The Night of the Dog

by Michael Pearce

  ‘Come and see us some time,’ said John Postlethwaite. ‘I know Jane would like to see you. She gets a bit cooped up in that hotel sometimes.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Ramses. ‘What are you after? Still in trouble with the Compensation Fund? I might be able to do something for you next year but there’s not much chance this year, I’m afraid. We’re still stuck in our log-jam.’

  ‘Postlethwaite thinks the levy’s a bad idea.’

  ‘Same here. Unfortunately—’

  ‘He thinks a loan might be better.’

  ‘So it might,’ said Ramses, ‘if anyone could be found stupid enough to lend to the Khedive.’

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Owen, ‘if, in return for the levy being abandoned—’

  ‘A loan? You wouldn’t get your money back.’

  ‘Suppose,’ said Owen, ‘somebody made a loan, and the idea of the levy was withdrawn, and Patros became Prime Minister, couldn’t he raise taxes?’

  ‘He certainly could and almost certainly will.’

  ‘Then the loan could be repaid out of the increase in taxes.’

  ‘Why,’ said Ramses admiringly, ‘you’re beginning to think just like an accountant! Yes, in principle it could be done. I could get a few Copt bankers to club together to find a sufficient sum. It would have to be a loan to the Government, mind, not to the Khedive personally. A special loan so that, say, all the statues in Cairo can be cleaned on time for the Khedive’s birthday. They wouldn’t be cleaned, of course, but no one would know. A public loan like that would have the added advantage of showing the Khedive what loyal subjects we Copts are and how greatly we admire him.’

  ‘You think you could stitch that up?’

  ‘Yes. On condition that the levy were withdrawn. Patros would have to become Prime Minister, too, so that we could be sure that the money would be repaid. Incidentally, I see problems there.’

  ‘The Consul-General will agree.’

  ‘Yes, but some of our side won’t be very happy. As you probably know, there’s a strong party among the Copts who are utterly opposed to any Coptic participation in the Government, even on a personal basis.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Owen, ‘I think you may find that in future that party is not quite as strong as it has been.’

  Before leaving the Ministry Owen rang Paul at the Consul-General’s Residency.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Paul. ‘I think that can be managed. I’ll have a word with the Old Man. But do you think the Copts will really deliver?’

  ‘I think they will if you can get the Old Man to twist the Khedive’s arm enough to persuade him to withdraw the levy.’

  ‘OK,’ said Paul. ‘I’ll see he gets twisting.’

  Instead of going to the Club as he usually did for lunch, Owen went to Zeinab’s apartment. She was surprised and pleased to see him. Afterwards, as she lay drowsily in his arms, she said:

  ‘How is your little Nonconformiste?’

  ‘All right, I think. I haven’t seen her since the opera.’

  ‘I’m not jealous,’ Zeinab assured him. ‘If you want her, you can have her.’

  ‘She may have her own views about that.’

  ‘Are you taking her to the Moulid?’

  ‘Paul wants me to.’

  Zeinab was quiet for a moment or two.

  ‘Have you ever been to the Moulid?’ she asked.

  ‘Not this one.’

  ‘Ah. Then you must take her. Yes, you must certainly take her.’

  ‘Perhaps I will,’ said Owen innocently.

  Later, as Zeinab sat brushing her hair, she said:

  ‘How is Yussuf?’

  ‘In the cells.’

  ‘Poor man. It is time you let him out.’

  ‘I would if I was sure he wouldn’t go straight back and do it again.’

  ‘He ought to remarry Fatima.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to achieve.’

  ‘Have you talked to the man, the one who married her?’

  ‘Suleiman? No. I’ve talked to Fatima, though. She says that Suleiman will want money.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t any. The Compensation Fund is exhausted. Anyway, it’s a bad accounting principle.’

  ‘Accounting principle?’ said Zeinab, surprised.

  ‘Yes. Give him some and they’ll all be doing it.’

  ‘That is accounting principle?’

  ‘More or less. Financial control, anyway.’

  Zeinab shrugged her shoulders. One of them emerged from her gown and Owen went across and kissed it.

  ‘I have been thinking,’ said Zeinab, laying down her brush. ‘Has Fatima any family?’

  ‘I don’t know. I expect so. Why?’

  ‘It is one thing taking a woman into your house,’ said Zeinab. ‘It is another thing taking her family.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘If she has a large family and some of them are unprovided for, say, for instance, she has unmarried sisters and aunts and nieces, then it is only right, since her husband has married into the family, that he should provide for them, too.’

  ‘Yes, but will he see it like that?’

  ‘It is a duty to provide for your wife’s family as for your own. Why don’t you suggest it to Fatima? She sounds the sort of woman who wouldn’t like to let things slip.’

  ‘I might do that.’

  ‘Yes. If you did,’ said Zeinab, ‘you might even find Suleiman ready to think again.’

  Owen had taken a house in the old part of the city not far from the Mar Girgis. Through the heavy fretwork of its top windows he could see the towering minarets of the Bab es Zuweyla, and from the box window of the storey below, where he was standing when Sesostris approached, he had a good view along the street in both directions.

  It was dark and the lamps were lit and they might not have seen Sesostris if he had not had to step aside to avoid a porter with a heavy bundle on his back and stand for a moment in the light from a shop front. They watched him come to the door.

  Owen had had the house cleared and the servant who let Sesostris in was one of his own men. They heard the door close and the footsteps begin to climb the stairs.

  In the room Andrus twisted his hands nervously. He was a shell of the man he had been previously. Owen gave him a warning glance. He did not want things to go wrong at this stage.

  He glanced round the room to make sure all was in order. It was a modest but comfortably furnished room with a divan, low tables and large leather cushions on the floor. The walls were covered with fine red carpets. Georgiades held one of these aside and stood waiting.

  Behind the carpet was a shallow recess in which the bedding was normally stored. When Georgiades and he were standing inside it and the carpet replaced the wall looked like any other wall.

  Sesostris came into the room.

  ‘Well, Andrus?’ they heard him say.

  ‘Greetings, Sesostris,’ Andrus said with difficulty.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘Because it is safest,’ said Andrus, as they had agreed. ‘They are watching our houses. My house—and yours.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘They have found out. The Mamur Zapt knows.’

  ‘What does he know? And how do you know that he knows?’

  ‘I have a man in his office. Nikos.’

  Owen winced. He thought that an unnecessary touch of Georgiades’s.

  ‘He has told me.’

  ‘How much does the Mamur Zapt know?’

  ‘He knows about the money. And to whom it goes.’

  ‘If he knows, why has he not moved?’

  ‘To know is one thing. To be able to prove is another. That is why he is having the houses watched.’

  ‘So he is not confident yet. Well, that is useful to know.’

  Sesostris did not speak for some time. They heard him moving. He seemed to be walking up and down.

  ‘It gives me a chance,’ they heard him mutter, as much to hims
elf as to Andrus. ‘The question is whether to stop now or go on.’

  ‘I think we should stop, Sesostris,’ Andrus squeaked uneasily. This part had not been in the script.

  ‘It would be a pity to stop now, just when we are nearly there. A few more days, a week perhaps, would be sufficient. Two weeks at the outside.’

  ‘The Mamur Zapt knows.’

  ‘But cannot prove. Let us make sure that for the next two weeks he still cannot prove.’

  ‘How can we do that?’

  ‘We will not meet. I will get the money to you in some other way.’

  ‘That is all right for you,’ said Andrus with an unexpected flash of his old spirit, ‘but what about me? He knows I am the organization.’

  ‘The church house is watched too?’ Sesostris was silent for a moment. ‘Then you must move somewhere else,’ he said with decision.

  ‘They will find out.’

  ‘But not at once. A week is all we need.’

  ‘Is it so close?’

  ‘The Khedive has to decide this week. While there is trouble between Copt and Moslem he cannot offer it to a Copt nor a Copt take it.’

  ‘So he will have to offer it to someone other then Patros?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That will be a Moslem,’ said Andrus doubtfully.

  ‘That suits us,’ said Sesostris with extra definiteness.

  ‘He will impose the levy.’

  ‘And that suits us too. It is the only thing that will stir out sleeping brethren, the only thing that will make them fight and not cooperate. It is time,’ said Sesostris, ‘to make a stand.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Andrus, with less than his usual certainty.

  There was a little silence. Then Sesostris said:

  ‘You are tired, old friend. It has been a hard battle and you have borne the brunt of it. Keep going for just a little longer and then I will have someone else take over.’

  ‘I wish you had not given the money to the Moslems.’

  ‘It was necessary. They would not have responded on such a scale otherwise. It had to be big, Andrus, for the Khedive to notice and be influenced.’

  ‘But for them to use it against our own people!’

  ‘It is hard, I know. But it was necessary. How else are we to break through the effects of centuries of compliance and make the Copts erect and independent once again?’

  Again there was a silence. This time it was Andrus who broke it.

  ‘Will there ever be an end to the trouble between Copts and Moslems?’ he asked wearily.

  ‘Yes. But on our terms.’

  ‘I hope you are right. You play a dangerous game, Sesostris.’

  The two men talked for a little longer. Andrus was the first to leave. Owen waited, as he had agreed, until the door closed behind him. Then he stepped out from behind the hangings.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Moulid of the Sheikh el-Herera was peculiar among Moslem Saints Days in that its date was fixed not by the Moslem Calendar but by the Coptic one. It always fell on Easter Monday. In the view of the Copts this was a deliberate attempt by the Moslems to borrow reflected glory from the greater spiritual event and to obfuscate its uniqueness. In the view of the Moslems the Christian feast was an irrelevance, pursued by the Copts with characteristically unhelpful enthusiasm in order to distract attention from the joyful celebration of the saint’s holy day and to clutter up the streets at the time of the Zeffa, or procession, in which the Moulid culminated.

  What gave the day added piquancy was that it sometimes coincided, as it did this year, with yet another festival, that of the Sham el-Nessim, the old Egyptian spring festival, elements of which antedated both the Christian celebration and the Moslem one, and which called on the allegiance of all Egyptians whether Christian or Moslem or, indeed, anything else. In practice, the effect of all this was to blur the day into one of general celebration and tension between Christian and Moslem only erupted into open conflict if things went badly wrong.

  At the moment, fortunately, there was no sign of this happening. Everyone seemed in carnival mood. There were children everywhere, many of them dressed up in comic costumes and holding little red lamps. Every so often a few of them would form themselves into a line, each holding on to the coat tails of the one in front, and then go burrowing through the crowds like snakes to the good-natured protests of the spectators.

  The street artists were out in force. Tumblers, acrobats, dancers, clowns, entertainers, wild men from the south, mixed with spectators and competed for their attention. As the evening wore on and the moment of the procession drew near, they were increasingly joined by small groups of Zikr, dancing and spinning in the light of the lurid, many-coloured lamps with which the streets were festooned.

  Musicians were drumming on their tablas and darabukas, flutes were playing and fireworks cracking loudly. As they exploded they lit up for a moment the crowds with their excited faces, startling the donkeys in the donkey-vous and making the little horses stir uneasily. The few policemen on duty gawked heavenwards with the rest.

  ‘It’s all quiet, at any rate,’ said Paul, who had come with them to escort John Postlethwaite or, as he put it, ‘mark’ him.

  ‘Quiet?’ said Jane Postlethwaite, her ears still ringing from the last explosion.

  ‘In policing terms, that is,’ said Paul, laughing. He turned to John Postlethwaite. ‘I don’t know if you were aware, sir, that there’s been a bit of trouble lately between the Copts and the Moslems. We were quite worried about that, you know, with Patros Pasha becoming Prime Minister.’

  ‘A good man,’ said John Postlethwaite, ‘a good financial head on him.’

  ‘Yes. Well, in the run-up to the appointment there was quite a lot of tension. It broke out in the occasional incident between Copt and Moslem. Fortunately, Captain Owen has managed to get it under control.’

  Owen knew that Paul meant to be helpful.

  ‘You’d have your work cut out with this lot,’ said John Postlethwaite, as a flock of dancing Zikr spiralled down the street holding flaming torches in their mouths, forcing the crowd to swirl and eddy unnervingly. ‘Religion, I take it.’

  ‘What?’ said Paul.

  On the other side of the street Owen saw McPhee’s tall figure. McPhee was there, as he was, partly on purposes of pleasure. They both reckoned there would be no large-scale trouble that night. Small incidents there would certainly be, but both Andrus and Osman had honoured their undertakings and not only pulled their gangs off the streets but instructed them to avoid anything which could lead to trouble.

  Across the street McPhee caught sight of them and began to weave his way in their direction.

  ‘Religion’s at the bottom of it,’ said John Postlethwaite. ‘It usually is.’

  ‘Actually, there are a lot of pagan elements, too,’ said McPhee, overhearing and mishearing as he came up, and thinking that Postlethwaite was referring to the festival. ‘The Sham el-Nessim goes back to Pharaonic times and even before, and some of its features, notably the phallic ones, have crept into the Moulid and even into the ceremony of the Coptic Easter.’

  ‘A bit of a mixture, eh?’ said John Postlethwaite.

  ‘Like Cairo,’ said Owen, ‘like Egypt.’

  In the crowd celebrating the Moslem saint he could see Copts as well as Moslems. The humbler Egyptians saw no incongruity between attending the Christian festival in the morning and the Moslem one in the evening; and the Sham el-Nessim was common to all.

  A squeal of pipes in the distance announced the imminence of the procession. The policemen remembered their business and began trying to chivvy people back off the streets, or rather, since that was out of the question, attempting to open up a space through which the procession might pass.

  Then round the corner came twelve men bearing aloft cressets full of flaming wood. Behind them came three giant camels draped almost to their feet with a sort of scarlet pall encrusted with shells and bits of brass and mirror. The centre camel had a f
lat saddle on which stood a Bedouin Sheikh in grand robes flourishing a battle-axe. The other two camels carried boys with a kettle-drum slung on each side, which they beat incessantly. Right on their heels were a foot band with more kettle-drums and also cymbals which they clashed and bashed without stopping or having any regard to tune.

  Then came the first of the carts, drawn by donkeys and crammed full of children all in gay carnival attire. As they passed, they threw brightly-coloured paper streamers into the crowd.

  Other carts followed, each representing some guild of workmen or perhaps just a scene which had struck the organizer’s fancy. Around them were masqueraders and tumblers and musicians. The music and the merriment were deafening.

  There was a sudden gap in the procession and looks of agitation. The pause became protracted and the crowd fell quiet. And then, struggling round the corner, caught in the lines of lamps and crystal balls which hung across the street, came a huge wooden contraption, a large frame with about fifty lamps on it arranged in four revolving circles, carried by staggering men. Revived by the applause, they struggled on but then were stopped by sudden shouts of alarm. Hanging low over the street in front of them was the shopkeeper’s pride, a line hung with huge gilt crystal chandeliers which swung in the wind and made shifting kaleidoscopic patterns of light and shadow. There was a brief halt while eager youths climbed up the shopfronts and hauled the line high enough for the contraption to pass underneath. With a magnificent flourish on the hautboys, the procession resumed.

  It took more than an hour to pass. Half way through there was a friendly touch on Owen’s shoulder and somebody produced chairs. The Postlethwaites, unused to the heat, sank into them gratefully.

  At intervals the seemingly endless train of carts was broken by items of more direct popular entertainment: troupes of acrobats, jugglers competing against each other, masquerades. Some of the turns were satirical, one of them, for instance, representing a stage Englishman with loud golfing trousers, a Union Jack shirt and a tall top hat, who had the crowd in fits with a continuous stream of what were clearly scurrilous remarks.

  ‘Isn’t that a Union Jack?’ asked John Postlethwaite.