Donkey-Vous (19 page)

“Was that where it started—Cannes?”

“Yes. Our contact got to know—well, the person we were talking about—when he went there last year. She saw the nature of his interests and got talking. Whether she suggested it or he suggested it, I don’t know. We came in later. She approached us. By then it was a proposition.”

“That you should—”

“Build a salon. Acquire the land, construct a building, independent and self-standing, but equipped with all facilities, install a management team. Obviously a company would have to be created to run it but we weren’t really part of that, except that we have to have somebody to deal with for contractual purposes.”

“Izkat Bey?”

“It had to be secret. No one too close to the Khedive. Anyway, it had to be foreign.”

“To take advantage of the Capitulations?”

“That’s right. It’s a foreign-registered company.”

“Where is it registered?”

“Montenegro.”

“Montenegro!”

“Yes. It has the advantage that it’s claimed by about a dozen countries, all of which would be glad to advance their claims by offering the protection of their nationality to any company registered there and operating internationally.”

“Let’s get this right. You build it, someone else owns it, and someone else altogether runs it?”

“That’s right.”

“How does our friend come in, the person we were speaking of?”

“He inspired it in the first place. The idea may not have come from him, it may have come from our contact in Cannes, but he certainly encouraged it.”

“What does he get out of it?”

“He would probably play there himself incognito. But the main point is to make money. Apparently he’s short of cash—”

“He’s always short of cash.”

“Well, apparently he can’t move a finger financially, it’s all tied up by the British. Before Cromer came, the Khedive could do what he liked—”

“He bloody bankrupted the country.”

“He can’t do that now. In fact he can’t do anything now, not financially, I mean, and he’s sore about it. He wants to find a way of bypassing the controls and the only way he can do that is by some sort of secret operation such as this. He gets a steady income flow, unaccounted for, in return for his influence. He says it’s good, anyway, to have some enterprises in the country which are Egyptian—”

“Egyptian? I thought you said it was registered in Montenegro?”

“He thinks of it as Egyptian. Anyway, not British, that’s the important thing.”

“It’s a bit risky. It wouldn’t do him any good at all if this came out. The Khedive into gambling! Bloody hell! This is a Moslem country. Gambling clubs are officially banned.”

“I know. That’s why I thought—when my uncle disappeared. I thought someone had found out and wanted to stop it. I half expected them to say that in the note.”

“How would they find out?”

Berthelot shrugged.

“I don’t know. Egypt is a funny country. Half the people are doing things in private and all the people are telling everyone else about it.”

Owen sat thinking.

“The people who would object most are the Moslem fundamentalists.”

“Yes.” Berthelot looked at him. “Does that fit?”

Owen did not reply.

He became aware that Berthelot was casting longing glances in the direction of the jug of water which, as in all Egyptian offices, stood in the window to cool. He went across and passed him some water. With the shutters closed there was little draught and the water was tepid.

“Tell me,” he said, as he handed the glass to Berthelot, “who told you about Anton?”

“Our contact in Cannes.”

“How did you know where to find him?”

Berthelot looked puzzled. “
Comment?
”

“When you got here. The city was new to you. How did you find his address?”

“I took an arabeah,” said Berthelot, still puzzled.

“Can you remember which? No? Well, it’s not surprising. Did you ever send messages to Anton?”

“Yes. I—but nothing important.”

“Who took the messages?”

“I can’t remember.”

“The hotel messenger?”

“Yes. But that was only—a simple note, suggesting an appointment.”

“It would be enough.”

Berthelot was silent. Then he said: “I wish to help you. I sent other messages.”

“How?”

“By dragoman.”

“Which dragoman?”

“I used two. I thought it was better that way.”

“Which two?”

“Osman. Abdul Hafiz.”

“Why them?”

“They seemed sober and reliable. Discreet.”

“Yes,” said Owen, “they are that.”

“I need some advice from you,” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley.

“Anything I can do—”

“Do I pay? Do I just pay them and get it over?”

Owen was brought up with a jolt.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. I was thinking.”

“I’ve been doing some of that,” said Lucy. “I’ve been doing a hell of a lot.”

“I don’t know that I am the person you should ask.”

“But I’m asking you. Hello? Are you still there? These phones are a bit funny.”

“I’m still here. I still don’t think I’m the person you should ask. Is no one from the Consulate helping you?”

“They’re all helping me. That’s why I need some independent advice.”

“I’m not independent.”

“You know what I mean.”

“If I were you and not the Mamur Zapt, I’d pay. Let the Mamur Zapt sort out his own problems.”

“Thanks, love. I knew you were unreliable.”

There was a pause.

“Are you still there?” asked Owen.

“Yes. The trouble is, the Mamur Zapt’s problems are not just his own problems. If the French had refused to pay, Daddy might not have been taken. If I pay, someone else might be taken.”

“Your father’s your problem. Leave the other ones to someone else.”

“You don’t help at all,” said Lucy.

“Someone ought to be giving her advice,” said Owen.

“No, they shouldn’t,” said Paul. “No one ought to give advice on this sort of thing.”

“Christ, she’s in a foreign country and she’s on her own.”

“That’s what everyone says and they give her advice. And it doesn’t help.”

“She asked me for advice and I’m the wrong person.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Will you help her?”

“Look,” said Paul, “I may be the wrong person, too. I shall take a broad political view. It’s my job. The political view is clear. It would look bad if we gave in.”

“Suppose we gave in and people didn’t see we’d given in?”

“How do we manage that?”

“How the hell do I know? You’re the political expert.”

Owen was having difficulty with Mahmoud. He had been trying to contact him all morning. He had finally caught him over the telephone by pretending to be someone else. Mahmoud had been most unwilling to meet. Eventually, ungraciously, he had agreed to come out for a cup of coffee.

It was the only way. They had to meet face to face. Arabs found Englishmen distant anyway: over the telephone they were like aliens from another planet.

But now they were sitting face to face. Owen was still having difficulty. The problem was not just that Mahmoud had been wounded and offended. He was used to knocks and could shrug them aside. What counted far more was the mood he was in. And just now he was in a particularly bleak mood. Far from shrugging aside the blow he had received, he had brooded on it. And once he had started that, all sorts of other things came in: the iniquity of the British in Egypt, the depressed position of Arabs in the world generally, the general hostility of mankind. The world was set against him, Mahmoud, personally. It was all too big for him and he was too small and it was all unfair.

When he was like this it was very hard to prise him out of it. He seemed slumped in despair. He seemed hardly to hear what Owen was saying.

Owen decided he wasn’t hearing what he was saying. How could he break in?

He looked around him and wondered if he could risk it. If anyone had done it to him he would have run a mile, but Arabs were always doing it, it was the way they operated, their style of relation. Their emotions were always so ready to bubble over that they had to find immediate physical ways of expressing them. If you didn’t express them physically they assumed you didn’t have them. The cold English were cold because they kept their emotions locked up inside them, they didn’t let them out in all the rich variety of the Arab language of gesture.

Owen made up his mind, leaned forward and placed his hand gently but familiarly on Mahmoud’s own. Mahmoud looked up. His expression did not change, his eyes barely registered Owen’s presence, but he did not remove his arm.

“I feel for my brother,” said Owen, falling naturally into Arabic. “Let me share my brother’s distress.”

They used all three languages between them, English, French, and Arabic. Normally, when they were on business, they spoke English, though if they were with French-speakers they would speak French. Between them they used Arabic less, perhaps because it was more intimate. Just at the moment, though, the Arabic phrases came more easily to Owen’s tongue.

“How can you?” asked Mahmoud. “You are not my brother.” He replied, however, in Arabic.

Owen moved his chair closer to him. Again, it was not a thing he would have done with Englishmen. But Arabs were always doing it. As a conversation progressed and they became emotionally involved, they would move closer and closer until they were almost touching you.

“I share what you feel. Therefore I am your brother.”

“No one knows how I feel.”

“A brother can guess.”

“They do not trust me.”

“They do trust you. I was talking to Paul. They had to do this for political reasons which were nothing to do with you. Paul says when this is all over they want you involved again. He thinks a lot of you. He says they all do.”

“Then why do this to me?”

“Politics.”

“Politics! Politics ought not to interfere with personal relationships.”

“Quite right,” said Owen. “I absolutely agree.”

“They make too much of politics. They see politics everywhere. You see politics everywhere!” he said to Owen accusingly.

“But I don’t let it interfere with my friendships.”

“No,” Mahmoud admitted. “That’s true. You don’t.”

For a moment he seemed about to soften. Then he suddenly fired up.

“That is because you think it is all just a game. For you, politics is just a game. For me, it is not a game. No.” He beat his hand on his chest theatrically. “For Egyptians politics can never be a game. The English can afford to let politics be a game because they have won. For the Egyptians—”

Owen sighed inwardly. Mahmoud was starting off again. However, he kept his hand commiseratingly on Mahmoud’s arm and stared sympathetically into his eyes.

Mahmoud descended, a little self-consciously, from his high horse.

“It is pride,” he said. “It is pride.”

“The Arabs are a proud people.”

“You forget that!”

“Other people may. I don’t.”

“The English do. The English—” Owen thought he was starting off again. However, Mahmoud suddenly became conscious of himself. “The English don’t understand us,” he concluded somewhat lamely.

“I know,” said Owen soothingly. “I know.”

Mahmoud looked at him. Suddenly he reached forward and took Owen in both arms.

“You understand us!” he said. “You are my friend! My brother!”

He hugged Owen tight. Owen looked surreptitiously up the street. Fortunately no one was watching. At the far end of the street some Arabs were talking animatedly, their arms naturally ’round each other. If anyone did see they wouldn’t think anything of it.

“I am your brother,” he said to Mahmoud.

“You are my brother,” said Mahmoud joyfully.

He released Owen and shouted for more coffee. That was another Arab thing. No friendly exchange, hardly even a conversation, could take place unaccompanied by hospitality. It was what cemented bonds.

“Well,” said Mahmoud, now completely happy. “How are you getting on?”

He had forgotten entirely about his woes, could barely even remember that he had been depressed. He was his old, animated self, interested, passionately interested, of course, for Mahmoud never did anything without passion, once again in the case.

Owen brought him up to date on developments.

“The dragoman is the key. And from what Berthelot says, there are two contenders: Osman and Abdul Hafiz.”

“Of the two, Osman is the more likely,” said Mahmoud.

“He’s more of a rogue.”

“I was thinking of his background. Do you remember? We looked it up. He was at El Azhar. That could be significant.”

The great Islamic university was a hot-bed for nationalist movements, particularly, of course, those with a religious inspiration. Hot-beds, too, Owen frequently thought, produced hot-heads and there were plenty of those at El Azhar. Half the terrorist clubs in the city were based in the university.

“I thought we were going to get an identification,” Owen said. “That strawberry-seller. He and the flower-seller between them.”

“It’s not so much that they know something,” said Mahmoud, “it’s that they’ve seen something. It’s a question of getting it out.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to have another go at them. It’s about all we’ve got to go on. But I wanted to consult you before trying myself because I’m not sure how to set about it. If they’re all over the place like they were last time I’ll never get anywhere. You’re better with them than I am. You know how their minds work.”

Mahmoud was pleased.

“I’m not sure they have any,” he said. “Still, why don’t we try? Why don’t we have another go.”

Owen noticed he had said “we.”

“Yes!” said Mahmoud, firing up with enthusiasm—this was the other side of his slump into depression—and eager to start at once. “Let’s go! Let’s go now!”

The street was brimming. As well as the usual hawkers of stuffed crocodiles, live leopards, Nubian daggers, Abyssinian war-maces, Smyrna figs, strawberries, meshrebiya tables and photograph frames, Japanese fans and postage stamps, sandalwood workboxes and Persian embroideries, hippopotamus-hide whips and tarbooshes, and Sudanese beads made in Manchester and the little scarabs and images of men and gods made for the Tombs of Pharaohs but just three thousand years too late; as well as the sellers of sweets and pastry and lemonade and tea who habitually blocked up the thoroughfare; as well as the acrobats and tumblers, jugglers and performing ape managers; as well as the despairing arabeah-drivers and the theatrical donkey-boys and the long line of privileged vendors stretching the whole length of the terrace—a swarm of Albanians, Serbs, Montenegrins, Georgians, and Circassians had suddenly arrived in front of the hotel to show off their boots.