The Night of the Dog

by Michael Pearce

  Zeinab agreed that she would like a coffee and Mahmoud wanted to talk about what they had seen, so they stopped the arabeah when they reached the Ismailiya Quarter with its more Westernized restaurants into which women could go, and got out. It was late in the afternoon, almost evening by now, and the restaurants were beginning to fill up as people emerged from their siestas and began to promenade the streets. The shops took on a new lease of life, the street-sellers, with their lemonade and nougat, ostrich feathers, mummy-beads and scarabs, carnations and roses, and the street-artists, with their boa-constrictors and baboons, took new heart, and the city in general resumed its normal manic rhythm. They found a restaurant in a side street, where they would be pestered less, and took an outside table.

  ‘Of the three, he’s the most likely,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘Yes, but how certain are you that it’s one of the three? How certain are you in the first place that it’s a scentmaker?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mahmoud confessed.

  ‘I mean, it’s a brilliant deduction,’ said Owen, ‘but it’s just a deduction.’

  ‘Just a deduction?’ said Mahmoud, a little sharply.

  ‘There isn’t any real evidence.’

  ‘There is real evidence but not much of it. So you’ve got to use what there is. Hence deduction.’

  Owen was silent. He was tempted to ask if Mahmoud had learned that in college. Mahmoud, unlike Owen, had been trained for the job he was doing and sometimes reminded Owen of the fact. Owen did not like being reminded that he was, so far as police work was concerned, an amateur.

  ‘Is there any corroborative evidence?’ he asked.

  He rather distrusted Gallic logic. Brilliant, yes, but was it sound? The Parquet lawyers, French-trained and French in style, had a name—among the English—for unreliability. Sometimes they homed in on the right conclusion with remarkable speed; sometimes they missed the point altogether.

  ‘A bit,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Three other people noticed the woman. One of them remarked on the scent.’

  ‘Did they see her with the man?’

  ‘Two of them did, including one who noticed the scent.’

  ‘Anyone get a good look at him?’

  ‘No. None of them would be able to identify him. Except as a Copt, that is. They’d all noticed that.’

  ‘They would!’

  ‘Yes. You’d prefer it not to be a Copt, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Just at the moment I would.’

  ‘It’s rather pointing that way, though.’

  ‘What else have you found out?’

  ‘Nothing to link Zoser directly with the Zikr. One person thinks he saw him there. That was earlier in the evening, though.’

  ‘Have you checked whether he was in his shop?’

  ‘Yes. He wasn’t.’

  ‘Have you asked him why?’

  ‘Haven’t asked him anything yet. I was hoping for a positive identification. I don’t suppose—?’

  Owen shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t see him.’

  Mahmoud sighed.

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ he said. ‘That leaves us with Miss Postlethwaite.’

  ‘That girl!’ said Zeinab.

  ‘Yes. You see,’ said Mahmoud, turning to her, ‘she was the only one who really saw them.’

  ‘Notices everything, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud enthusiastically. ‘She’s an extraordinarily good observer.’

  Something must have told him that he’d not said quite the right thing, for he looked at Zeinab uneasily afterwards. Mahmoud stood a little in awe of Zeinab. It was partly her social position, partly her father, the formidable Nuri Pasha. Mahmoud detested everything that Nuri stood for: the old, near-feudal Egypt, with its hereditary great landlords, of whom Nuri was one; court-based politics, in which Nuri was adept; the power of the old order to block and frustrate all attempts at reform. But although he looked down on Nuri he also looked up at him, and because of that Nuri had a unique ability to touch Mahmoud on the raw. Something of all that had rubbed off on Zeinab, although Zeinab was Nuri’s daughter only by a slave girl, a well-known courtesan, who had had mind enough of her own to refuse to join Nuri’s harem. That was another thing which made Mahmoud uneasy, for modern and emancipated though he was, he could not completely shake off the attitudes and sexual constraints of the old, Islamic society. He even felt slightly awkward sitting out with her in a public place having coffee.

  Zeinab added to his unease by opening her handbag, taking out the three small bottles of perfume and dropping them deliberately on the floor. She summoned a waiter to clear them away.

  ‘Presumably you’ve done some background checking?’ said Owen.

  Mahmoud turned back to him with relief.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I had my people check out the three scentmakers. One of them, the first one we saw, I think we can rule out straight away. He’s not very strong physically, suffers from some sort of debilitating illness, hardly ever goes out. The fat one doesn’t go out much either but in principle we can’t rule him out. The third one could do it physically and gets out far more. He’s very active in his local church, attends services there at all hours, mortifies himself, fasts, that sort of thing.’

  ‘A zealot?’

  ‘Devout.’ Like Nikos, Mahmoud did not wish to be pushed into too firm religious characterization.

  ‘Politically active?’ Owen pressed.

  ‘Not so far as I am aware.’

  ‘I’m looking for motive.’

  ‘That’s the problem. I can’t find one. That applies to them all. As far as I can tell, they have all three led blameless lives, had no criminal connection, kept themselves to themselves and as separate from Moslems as they could, and had no occasion to even meet a Zikr, let alone enter into a relationship with one which might lead them to want to kill him. They, and Zoser particularly, don’t seem to have had much personal life at all.’

  ‘They sound very dull,’ said Zeinab.

  ‘What church does he go to?’ asked Owen. ‘Zoser, I mean. You said he went to a local church.’

  ‘The Mar Girgis—Church of St George.’

  ‘By the Tunisian Bazaar?’

  ‘Yes. You know it?’

  ‘I know someone who goes to it,’ said Owen.

  Mahmoud shrugged.

  ‘Nothing special about it. Very Orthodox, a bit fundamentalist. Zoser’s quite well known there. He’s not one of the elders, he’s not rich enough for that, or educated enough. He’s just there at all the services.’

  ‘With his wife?’

  ‘With his wife.’ He looked at Owen. ‘I was wondering—’ he said tentatively.

  ‘Yes?’ said Owen.

  ‘What were you wondering?’ asked Zeinab.

  ‘If you would like to go to church next Sunday,’ Mahmoud said, looking at Owen, ‘with Miss Postlethwaite.’

  ‘Why her?’ asked Zeinab.

  ‘’She’s the only one who could make a positive identification,’ Mahmoud explained. ‘She’s important.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Zeinab.

  ‘It would be difficult in a church,’ said Owen. ‘The women are kept separate from the men.’

  ‘She could see him, though he wouldn’t be able to see her. That might be an advantage.’

  ‘Why do you have to go?’ Zeinab asked Owen.

  ‘She would have to be escorted,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘Couldn’t you do that?’

  No, Mahmoud couldn’t. He knew that and so did she. It would have to be a white man, an Englishman preferably. Zeinab knew that perfectly well. She was just trying to be awkward. And she was succeeding as far as Mahmoud was concerned. He flushed and his face went a little stiff.

  ‘I am afraid it would have to be Captain Owen,’ he said.

  ‘Very well,’ said Owen. ‘I’ll ask her.’

  Zeinab rose from the table in a fury and flounced out.

  ‘What have I done?’
asked Mahmoud, bewildered and uncomfortable.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Owen, wondering whether he should follow her. It looked a bit silly if you followed a woman around like a lap-dog. On the other hand there would be trouble tonight if he didn’t. He decided to strike a balance. He stayed at the table talking with Mahmoud for another moment or two and then went out into the street. Zeinab was nowhere to be seen.

  From the far end of the corridor came the sound of angry dispute. After a while Owen could stand it no longer and went along.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Outside the door, where the orderlies sat on the ground in a row, their backs to the wall, a woman was berating the coffee orderly, Yussuf. When she saw Owen she stopped, abashed. Yussuf gave her a great push.

  ‘Away with you, woman!’ he shouted furiously. ‘You bring me shame.’

  The woman fired up again.

  ‘Yours is the shame,’ she said. ‘Yours was the shame already.’

  Yussuf tried to urge her away but she resisted his efforts.

  ‘You bring shame on your family,’ she called out, so that everyone could hear. Heads began popping out of windows. The other orderlies watched with delight.

  Yussuf caught hold of her and propelled her towards the gate. At the last moment she twisted away from him and ran back towards the orderlies. Yussuf bore down on her in a fury. Afraid that he was going to hit her, Owen intervened.

  ‘Enough of this!’ he snapped. ‘Be quiet, woman!’

  The woman fell silent, though she kept darting angry glances at Yussuf.

  ‘Who is this woman?’ Owen asked Yussuf. ‘Your wife?’

  ‘My sister, effendi.’

  Owen remembered the boy in the Coptic Place of the Dead.

  ‘I have met your son, I think.’ The woman looked startled, then pleased. Then worried.

  ‘He is a good boy, effendi,’ she said hastily. ‘He runs a little wild but there is no harm in him.’

  ‘He is clever beyond his years.’

  The woman looked even more worried.

  ‘But he means no harm, effendi,’ she insisted.

  ‘He is a good boy,’ said Owen reassuringly. He turned to Yussuf, associating him with family merit. ‘And you have a good nephew, Yussuf. You must come and speak to me about him when he is older.’ The remark, with its suggestion of possible patronage at his command, soothed Yussuf’s ruffled pride. It also impressed his sister, who quietened down and looked at him with new respect.

  ‘What is all this about?’ Owen addressed himself to Yussuf. When Yussuf made no reply, Owen turned to his sister. ‘What has brought you here?’

  ‘I wanted him to speak to his wife,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Indeed? And what about?’

  ‘He has put her away. And now he expects me to clean and cook for him.’

  ‘Our mother is dead,’ said Yussuf, ‘and I have no woman in my house.’

  ‘I have my own to look after,’ she protested.

  ‘That is true,’ said Owen. ‘She has her own to look after. Cannot you pay a woman to come in?’

  ‘Why should I pay,’ asked Yussuf, ‘when I have a sister?’

  ‘Why should your sister work for you,’ the woman retorted, ‘when you have a wife?’

  ‘I have no wife.’

  ‘You had one last week.’

  ‘But I haven’t one now!’ Yussuf roared.

  ‘What was the difference between you?’ Owen asked.

  Yussuf did not reply.

  ‘Nothing worth losing a wife over,’ his sister said.

  Yussuf turned on her in a fury.

  ‘You be quiet, woman!’ he shouted. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘I know what all the world knows,’ his sister maintained stoutly, ‘and that is that Fatima has always been a true wife to you.’

  Owen was rather relieved to hear this. If she had been unfaithful it would have been tricky to intervene.

  ‘Is her fault so bad that it cannot be overlooked?’ he asked. ‘No doubt she already repents.’

  ‘You might not be so lucky next time,’ Yussuf’s sister observed.

  Yussuf glared at her.

  ‘He won’t find it so easy to get another wife,’ she said to Owen. ‘They all know what he is like.’

  Yussuf boiled over.

  ‘I?’ he shouted dramatically. ‘I? What about her? Is she not to blame? I have given her house, clothes, a good bed. I do not beat her. Much. I give her money—’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ his sister said. ‘That is why she is always on to you.’

  Yussuf raised his hand threateningly. His sister, a woman of spirit, squared up to him. One of the orderlies, in defiance of the Prophet, began to lay bets.

  Owen stepped in.

  ‘Be off with you!’ he said to the woman sternly. ‘Take this up at another time.’

  He ushered her firmly towards the gate.

  ‘I will speak to him,’ he said to her when they had got out of earshot, ‘and see if I cannot resolve this matter.’

  She went quietly enough. Owen admired her independence, but felt that reconciliation was more likely to be achieved in her absence.

  Georgiades had asked Owen to meet him at a donkey-vous beside the Ezbekiya Gardens.

  Owen liked the Ezbekiya, though Garden it was not. What it was was a dirty patch of fenced-off sand with a few straggly trees and occasional tufts of scrawny grass. In a land where, with a little water, anything would grow, and private gardens were a blaze of bougainvillaea and oleander, Cairo’s public gardens remained bits of desert, and the only colour in the Ezbekiya was provided once a week by the uniforms of the incredibly incompetent Egyptian regimental band. The Ezbekiya did indeed have its moments, in the very early morning when there were few people about and the big falcons sailed over it with their unexpectedly musical cries and the Egyptian doves cooed softly in the palm trees, but on the whole what Owen liked was the Ezbekiya’s outside.

  All round the Gardens were railings. And all along the railings were open-air stands, shops, stalls, restaurants, street artists and tradesmen. Everything the ordinary Egyptian needed was there. The barber sat on the railings while his customers stood patiently in front of him to have their heads shaved. The tailor hung his creations on the railings. The hat-sellers marked off their territory with towers of tarbooshes, all fitting one on top of the other. The whipmakers plaited their whips through the railings and hung them from the trees.

  There were trees all round the Ezbekiya, most of them comparatively young. Circular spaces about a yard wide had been cut in the pavement to receive them. To guard their roots the spaces were covered with gratings except for a few inches round the trunk. In this hole the chestnut-seller lit his fire, and on the gratings he set out his pans of roasted chestnuts. At night the coffee-sellers and the men who sold cups of hot sago brought their wares, too; and all through the day there were sweet-sellers and nougat-sellers and nut-sellers and lemonade-sellers and tea-sellers and pie-sellers and cake-sellers—everything the sweet-toothed Egyptian might be persuaded to spend his little money on. Around each stall there were usually people talking, and the place which attracted the most conversationalists, after, perhaps, the pavement restaurants, was the donkey-vous.

  This was the donkey-boys’ stand. The donkeys, the little white donkeys of Cairo, lay about in the road and on the pavement among the huge green stacks of berseem brought there for their dinner by forage camels. They were very rarely disturbed, at least by foreigners, since to hire a donkey cost a foreigner as much as a cab and pair of horses. But in their saddles of red brocade and their necklaces of silver thread with blue beads they looked very picturesque and the tourists loved to photograph them. For that, of course, they paid, and that, during the tourist season, was what the donkey-vous was all about. That, and conversation.

  There was more than one donkey-vous in the Ezbekiya but Owen knew which one to make for. It was next to a postcard-seller, and to get to it y
ou had to go past a row of very strange postcards stuck on the railings: views of Cairo, oleographs of Levantine saints, scenes of the Massacre of the Marmelukes and from the Great War of Independence, portraits of the Madonna and of St Catherine, and, of course, hundreds of indecent photographs, very precise in some respects, strangely vague in others. At the end of the row, their backs turned to all these visual riches, was a ring of donkey-boys squatting on the ground. Among them was Georgiades.

  He stood up when he saw Owen approaching.

  ‘Here’s my friend,’ he said to the donkey-boys. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  He shook hands with several of the boys and exchanged farewell salaams with others.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of something,’ he said to Owen, so that the donkey-boys could hear, ‘and perhaps a bite or two. Have we got time?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Owen. ‘No hurry.’

  They went over to the nearby tea-stall and then, with their glasses of tea, drifted over to one of the trees where a chestnut-seller was just lighting his fire. Georgiades peered into his basket.

  ‘These look good ones,’ he said to the man. ‘How about doing a handful for me and my friend?’

  ‘It will take a moment or two,’ the man said, ‘but it will be well worth the wait.’

  Owen and Georgiades went a little way off and squatted down beneath the trees to wait. The sun had set and it was already quite dark in the Gardens. Beneath the trees it was darker still.

  As they sat there someone came up and, as was not unusual, joined them in their conversation. It was the boy they had talked to in the Coptic Place of the Dead, the one who had given them information—and kicked Georgiades on the shin.

  ‘Kick me again,’ said Georgiades, keeping his voice at the gentle, conversational level, ‘and I will kick your balls so hard that they will fly out of your backside.’

  Even in the darkness Owen could see the boy’s teeth flash white in a big grin.

  ‘That was good, wasn’t it?’ he said with pride. ‘They didn’t suspect a thing.’

  ‘It was good,’ said Georgiades, ‘at my expense. However, we need not pursue this now. Ali wanted us to meet here,’ he said to Owen, ‘so that we should not be seen by his little friends.’