.

  ‘So no more fights, Suleiman. Understand? No more fights!’

  Suleiman nodded again and the foreman released him.

  The porters had finished unloading the first group of camels now and the foreman wanted them moved so that the second group could come in. The drivers were urging them to their feet, no easy task, as always. With much snorting and grumbling and considerable reluctance now that they had been lying down peacefully for a while, the camels were eventually all upright and their drivers led them off. A similar process then began with the second group of camels.

  The Signora looked at Owen guiltily.

  ‘Signor, I have kept you waiting too long—’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I beg you to excuse me. But this is the first time I have seen to the caravan on my own and I thought that if I was not standing over them, they might slacken. They might think that since it was a woman—’

  ‘And in the heat,’ murmured Owen.

  ‘Exactly. But I think I can leave them now. And Abdul will be glad of my not being here.’

  She led him through into the house and then out into the courtyard he had noticed earlier. They sat down in the shade on a stone bench and a servant brought a jug of lemonade.

  ‘You wish to see me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have told you I know nothing about the guns. And I am sure that my husband knew nothing either.’

  ‘That is quite possible, since they were hidden inside the cotton. However, other things are possible too. Only possible, Signora, I do not say they were so. But I have to ask about them as well.’

  She nodded acquiescence.

  ‘Signora, your husband was a businessman, as others are: and, as others in the city have been asked, so, your husband was asked.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Money. By the gangs.’

  ‘You have been speaking to the Egyptian?’

  ‘Yes.
’

  ‘I tell you, as I told him, that is nothing to do with Morelli’s dying.’

  ‘Yes, I know. You said that it could not be, because the Signor had not refused to pay.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘And I agree with you: they would not have killed the goose that lays the golden eggs. However, there is another thing that I must ask you. Was it that they did not ask him for money but for something else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Could it be that they asked him to take the guns?’

  ‘Why would they want him to do that?’

  ‘Because they wanted the guns brought from outside and he had caravans bringing things from outside.’

  ‘He was not asked,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He is dead,’ she burst out. ‘Why do you ask these things?’

  ‘Because I want to know why he died.’

  ‘No,’ she said bitterly, ‘no, you do not. You only want to know about the guns.’

  ‘In seeking the answer to one, I hope to find the answer to the other.’

  ‘He was not asked for money. Nor for anything else.’

  ***

  Back in the warehouse the unloading had finished. The camels had departed. Just at the end of the narrow street he could see the last one, its rump wagging above the heads of the passers-by. The porters were lying down in the shade. Used as they were to working in the heat, the heat this time had been a bit much. Great beads of perspiration ran down their faces. The foreman, similarly perspiring, was pushing a last bale into place.

  ‘Hot work,’ said the Greek sympathetically. ‘And none too easy at times, either. Those desert men!’ He shook his head. ‘Out with their knives in a flash!’

  ‘It was Amina’s fault,’ said the foreman. ‘She shouldn’t have provoked him. And as for Suleiman!’

  ‘Well, of course, he’s keen on her,’ said the Greek. ‘One can see that.’

  ‘Follows her around like a dog. Ought to have more sense. But then, he’s as thick as a post.’

  ‘Thick or quarrelsome,’ said the Greek, ‘you’ve got to handle them haven’t you? But I tell you what: I reckon you deserve a coffee after all that.’

  ***

  Mahmoud came into the warehouse just as Owen was leaving. He put his hand on Owen’s arm.

  ‘You will be there tomorrow, won’t you?’

  ‘Certainly I will. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.’

  ‘Yes. Of course it will,’ said Mahmoud. Doubtfully, however.

  ***

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t, Paul. Sorry! I’ve got something on.’

  ‘Gareth, this is important. It’s a formal follow-on from that previous get-together. Everyone will be there. The Sirdar, Cavendish, the great K. himself—And you’ve got to be there.’

  ‘Paul, I can’t.’

  ‘It’s to coordinate intelligence for the whole area, internal and external.’

  ‘Can it be some other time?’

  ‘No, Gareth. Cavendish is only here for a couple of days and he’s a key player.’

  ‘Well, then, I’m sorry, but I really can’t come.’

  ‘Gareth, Al-Lurd is chairing this himself. He’s making it his top priority. Which means that it’s top priority for you, Gareth!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but—’

  Really, Paul was getting quite tiresome these days. Ever since Kitchener had arrived, and he had been made Oriental Secretary, he had been taking his work far too seriously.

  ‘K. is really not going to like this, Gareth. And you know what that means!’

  He could guess. The ruthlessness with which Kitchener treated his enemies was matched only by the ruthlessness with which he treated his subordinates. All the same…

  He just could not attend. It would mean letting Mahmoud down. At a time, too, when Mahmoud needed him, or thought he did. He just could not.

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul, it’s Mahmoud’s wedding and he’s particularly asked me to be there.’

  There was a moment’s stunned silence.

  ‘Mahmoud’s wedding?’

  ‘Yes, he’s getting married tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, I’m damned! Never thought he would. It just didn’t seem possible, somehow.’

  ‘You see, Paul, he’s particularly asked me to be there. I think he’s sort of nervous.’

  ‘Well he might be! Has he seen her yet?’

  ‘I don’t know about actually seeing her, he’s certainly talked to her. Once.’

  ‘I suppose the mothers arranged it all. My God, the things mothers do! I begin to be apprehensive on my own behalf, what with the earth shaking like this. I think I must write to my mother immediately: “Do not, on any account, marry me to some Felicity or other! Not, at least, without telling me.”’

  ‘Her father knows Kitchener. Apparently he served with him in the Sudan.’

  ‘Really?’ Paul thought for a moment. ‘Well, now, that could make a difference. In principle, K. is absolutely unbending on this sort of thing: personal considerations must never take priority over duty. But given that it’s an old mate of his…’

  ‘You think it will be all right if I don’t come?’

  ‘You’ve got to be there. Otherwise that daft ass Cavendish and his crazy archaeological sidekicks will foist some lunatic policy on us. No, we’ve got to think of some other way round this…’

  He brightened.

  ‘I know! I shall simply change the day of the meeting. Yes, that’s it. One’s got to keep a sense of perspective, after all. Which is the more important? The fate of the British Empire or Mahmoud’s wedding? Mahmoud’s wedding every time!’

  ***

  ‘Sir, Owen has just pointed out to me some major international difficulties with the timing of our meeting tomorrow. I am afraid I shall have to reschedule it.’

  ‘Damned nuisance. It means we’ll have to bring Cavendish back from Constantinople.’

  ‘No, no, sir, that won’t be necessary. We can arrange it for the following day, while he’s still here. It will mean one or two trivial alterations in your own programme, but that will be all.’

  ‘All right, then, go ahead.’

  ‘Actually, sir, there’s a happy by-product of the change in timing. It will mean that Owen will be able to attend the wedding of the daughter of an acquaintance of yours.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Ibrahim Buktari, sir,’ said Owen. ‘He served with you in the Sudan.’

  ‘Ibrahim Buktari? Splendid fellow! Give him my regards. His daughter, you say? And congratulations. Yes, and—and—wait a minute. A wedding? I’ll see if I can find something. You can take it with you.’

  ***

  In fact, Owen was not really called on until after dark the following day when Mahmoud went to the mosque to say prayers. As he came out, he was greeted by friends carrying meshals, cressets of blazing wood stuck on tall poles, who formed a procession in front of him to light his way. At their rear some men were carrying a large frame with about fifty lamps on it, arranged in four revolving circles. Then came Mahmoud and his closest friends—including Owen—each of them carrying a candle and facing the frame in a kind of moving circle. And exactly in front of Mahmoud himself were men walking backwards with huge crystal affairs in their hands.

  Just behind was a small walking band playing pipes and banging drums, which brought everyone out of their houses to see.

  They processed back to Mahmoud’s house and the awning-covered street, which was now ablaze with lights. Coloured lamps hung from the balconies and the meshrebiya box windows, bright globes, strung across the street, rotated above the heads of the men chatting below: men, because there were only men there—all the women were indoors. You could hear giggles and laughter from up behind the windows. Servant
s hired for the occasion hurried around with jugs of lemonade and large trays of sweets and nuts and sugar-covered cakes.

  Owen followed Mahmoud and one or two other close friends into the house, where sherbet and coffee was brought to them. No pipes—Mahmoud, strict in his observances, allowed neither smoking nor alcohol.

  Upstairs were the mothers and close female relatives, and, in a separate room, the bride.

  ‘Mahmoud,’ said Ibrahim Buktari after a while, ‘it is time.’

  Mahmoud rose reluctantly to his feet. Reluctance was part of the play, but it was clearly not feigned in Mahmoud’s case. One of the men went to grasp him.

  ‘We’re having none of that,’ said Mahmoud hastily.

  It was part of the joke to pretend that the bridegroom had to be carried upstairs against his will. Mahmoud, however, climbed the stairs firmly on his own account.

  ‘The price! The price!’ whispered Ibrahim Buktari urgently.

  Mahmoud felt in his pockets and looked panic-stricken.

  His friends pushed money into his hands. Upstairs he would find his bride waiting alone in a room, her head covered with a shawl. He would urge her to remove it, but her maidenly modesty would prevent her from doing so until ‘the price of the uncovering of the face’ was paid. Then he would see her face for the first time: ever.

  This was the key moment of the drama. The men waited below. Upstairs, the women clustered round the door as Mahmoud went inside.

  There was complete silence.

  And then suddenly the women broke into a joyous paean of celebration and everyone burst into smiles.

  A moment or two later Mahmoud came back down the stairs looking sheepish. His friends gathered round him and hugged him and led him back into their room and gave him coffee at once. He seemed to need it.

  ‘Now, Mahmoud,’ said Ibrahim Buktari fondly, ‘she’s not too bad, is she?’

  ‘She’s lovely!’ said Mahmoud fervently.