A Cold Touch of Ice

by Michael Pearce

  ‘We did not know about the guns,’ said Ali. ‘If we had known, we would have asked for baksheesh. But we did not know. Although some of the men, I think, suspected it, for they said: “There is a smell of baksheesh in the air.” But then they always say that. And Mohammed Guri said: “It is only the smell of your own backsides.” But then he always says that too, and it is only if a bale falls off and gets broken, and you see what is inside, that the question of baksheesh arises, for then it is a case of keeping your mouth shut, and money is the best shutter of mouths.’

  ‘Did a bale fall off this time?’

  ‘No, though there was talk of that also. But Mohammed Guri said there was no need for a bale to fall off, for he would pay us extra baksheesh when we got to the Signor’s anyway. So we agreed to that, saying: if there are things we do not know, then they are things we cannot tell, and sometimes that is best, especially if we are getting the baksheesh anyway.’

  ‘Mohammed Guri is the leader of the caravan?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And he knew about the guns?’

  ‘The leader always knows. And it is right that he should, for he is the one that takes it on his shoulders to see that the goods are delivered safely, and it would not be just if they were other than he supposed.’

  ‘Well, that is true. So, then, someone must have told him before the caravan left. And that would have been at Assuan?’

  ‘That is where the caravan forms, yes.’

  ‘You did not see the man who spoke to him?’

  ‘Effendi, many speak to the leader of the caravan. One comes and says thus: “This is a present for my sister, who lives at such-and-such a place.” Or: “My brother has sent me this tusk from Darfur, take it to such-and-such a man in the city.” There are many such, Effendi.’

  ‘Of course. And it is easy to miss a few words, quietly spoken. But what of the guns themselves? They would have had to be put in the bales. And surely they would be easily seen?’

  ‘It would have been done at night, Effendi.’

  ‘Are there not guards?’

  ‘But few. And it is easy to say to a man alone: “This is a good time, friend, to go and drink tea with Abdul, for I have many with me and we would not wish to be disturbed.” Or they will say, Effendi: “Here is beer for you, go and drink it elsewhere; and let no man know whence it came.”’

  Owen nodded.

  ‘Where is Mohammed Guri now?’ he asked.

  ‘Back at Assuan.’

  Owen nodded again and sent Georgiades into the office to fetch some money.

  ‘Take this,’ he said to the driver, ‘and drink deep. We give it for the information and not for the man.’

  Ali walked off with a confident swagger.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said Georgiades.

  ‘You can take the train,’ said Owen generously.

  ***

  Afterwards, he couldn’t understand how it had happened.

  Perhaps it was the heat. It had been stifling in Kitchener’s office. The big fan whirling overhead, the smaller one on Kitchener’s desk, another one parked on a table behind him, none had seemed to make any difference. The shutters had been closed, of course, with just one of them left open in a fruitless attempt to coax freshness into the room. The gap had let in just enough sunlight to allow him to see Kitchener clearly: the slightly bulbous eyes, the heavy moustaches descending sharply at the corners of the mouth, a mouth normally rather full and sensuous but on this occasion clamped shut.

  The rest of the room had been dark, but with a strange greenish half-light, the product of the green paint on the walls and the sunshine filtering through the green slats of the shutters. It had felt like being in a goldfish bowl; an impression enhanced by those bulbous, fish-like eyes fixed unblinkingly on him.

  ‘We can’t have it,’ Kitchener said.

  ‘In a way it doesn’t matter,’ said Owen. ‘Nothing has changed. There has always been a line going west from Alexandria; and there is no line going east to link up with the Turkish railways system.’

  ‘But something has changed,’ said Kitchener: ‘the ownership of the line. It will now be owned by a Turkish-led, German-financed consortium; that is to say, a foreign consortium.’

  ‘Quite a lot of things in Egypt are owned by foreign consortia,’ said Owen.

  Kitchener stared at him.

  ‘That is just a lawyer’s quibble,’ he said sharply. ‘The fact is that the ownership of this line is of strategic significance.’

  ‘But the strategic significance is limited,’ said Owen, ‘while there continues to be no link-line eastwards. All I am saying is that this needn’t bother us too much because we can always stop the link-line from being built.’

  ‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ said Kitchener. ‘It raises the issue of power. He knows that this is objectionable to us and yet he is going ahead all the same. He is cocking a snook at us. He’ll have to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘I don’t think we can afford to let him get away with this,’ said Paul.

  ‘No. If we do, he’ll immediately try something else. We’ve got to stop him in his tracks.’

  ‘How exactly are we going to do that, sir?’ Owen had asked.

  Maybe it was the ‘exactly’ that had jarred, for a frown appeared on Kitchener’s face.

  ‘Just tell him he can’t do it,’ he said harshly. ‘He’s got to back down.’

  ‘It’s his own property and he’s selling it to a foreign body,’ objected Owen.

  The frown came back and hung heavily over Kitchener’s face.

  ‘Owen is right, sir, to point out that there may be international repercussions,’ said Paul hurriedly.

  ‘I want there to be international repercussions,’ said Kitchener sharply. ‘I want Germany and Turkey to understand that they can’t meddle with me!’

  ‘It’s not the international repercussions I’m worried about,’ said Owen, ‘as much as the internal national ones.’

  Kitchener turned the frown on him full blast.

  ‘Surely they are containable?’ he said.

  ‘Of course. But is it wise to provoke them?’

  ‘Are you having cold feet?’ said Kitchener unpleasantly.

  ‘No, sir. I am just telling you that if you make the Khedive back down too publicly, it will not be well received.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn,’ said Kitchener.

  ‘I think you should, sir,’ Owen went on doggedly. ‘We are here, sir, by legal consent.’

  ‘That is a legal fiction.’

  ‘It is an important one. It is important for Egypt’s self-respect. And if you force the Khedive to back down publicly you will damage that self-respect.’

  ‘The average Egyptian detests the Khedive,’ said Kitchener.

  ‘That is true. But if you do this you will make him popular as never before.’

  ‘Owen,’ said Kitchener slowly, ‘how long have you been in Egypt?’

  ‘Five years, sir.’

  ‘Five years. I came here first in eighteen eighty-two and have been here, on and off, ever since. Twenty years, Owen, thirty years. And are you now telling me how to run Egypt?’

  ‘Of course not, sir. I am merely telling you how ordinary Egyptians will react.’

  ‘Ordinary Egyptians? Do you know who the ordinary Egyptians are, Owen? They are the fellahin, the ordinary peasants. Over eighty-five per cent of the population live off the land. They are the ordinary Egyptians, Owen; and do you know what they want? They want security. They want relief from oppression. They want the landowner and the tax-gatherer off their backs. And that is what I am giving them.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I am with you all the way.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Kitchener. ‘I was beginning to doubt that.’

  ‘Nevertheless—’r />
  Kitchener’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Nevertheless?’

  ‘We cannot disregard popular feeling entirely, sir.’

  ‘The fellahin don’t give a damn for the Khedive.’

  ‘Perhaps not, sir. But in the towns—’

  ‘Ah!’ said Kitchener. ‘The towns!’

  ‘It is in Cairo, sir, that the running is made.’

  ‘Then I think you should see,’ said Kitchener, bending the full weight of his glare upon him, ‘that your friends run more slowly.’

  ***

  At least, thought Owen, as he stood outside the Agency waiting for an arabeah, he would be able to marry Zeinab.

  ***

  In fact, he stopped the arabeah when it got to the river bank and took a boat to the other side, thinking it might cool him down. It didn’t. Neither physically nor mentally. The heat hung over the river in a thick layer. It was as if the boat was prising it apart. The woodwork burned the fingers to touch, the water, when he splashed it over his face, seemed hot enough to shave in.

  He still felt slightly shaken, not so much from apprehension as from the edge on the arguments. Was Kitchener always like that, he wondered? How could Paul stand it? Paul was a reasonable fellow and liked to proceed by reasoned arguments, and that was the way it had always been in the Administration, at least under Gorst, Kitchener’s predecessor. There was none of this bearing down upon you.

  It was a question of style, he supposed. Kitchener had always had the reputation of being a bit of a bully. Well, he could put up with that. But he didn’t like it.

  He suddenly realized that there were a lot of things that he was beginning not to like. Things were changing. It wasn’t just Kitchener, it was other things too. They were crowding in on you. It wasn’t like it had been in the old, more relaxed days. There had been bombs then, of course, and death threats and killings. But somehow you had had more space, more time.

  Or maybe it was just that he needed a holiday.

  Maybe he was going to be given one, whether he wanted it or not.

  ***

  The Mena Hotel stood well back from the river but after the Inundation there was always a great lake left behind which came right up to the doors of the hotel. It had dwindled by now but there was still enough water for ducks to swim and herons to paddle. He and Trudi went for a stroll round it before dinner.

  ‘It’s nice here,’ she said, ‘on this side of the river. It’s almost like being in the country. I could never stay long in Cairo.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ he said.

  She laughed, and then went on: ‘I need stillness too much.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re still, aren’t you? I think that’s what attracts me to you.’

  ‘Still,’ said Owen, ‘or inert.’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t understand myself,’ she said. ‘I say I need stillness, and yet I’m always on the move. As soon as I’ve stayed anywhere for a week or two, I get restless and feel the need to move. And yet lately, and increasingly, I’ve felt I was missing something. Maybe,’ she said, ‘it’s that I need a still point to return to.’

  ‘You’d always be moving away again.’

  ‘Maybe; but I’d always be coming back, too.’

  The sky was losing its rosiness and shadows were beginning to creep round the lake. Normally, at this time, so close to the river, there would be an evening breeze and it would be cool. Tonight, though, the water was like glass, without even the hint of a ruffle. It seemed to Owen that it was still as hot as it usually was at three. A long curl hung down the side of Trudi’s face, clinging wetly to her cheek; still damp from the pillow.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘all this is to tell you that I’m moving on.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She pulled at a tall bulrush stem growing at the side of the water.

  ‘You wouldn’t like to come with me, I suppose?’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Mightn’t that be awkward?’

  She gave him a long, appraising look.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it might.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Why, there’s that great prick again!’ cried Amina.

  ‘Light of my eyes,’ said Selim resignedly, ‘and pain in my ass: can’t you get a husband to keep you in order?’

  ‘He’d have a job!’ said a passer-by.

  Amina gave him an indignant look.

  ‘One’s on the way,’ she said.

  ‘I hope it’s not that dumb porter,’ said Selim. ‘He wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I have set my sights higher,’ said Amina loftily.

  ‘Well, that’s very sensible of you,’ said Selim. ‘How about a well-favoured soon-to-be sergeant, with the ear of the Mamur Zapt?’

  ‘British swine!’ spat out Amina.

  ‘Here, you can’t say things like—’

  ‘And you’re just an imperialist hireling,’ said Amina contemptuously.

  ‘Me?’ said Selim, astonished.

  ‘Amina, shall we move on?’ said the ice man hurriedly, giving the donkey a whack.

  The exchange had begun to attract attention and Owen was irritated because he had particularly instructed Selim to keep out of sight. They had taken up position in a deep doorway; but then the ice man and the donkey had come out of the ice house and the girl, who seemed to have eyes everywhere, had spotted them at once.

  ‘Do you mind if I pat your helper on the rump, Mustapha?’ asked Selim.

  He stretched out his hand towards Amina.

  ‘Just you dare!’ she shouted, skipping out of the way.

  Selim affected surprise, then continued with his hand and patted the donkey solemnly on the backside.

  ‘Big shit!’ said Amina indignantly, and hurried after the donkey as it disappeared into the crowd.

  Shortly afterwards, a man came out of the ice house and went on up the street to where a cart was being loaded with sacks of flour. Men were appearing through a door with the sacks on their shoulders. Their heads and arms were powdered with white and through the door one could see a sort of snow storm. The man went in at the door. When he came out again, he, too, was powdered with white.

  He continued along the street to where some steps led down to a cellar. The sweet, sickly smell of crushed sesame seeds came up from below and there was the rumble of a wheel turning. The rumble stopped when the man went down but then resumed as he came back up the steps.

  Owen touched Selim on the shoulder and the big policeman moved across the street with surprising speed and folded the man in his arms.

  ‘Shukri?’ said Owen, stepping forward.

  ***

  Back at the Bab-el-Khalk, Selim reached his hand into the folds of Shukri’s galabeah and drew out the money he had collected. He laid it on the table in front of Owen.

  ‘It was given to me!’ protested Shukri, with a show of bravery.

  ‘I wish someone would give me money,’ said Selim.

  ‘Ah, but Shukri doesn’t get to keep the money he collects,’ said Owen. ‘He has to give it to somebody else, doesn’t he, Shukri?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Shukri.

  ‘Their names, Shukri!’

  ‘I don’t know their names.’

  ‘You know one name at least: that of the man you give the money to.’

  ‘Not even that,’ said Shukri.

  A few months in jail were nothing. It was dry and they gave you bread. And then you came out and could carry on as before. But if you gave names away, when you came out the gang would beat the hell out of you and, who knows, one of the blows could go amiss, and that could be the end of you.

  Owen sm
iled, knowing exactly what Shukri was thinking.

  ‘Well, perhaps the names don’t really matter.’

  ‘Not matter?’ said Shukri, astonished.

  ‘Not this time. This time we want something else. Shukri, no one knows that you have been brought here.’

  Shukri looked alarmed.

  ‘Here, you can’t—’

  ‘So no one will know what you say to us. And what we would like from you, Shukri, just this time, is some information. That’s all. And then you can go. This time.’

  ‘What information?’ said Shukri cautiously.

  ‘Shukri, you do your rounds in the Nahhasin. And every time you go to the same places. But lately you have not been going to the Morellis’. Why is that?’

  Shukri was silent, trying to figure out all the angles.

  ‘It’s just information, Shukri. That’s all we want. And afterwards you can go.’

  ‘Somebody asked us not to,’ said Shukri cautiously.

  ‘Who?’

  Shukri hesitated.

  ‘Another gang?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That surprises me, Shukri, and I’m not sure that I believe you. Would you let another gang in on your territory? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘No, no, it wasn’t like that! We weren’t letting them in. All they were asking for was a favour. They wanted us to hold off for a bit. Just with him. That’s all. They’d got something on and they didn’t want anyone else queering the pitch. Well, that’s reasonable, isn’t it? You don’t want trouble if you can help it. They were just taking precautions. And we didn’t mind because we knew it wouldn’t go beyond that. They are in a different line, see—’

  ‘What line is that, Shukri?’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it political?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘One of the clubs?’

  ‘Yes, Effendi. But—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t think they were asking on their own behalf.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Look, Effendi, the way it works is this. You’re a little man somewhere and you want to put in a request. But it’s no good you asking yourself, because why should they pay any attention to you? What can you offer them? So what you’ve got to do is go to someone they’ll listen to.’