A Cold Touch of Ice

by Michael Pearce

  ***

  In front of the Post Office, as he went past, was the usual row of letter-writers sitting on their mats. There, too, capitalizing on the illiteracy of the population and on the handiness of the Post Office, were seal-makers—a seal took the place of a signature for those who could not write—and stationers offering cheap paper and envelopes. There, even, hanging on the Post Office wall, were wet rollers for those who had an aversion to licking stamps.

  There were individual letter-writers in the bazaars but it was only here that there was a concentration of all the services. You came along, bought your paper and envelope and picked your writer; and afterwards you bought the stamp from the Post Office counter and put the letter in the letter box.

  That was, of course, if you wanted to send your letter by stamped mail. If, for some reason, you didn’t; if, for example, you intended to deliver it by hand, but needed someone to write it for you, then you could get it written here and simply take it away with you.

  It was a long shot but worth trying. He had one of the anonymous letters in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the handwriting and then began to walk slowly along the line of letter-writers.

  ***

  Nikos had obtained from the army a list of all the Egyptian soldiers who had passed through Assuan in the last three months, whether on leave or as part of a detachment. There weren’t many of them.

  He concentrated on the officers. These were still the days when any insurrection was likely to be led by officers. The time of the sergeants was yet to come. This was hardly an insurrection. Nevertheless, as Trudi had pointed out with respect to Turkey, it was among the future leaders of the army that the most lively minds were likely to be found; the men most likely to take action.

  ***

  He thought that perhaps he ought to have a word with Mahmoud. He glanced at his watch. It was still early in the evening. Mahmoud might well be still at work. He didn’t want to call upon him at his office. This was one of those subjects best broached on neutral ground. He had an early meal at one of the restaurants and then walked down to the Nahhasin, confident that these days he would be likely to find Mahmoud at home.

  At this hour the Mouski was full of people, out thankfully taking the benign evening air after the extreme heat of the day, or shopping at the stalls which lined the street and which, together with the press of people, made passage difficult for the arabeahs taking tourists to the bazaars. They were obliged to move at a slow walk and had to stop occasionally for camels carrying forage or firewood, their great loads almost spanning the street, or for porters carrying almost equally gigantic loads across their shoulders.

  Owen didn’t mind the crowd; indeed, he rather liked it. He liked to see the ordinary women, with their dark veils and nose-pipes, emerging for once into the daylight, and to pick out the Arish women with no veil at all but often little plaits of silver coins dangling from a headband. He liked to see the men in their long galabeahs and their little beaded skull caps, often with a small boy perched round their necks, and also the smart young men about town, with their dark suits and tarbooshes and walking canes.

  In a crowd like this, wearing a tarboosh himself, he could usually pass for a Cairene. Nevertheless, when he reached the turn-off to the Nahhasin, where there were fewer people, he saw that someone had spat on his trousers.

  There were coffee houses on both sides of the Nahhasin and they were full of men, smoking bubble-pipes, playing dominoes or talking earnestly. The coffee houses seemed to segregate naturally, dividing between those favoured by the older men and those preferred by the young. At a table in one of the latter he saw Mahmoud and made towards him.

  When he got near, however, he saw that an argument was in progress. He hesitated, fearing that to arrive at such a moment might be awkward.

  The arguing seemed to be directed at Mahmoud.

  ‘But, Mahmoud,’ someone was saying, ‘how can you do nothing? At a time like this?’

  ‘I express my feelings through the Party,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘But that’s not enough! No one will listen.’

  ‘They won’t listen,’ said someone else, ‘until we can show that public support for the government has been withdrawn to such an extent as to leave the country ungovernable.’

  ‘And we can only do that,’ said the first speaker, ‘if people like you do as Habashi has done.’

  ‘I won’t claim to have done any more than set an example,’ said someone—Habashi, presumably—modestly.

  ‘But that is enough if others follow.’

  They all looked pointedly at Mahmoud. Mahmoud said nothing.

  ‘I really don’t understand you, Mahmoud. You, who claim to be in the vanguard of the struggle—’

  ‘I certainly don’t!’

  ‘You were one of the first to join the Party, anyway. And we look to you for a lead.’

  ‘You always spoke of the need for action,’ said someone bitterly, ‘and now that the time for action has arrived, you do nothing!’

  ‘I respect Habashi’s decision,’ said Mahmoud quietly, ‘but I do not think that anything would be gained by following his example.’

  ‘Well, of course, it takes courage to resign—’

  ‘That is true,’ said Mahmoud, ‘and I respect it. But there is also the question of what purpose is served by resigning. And I do not think that the resignation of an orderly in the post room of the Ministry of Religious Bequests is likely to have a great effect on Lord Kitchener’s thinking.’

  ‘But that is where you come in, Mahmoud! I agree with you about Habashi, but surely if a member of the Parquet were to resign—’

  ‘I think you overestimate my significance,’ said Mahmoud, ‘and probably also that of the Parquet.’

  ‘But—’

  Owen could see that a lot of the people seated at the other tables in the coffee house were listening in to the conversation. Not only them. Just beyond the rim of the wick of light cast by the vapour lamps of the coffee house, children were sitting attentively. Among them he fancied he saw Amina.

  He backed away. This was not the moment for his conversation with Mahmoud. Mahmoud had enough on his plate.

  It had brought home to him, though, how much pressure Kitchener’s action had put on ordinary Egyptians working in the government service, forcing them to question exactly where their allegiance lay. For ones like Mahmoud, both scrupulous and committed to the cause of independence, it would be hardest of all.

  The other thing he thought, as he walked away, was that this was how the Nahhasin exerted its influence: pressure in the coffee houses, pressure in the streets, the pressure of neighbours, friends, family. No one could escape it. It was all around you, all the time.

  ***

  The next morning, when Owen got in, he found a message waiting for him from Georgiades. It had come in the previous evening.

  Owen caught the next train to Assuan.

  ***

  As before, Georgiades was waiting on the platform, as before, the heat was appalling. He had found the heat in the carriage almost unbearable. Outside, it hit you like a blow.

  Georgiades looked at him.

  ‘You don’t mind,’ he said, ‘a bit of a walk?’

  Georgiades’ shirt was dark with perspiration. The sweat ran down his face, his neck, along his forearms. He had a floppy cotton hat on and even that was soaking wet.

  They went down to the barracks, to the gate where, when he had been here before, they had met the soldier.

  ‘He won’t be free,’ said Owen.

  ‘He will,’ said Georgiades. ‘I’ve had a word inside.’

  And, sure enough, he was soon coming towards them. He showed his pass to the sentries and padded across the sand to where they were waiting. Georgiades led them round behind a wall where they could stand in the shade.

  ‘OK,�
�� he said to the soldier, ‘tell him what you told me.’

  The soldier hesitated.

  ‘Why do I speak?’ he said.

  ‘Because you know that these things will be found out,’ said Georgiades, ‘and because you know that there is no chance for you unless you do.’

  ‘I have had a message,’ he said. ‘The same message.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Owen.

  ‘To send guns,’ said Georgiades, ‘as before.’

  ‘As before?’

  ‘Exactly as before,’ said the soldier. ‘To the same place and by the same means.’

  ‘Were you told more?’

  ‘That is enough,’ said the soldier, ‘and more than enough.’

  ‘How will payment be made?’

  ‘By the same man as brought the message.’

  ‘He is a driver,’ said Georgiades, ‘with one of the caravans.’

  ‘Can you find him?’

  ‘He has returned to Cairo.’

  ‘We will find him there.’

  ‘You hear?’ Georgiades said to the soldier. ‘Even in the big city he will not escape.’

  The soldier nodded, subdued.

  ‘What do you want me to do, Effendi?’ he asked, after a moment.

  Owen stood thinking. Then he touched the man on the shoulder.

  ‘Here is what you will do,’ he said. ‘You will do exactly as you would have done had you not spoken to me. You will ask for the guns as before.’

  ‘As before?’

  ‘As before.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You will not, of course, say that you have spoken with me. You will not say that to anyone. Just ask as you did before. Do this and you may escape my wrath. For you are but a small creature, and why should the small be beaten when it is the big who are to blame?’

  ***

  Hilmi was again in the House of Fatima. This time Owen sent Georgiades in to fetch him out. Hilmi came resignedly, fearing the worst. They walked along the dock front together.

  ‘I shall not come again,’ said Owen, ‘for it is bad for your business if you are seen walking with me too often.’

  ‘Yes, Effendi,’ said Hilmi mechanically. And then: ‘Yes, Effendi!’ brightening, as he took in what Owen had said.

  ‘That is, if you do as I ask.’

  ‘What do you wish me to do, Effendi?’ said Hilmi cautiously.

  ‘I wish you to do nothing that you would not have done had you not spoken with me,’ said Owen.

  ‘What?’ said Hilmi.

  ‘A man will come to you, as before. He will ask you to buy guns for him. And, as before, I wish you to buy them.’

  ‘You do?’ said Hilmi, astonished.

  ‘And, as before, you are to speak with Mohammed Guri, and to the same purpose. And then you will put the guns in the bales.’

  ‘If that is what you want, Effendi.’

  ‘It is what I want. Now, tell me, Hilmi, how long will it be before you can get hold of some guns?’

  ‘Effendi, a caravan is passing even at this moment.’

  ‘Will you be able to get in touch with them?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Effendi,’ said Hilmi confidently.

  ‘Then do so.’

  ***

  In front of the caravan leader’s tent a woman was kneading dough. She had built a small fire in a hole in the ground. As Owen and Georgiades approached, she took a metal plate out of the fire and rested it on a stone. Then she smacked dough on it to form a kind of pancake. She left it for a moment and then took it off. Then she plastered the plate again.

  Mohammed Guri came out from under the awning.

  ‘You come once more,’ he said.

  ‘That is so. But not again, if you do as I ask.’

  ‘That is an encouragement.’

  ‘When is the next caravan to the House of the Morellis?’

  ‘It leaves in three days’ time.’

  ‘Good. Now, a man will come to you and he will ask you to take something there for him. It will be guns, as before.’

  ‘I never have anything to do with—’

  ‘You will this time.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘You will.’

  The caravan leader shrugged.

  ‘Very well, I will.’ He reflected a moment. ‘Will I get paid extra?’

  ‘Very probably.’

  ‘Then I definitely will. Even though it will be difficult, for the camels are already fully laden.’

  There was something about him, though, that made Owen doubtful. He thought he had better make sure.

  ‘The bread smells good,’ he said.

  Mohammed Guri beat himself on the breast.

  ‘And I have not offered you some!’

  The woman brought them a pancake and they broke it, sitting beneath the awning, and ate it together.

  Owen was more confident now that the caravan leader could be relied on.

  ***

  Some riders were coming into the camp. They were riding particularly fine camels and the Bisharin stood up to inspect them. He thought he recognized one of the figures even though the face was muffled up inside the tails of a turban.

  ‘Hello!’ he said.

  The figure unwrapped the tails.

  ‘Why, hello,’ said Trudi, looking down at him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you were heading for the Old Salt Road?’

  ‘I am. I’ve just dropped in here to pick up a few extra things.’

  She slipped off the camel without bothering to make it kneel. One of the riders with her leaned across and attached a leading rope and the camels swayed off through the tents in the direction of the river.

  ‘If I had known you were here,’ said Trudi, ‘we could have arranged something.’

  ‘That would have been nice.’

  ‘I can’t stay, though. I have to get back.’

  ‘To your caravan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Far?’

  ‘Not on camels like these.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Out west.’

  ‘How far west?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. There aren’t exactly signposts.’

  ‘Near the border?’

  ‘Border? I don’t know that there are borders, either. Not out there. That’s one of the nice things about it.’

  ‘There are always borders.’

  ‘That’s not what the Arabs think. There are territories, yes, but no borders. I prefer that way of thinking.’

  ‘Borders make less sense in Africa, I admit.’

  ‘They’re completely ridiculous. Just something imposed by other countries, European countries, to stake their claim. Do you know what I’d like to do?’ said Trudi. ‘I’d like to ride west, and carry on riding west, first to Tibesti, and then on to Timbuktu, and then, oh, I don’t know, on, right on, perhaps to the Atlantic. And all the time without ever thinking about borders.’

  ‘They make no sense, I agree. And yet people fight about them.’

  ‘That makes even less sense.’

  ‘But the trouble is that they do. And when they’re doing it, it is sometimes best not to make more trouble by not observing them.’

  ‘There are times, you know, when you sound just like a policeman.’

  ‘There are other times, too, I hope.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Trudi, considering, ‘I’ll grant you that.’

  Some Bisharin at a nearby fire offered them more coffee. It was harsh and bitter but somehow refreshing and they stood for a few moments sipping it thankfully.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ asked Owen.

  ‘About a couple of hours. Three would be better, from the point of view of the camel.
’ She squinted at the sun. ‘Perhaps three,’ she decided.

  She looked at Owen.

  ‘I can give you an hour,’ she said.

  ‘Meal?’

  ‘I don’t eat when I’m riding.’

  ‘The river?’

  The river was a blaze of light, too bright to look at, too exposed to the heat to stand beside it for long.

  There were several camels splashing in the water. Three of them were Trudi’s. She stood for a while watching them critically.

  ‘Don’t let them drink any more,’ she said to the men, ‘or they’ll be useless on the way back.’

  The men nodded and led the camels out on to the bank.

  ‘Take your two and leave mine.’

  She made her camel kneel.

  ‘We could go out into the desert,’ she said. ‘That’s what the herdswomen do.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Owen. ‘It’d be like a cauldron!’

  It was.

  ***

  As soon as Trudi had gone, Owen went back to the barracks with Georgiades. The soldiers were under the command of a British Bimbashi. His name was Lofthouse and he was an experienced man who had served in the Sudan. Among the soldiers was a unit from the Camel Corps.

  ‘They’re good,’ said Lofthouse enthusiastically.

  ‘Who would they be under?’

  ‘Fuad. He’s their lieutenant.’

  Fuad was sharp and professional.

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s all we need. And then we’ll be ready.’

  ‘There’s a caravan out there,’ said Owen. ‘It’s not going to come in to Assuan. It’s running guns to Tripolitania. I want it intercepted.’

  ‘That will be no problem,’ said Fuad, with a flash of white teeth.

  ‘But, look,’ said Owen, ‘the timing is important. I don’t want them taken, or even alarmed, until a certain transaction has taken place. Georgiades, there, will tell you when it has. But then you’ll need to move very fast because they won’t hang around.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Fuad, smiling. ‘We move very fast too.’

  ‘Have you got trackers?’

  ‘We can get them.’

  ‘Good.’

  Owen hesitated, and stood hesitating for quite a while, so long, indeed, that Fuad began to look puzzled.

  ‘It may help them to find the caravan,’ he said at last, ‘if you tell them that just over two hours ago three camels left the Camp of the Bisharin heading very probably for the caravan. I’m not sure, but I suspect so. The camels are racing camels.’