The Girl in the Nile (8 page)

She led her out through the door. “Do not go,” she said over her shoulder to Owen and the Greek. “I will come down shortly.”

They waited quietly. The furniture was old, the furnishings sparse.

They heard the servant returning. She went on past the door of the room. When she came back it was with a tray, coffee cups and sugar.

“Be seated.”

She came back again, this time with a brazier and coffeepot. She stirred the ashes and placed the coffeepot in the middle.

“That is proper,” she said with satisfaction. “That is the way it used to be.”

She poured them some coffee.

“So,” she said to Owen, “you’re the Mamur Zapt, are you?”

“That is so, mother.”

He addressed her in the same way as he had her mistress, with the deference due to age.

“What has she done wrong?”

“Leila? I do not know that she has done anything wrong. Except, perhaps, that she has stayed out too late at night.”

“She has certainly done that. But does the Mamur Zapt interest himself in things like that?”

“I think she is dead. And the Mamur Zapt
does
interest himself in things like that.”

The woman had not bothered to pull her veil across her face. She stared at Owen with large, unblinking eyes.

“How did she die?”

“I think she may have drowned.”

“Drowned? How could she have drowned?”

“She was on the river. In a dahabeeyah.”

“I do not understand. How could she have been on the river? In a dahabeeyah?”

“Did you know nothing of it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nor who she was with?”

The woman gave a little hard laugh.

“It is that, is it? No,” she said, “no. No, she never told me. And I thought it best not to ask.”

“You did not approve?”

“How could I? It was wrong to leave her family in the first place, wrong, having come here, to go on leading the life she did.”

“What sort of life was that?”

“When she was a child she was a pretty little thing. Her father doted on her. We all did. I, her mother. The only child, although a girl child. Her father took her with us when we went to France. And that was a big mistake, for there she saw and was seen.”

Among the men she was seen by was a young man from another rich Alexandrian family and when they all returned to Egypt he somehow succeeded in gaining access to her.

“He said to her: ‘Let us be free, as the young in France are free.’ And she was thrilled by that, for she found it hard to come back to a woman’s life in Egypt after tasting life in France. Before, she knew no better. Now, she wanted holiday all the time.”

The young man’s intentions had been honorable and he had asked his father to obtain her as a bride. His father, however, had had other ideas. Perhaps Leila’s family had not been quite good enough for him. Perhaps it was just that he had already made other plans. Marriages in middle-class Egyptian families were made by the father, usually without reference to the son or daughter, and sometimes without even reference to the mother. Anyway, the boy’s father had refused.

Leila’s father had somehow got to hear of it and in her case, of course, the consequences were worse. Her father, lax before, now kept her immured. She was not even allowed to receive female visitors.

Leila had both pined and rebelled. Somehow she again made contact with the young man. And one night they had eloped.

“What happened next I do not know,” said the servant, “but a year later she came to our house here and threw herself into the mistress’s arms and begged her to take her in. Of course she said yes. Leila was her sister’s child. Besides, she had none of her own and Leila had always been a favorite. And I thought at first that it was good, because my mistress had lost her interest in life and I thought this might renew it.”

She lifted the pot, stirred the ashes and then replaced it. The action seemed to break her train of thought, for afterwards she did not resume speaking, seemed to forget she had been speaking and sat waiting passively. Owen realized suddenly that like her mistress she was old.

“You thought that at first,” he prompted gently, “but afterwards you changed your mind?”

She came back with a start.

“Not at first. She was so glad to be with us and we were so glad to have her. The mistress fussed over her—still does— and they were like mother and daughter. And Leila needed a mother. But then—” She broke off.

“Then?” Owen prompted softly.

“The mistress became—as she is now. Leila nursed her tenderly. But as the months went by she became restless. She was a young woman now and needed more. She needed a man. She started to go out.”

“She had friends?”

“Yes. Some she had met—when she was with him. I do not know what sort of friends they were that they would let a young woman come to them on her own! But soon she was always with them.”

“Nights?”

“No,” said the woman. “Well, once or twice, perhaps. She said she had been to the theater and that afterwards they had talked late. I did not press. I did not want to know. The theater!” She shuddered. “What sort of place is that for a woman to go to? If that was the sort of friends they were—!”

“Did she tell you any of their names?”

“No.”

Owen thought.

“I would like to see her room. Perhaps she kept names, addresses.”

The woman hesitated uncertainly.

“Are you married?” she asked suddenly.

“Me? No.”

“It would not be proper.”

“How about him?” said Owen, indicating the Greek. “He is married.”

The woman surveyed the Greek closely.

“Yes,” she said, “I can see that. How many wives have you got?” she asked with interest.

“One,” said the Greek. “That is more than enough.”

The woman cackled.

“She keeps you on a tight rein, does she? That is proper,” she said approvingly. “Very well,” she said, “I will show you her room.”

Owen, alone in the room, poured himself some more coffee. There was an old shiraz carpet on the wall, very faded, an old, full-length incredibly elaborate mirror, some old pots, Persian boxes. No money in the house now, he thought, but money in the past. He wondered about Leila’s family.

Georgiades came back shaking his head. Owen stood up.

“Thank you,” he said to the old servant woman. “You have been very helpful. There is just one thing more: I feel I should tell Leila’s parents. Can you give me their names and tell me where I might find them?”

The woman stood very still.

“She is dead to them already,” she said bitterly. “Why do you bring a dead body back from the grave?”

Since he was in the area, Owen decided he would go down to the river and take another look at the shoal on which Leila’s body had come to rest. His way took him past the local police station. Sitting on the ground in front of it were the two constables who had delayed him at the dovecot during the arms search. They greeted him cheerfully.

“Hello,” they said. “Any nearer finding that body?”

“Yes,” said Owen. “I’m nearer.”

“Good. Tell us when you find it.”

“Don’t worry,” said Owen. “I will.”

He would too, he promised himself. He was sure they knew something, some trick that that idle, rascally District Chief had been up to. There had been something they’d said. What was it?

And then he stopped in his tracks, turned and made his way in a quite different direction.

He found the watchman asleep under a tree, his legs curled up under him as they had been when he had pantomimed the way he had found the body, his turban neatly parked beside him. Owen stirred him gently with his foot.

The man’s eyes opened.

“Effendi!” he said in alarm, scrambling to his feet.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Abu,” said Owen, “but there are things I would know.”

“I will help you if I can,” the man said doubtfully, “but I have told you all I know.”

“Not quite all. Let us go back to the moment you found the body, the moment you realized that it
was
a body. What did you do?”

“I went to the Chief to report it.”

“This was at the police station, was it?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Was he alone?”

“No, effendi. Fazal was with him. Fazal had just come in and they were talking. They were talking”—Abu lowered his eyes bashfully—“about you, effendi.”

“About me?”

“Yes, effendi. Fazal said that you had met up with the men and had started work. And the Chief said: ‘Already? Before God, they must have little work to do.’ That is what he said, effendi.”

“Did he?” said Owen grimly.

“It is all the same with these great people—this is what he said, effendi. They have nothing better to do than go down and make a nuisance of themselves to people who are peacefully going about their own affairs. That is what he said.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And then he turned on me and shouted: ‘And here is another! What have you brought me to spoil my day, Abu?’ And I told him, and he said: ‘What do I care about bodies? Let it lie there.’ And Fazal said: ‘You had better not do that if the Mamur Zapt is about.’ And the Chief said, ‘That is true, Fazal.’ And he thought, and then he said: ‘I know what we will do, Fazal. You go and tell the Mamur Zapt that there is urgent business at the river. Let him see to it.’ And then he laughed and said: ‘This is the way to do it, Fazal. Let us get the great working for us for a change.’ ”

“Thank you,” said Owen. “Very interesting.”

“That was good, wasn’t it, effendi?” said Abu happily. “To have you working for him and not the other way round.”

“Oh, very good. So Fazal went off to fetch me. And then what?”

“Then the Chief picked up the phone and said to me: ‘And while we are at it, let us get those other idle bastards off their backsides.’ Pardon, effendi, that is what he said.”

“Go on. Who did he phone?”

“The Parquet, I think. And one other. And then he said to me: ‘Push off, Abu! Get back to the river lest the Mamur Zapt come and find no one there.’ So I went.”

“What about Ibrahim? Was he sent with you?”

“Yes, effendi. The Chief put his head out of the office and called for him and said: ‘Go with Abu. There is a body. You know what to do.’ ‘Yes,’ said Ibrahim, ‘I know what to do.’ And so we went together.”

“That,” said Owen, “is most interesting.”

“Is it, effendi?” said Abu, greatly gratified.

“Yes. But still puzzling. Tell me, Abu: you went to the river together?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“That is what I find puzzling. Are you sure?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“All the way? Together?”

“Yes, effendi. Well, Ibrahim asked me to call in at Mohammed Fingari’s to get a package for him. And that was strange because Mohammed said, ‘What package is this?’ And I said—”

“OK, OK,” said Owen. “I get the idea. You went in to get the package while Ibrahim went on to the river—was that it?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“So you joined him there?”

“Yes, effendi. And he chided me, saying: ‘Where have you been, Abu? What if the Mamur Zapt had come in your absence?’ And I said: ‘It is not my fault, Ibrahim. You—’ ”

“Thank you. Thank you. I understand. So in fact Ibrahim arrived at the river first?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, effendi. Until I got there. Which wasn’t long, effendi, really. I swear it. It was just that—”

“Thank you. You have told me what I wished to know.”

“I have?”

“Yes. And now we will go to the Chief.”

Abu fell in beside him. He was clearly, however, turning things over in his mind.

“Effendi,” he said diffidently.

“Yes?”

“If I have said anything untoward, the Chief will beat me.”

“If what you have told me is true, it will be the Chief who is beaten.”

“So tell me, Ibrahim, what happened when you and Abu went down to the river?”

The constable scratched his head.

“What happened? Nothing happened. When we got there, the body wasn’t there. If it ever had been there.”

“You went to the river together?”

“Indeed.”

“All the way—together?”

“Yes. More or less.”

“You did not go on ahead?”

“No, effendi. Well, if I did, that was because Abu took so long. Yes, I remember, effendi.” He turned to Owen, “I waited, but that foolish fellow took so long—having a cup of tea, no doubt—that I was worried lest you come and find the corpse unattended, so I hurried on.”

“Alone?”

“Well, yes, alone.”

“And what did you do when you came to the river?”

“To the river? Nothing. I waited for Abu. It was but a minute, effendi. And then you came.”

“You weren’t there long?”

“No, effendi.”

“But long enough to fetch the pole?”

Ibrahim’s jaw dropped.

“Pole?” he said.

“That’s what you use, isn’t it? To push the bodies off? So that they float down to the next district and you don’t have to report them?”

The Chief had gone pale.

“That is correct, isn’t it?” Owen addressed him. “That is the usual practice, is it not?”

The Chief found it hard to speak.

“Sometimes,” he said at last.

“Only this time it was a mistake. For you had already summoned me. And notified the Parquet. You did not mean it to happen this time. Only Ibrahim misunderstood you. ‘You know what to do,’ you said to him. And he thought he knew what that meant.”

The corporal shot the Chief an agonized glance.

“So he got rid of Abu and hurried on ahead. And when he got to the river he took the pole—and he pushed the body off!”

“Effendi—”

“That is what happened, didn’t it?”

“Effendi—”

“This time,” said Owen, “you had better speak the truth.”

“Effendi,” said Ibrahim desperately, “that is what would have happened if—”

“Yes?”

“If the body had been there!”

What?”

Mahmoud sprang out of his chair.

“Sit down, sit down,” said Owen hurriedly, looking around him at the crowded café. The clientele, however, used to the drama of Arab conversation, went on placidly reading their newspapers.

“What did you say?”

“They pushed them off. So that they floated down to the next district and they wouldn’t have to bother.”

“Pushed them off?”

Mahmoud could hardly believe his ears, refused to believe his ears.

“Yes. There was a special pole they used. That was what gave me the clue. The constables mentioned a pole.”

“But this, this is—”

Mahmoud, incoherent with fury, could not for the moment say what it was.

“Outrageous!” he shouted.

“Yes, yes. Come on, sit down,” said Owen, plucking at his arm. Mahmoud shook him off.

“Disgraceful!”

“Yes, yes. I know. Come on—”

“I’ll have their blood!” stormed Mahmoud. “I’ll have their blood for this!”

He smashed his fist down on the table.

This did attract the attention of some of the newspaper readers. It even attracted the attention of the waiter, which was much more difficult. He came across and dabbed up the spilled coffee with a dirty dishcloth and a flourish.

“By all means,” said Owen soothingly. “Have their blood. But have some coffee first.”

He coaxed Mahmoud back into his chair.

“It is tampering with the evidence!” shouted Mahmoud.

“Yes, yes.”

“Evidence is what the whole system is based on. If we cannot trust that, where are we?”

“Fortunately we found out.”

“Yes.”

Mahmoud quieted down and raised a fresh cup of coffee to his lips. Suddenly he crashed it down again.

“In this one case!” he shouted. He sprang to his feet. “What about the others? The ones we have not found out? You said there were others. The pole! There was a special pole they used for the purpose. That was what you said. There must be others!”

“The bodies will have turned up lower down. Come on, sit down. They’ll have been reported, they’ll be in the system. All we have to do is to check back. Sit down!”

Mahmoud reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled down.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” he said to Owen. “It’s the principle.”

For Mahmoud it was. He had a vision of the legal system as the expression of a clear, abstract principle of justice and believed that practice should correspond. Unfortunately, this being Egypt, the relation of the operating parts of the system to the ideal vision was somewhat cloudy. This was a perpetual source of vexation to Mahmoud and his efforts to do something about it drove him towards reform at the political level— he was a member of the Nationalist party—and perfectionism in his daily work.

He identified so strongly with the system at its most ideal that when practice fell short, as it invariably did, he took it personally. When the servants of justice revealed shortcomings, as in this case of the local Chief and his constable, he felt it almost as personal betrayal.

“This kind of thing makes a mockery of the whole system,” he said bitterly.

“It’s just a pair of lazy sods,” said Owen.

“To you, perhaps. To me, they are part of the system. And when part of the system fails, the system as a whole fails.”

He brooded over his coffee.

“It doesn’t matter to you much, does it?” he suddenly shot at Owen.

“Not much,” Owen admitted.

“Why is that? Is it because you don’t expect any better of Egyptians anyway?”

“No.”

The conversation had suddenly moved, as conversation between British and Egyptians often did, into a minefield.

“No,” Owen said carefully, very carefully. “It’s just that I don’t think in terms of system as much as you do.”

Mahmoud looked at him intently and then suddenly relaxed.

“I know what it is,” he said, smiling. “It is that you are British. No,”—he quickly laid his hand on Owen’s arm in the Arab way—“I did not mean it like that. I meant that you British are always pragmatic. Whereas I”—he sighed theatrically and smote himself on the chest—“am Arab.”

“French.”

Mahmoud looked startled. “French?” he said.

“In this case. The emphasis on system is French, not Arab. You are a true Parquet lawyer, my friend.”

“Not Arab? Ah well, it is very confusing being an Egyptian.”

They both laughed and then sat sipping their coffee equably. Owen had, however, the sense of relief that follows a near miss.

It was often like that in conversation with educated Egyptians. Partly it was normal Arab volatility, their ability to move from elation to depression, rage to calm, in the space of a few bewildering seconds. Partly, though, it was the explosive potential inherent in any true conversation between a representative of a dominating power and one of the dominated

“Being in Egypt,” he said, “not just being an Egyptian.”

Mahmoud, however, had already forgotten what had passed and was thinking about something else.

“Ibrahim went there expecting to find the body, didn’t he? That was where bodies came ashore. They even kept a pole there ready. He didn’t expect it to be washed off again, either. That’s not what happened. Once a body had grounded, you had to push it off. If there was any chance of it floating away again of its own accord, he wouldn’t have bothered.”

“So?”

“So it wasn’t washed away. And he didn’t push it off. So—”

“Yes?”

“Either somebody else did, which isn’t likely, because what would be their motive? Ibrahim and the Chief had a motive all right; they wanted to get out of work. But anyone else?”

“Or?”

“Or somebody found it and took it away.”

“Who would want to do a thing like that?”

“I think I know,” said Mahmoud.

Mahmoud took Owen to a part of the city he had never been to before. It was tucked into a corner of Bulak and must have been near the river, for once Owen caught a glimpse of ship masts at the end of a street. But then streets disappeared altogether and there was just a mass of houses running into one another with the occasional alleyway between them.

The alleyways were scored with deep trenches down which the water ran when it rained; or would have run had its passage not been blocked by heaps of refuse, dung and animal guts, behind which the water collected in stagnant pools, above which mosquitoes hung in a cloud.

Mahmoud came to one of these alleyways and hesitated. Looking down it, Owen saw kite hawks picking at the carcass of a dog. Kites were Cairo’s scavengers and kept the city clean. Owen normally took them for granted. Today, however, they seemed disturbing.

Mahmoud saw something further on and touched Owen’s arm. In the shadow between the houses Owen could not see what it was but when they came up to it he saw that it was a man.

He was sitting against a wall with his legs tucked up under him. There was something odd about them. Perhaps he had no legs.

He seemed asleep. Mahmoud put his hand down and shook him. The man came awake with a start and put his hand up to his face. Owen had taken him for a Sudani because his face was black. As he raised his hand it seemed as if the whole front of his face came off. The blackness was a solid layer of flies. Beneath, the face was one raw wound.

“Which way?” said Mahmoud.

The man pointed to a kind of buttress beside him. Behind it was a long, thin alleyway. It was so narrow that as they went down it Owen’s shoulders brushed the walls on each side. There was a trench running down this one, too, its contents so foul that he walked with his feet astride it. There was the soft scuttle of rats.

The alleyway opened out into a space between four houses. The houses were linked together with heavy fretwork windows so that you could not see the sky. Although it was midday everything was pitch dark. In the shadows something moved.

It looked like a dog. Owen thought of rabies and reached for his gun. Mahmoud sensed the movement and put out a restraining hand.

As Owen’s eyes became accustomed to the dark he could see the dog more clearly. It wasn’t a dog, it was more—he felt prickles on the back of his neck—like a hyena. Its head was down and its back sloped up into a kind of point at the rear.

Mahmoud spoke to it.

“Tell him that I have come,” he said. “And that I bring a friend.”

“Who is your friend?” asked a hoarse voice from the shadows.

“The Mamur Zapt.”

There was a long silence.

“I will tell him.”

The creature ran off on all fours.

“What the hell is this?” said Owen.

“Beggars. If they’re not crippled to start with, they cripple themselves.”

The creature came scuttling back. Owen could see now that it was a man. His back was horribly deformed and rose into a kind of hump at the base of the spine. His arms had been amputated at the elbows and his legs at the knees.

“Follow me,” it said.

They went down an alleyway and in at a door. The room was dark but it was as if there was something fluttering in it. They went through it and on into another room where there was more daylight.

Mahmoud gave a cry of disgust and began to beat at his legs. He was black from shoes to waist.

Owen looked down at himself. He was black, too, as if coated with a layer of paint. And then he saw that the blackness was moving, and struck at it frantically.

He was covered with fleas.

There was a hoarse cackle of laughter.

Mahmoud strode across and kicked their guide heavily in the ribs.

“There was no need for this!” he said angrily.

The creature gave a gasp and slipped nimbly out of the way.

“You wanted to see the Man, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Mahmoud. “Where is he?”

The creature pointed to a dark opening in the wall. Mahmoud went across and then beckoned Owen over. They were looking down into a long dark cellar, lit by a brazier at one end. All round the room men were lying. In the middle of the room a small circle of men were passing something round. The air was heavy with the sweet smell of hashish.

“Who have we here?” said a deep voice.

“Greetings, Mustapha el-Gharbi,” said Mahmoud.

He stepped down into the cellar. The circle opened and made space for them. Owen saw now what they were passing. It was the heavy coconut shell of the goza, or waterpipe, which was the way Cairo habitués preferred to take their hashish. He saw the charcoal glowing.

“Well, Mahmoud el Zaki,” said the deep voice. “It is a long time since we saw you here.”

Owen was able to pick out the speaker. It was a short, immensely fat man sitting opposite.

“It is a long time since my duties have called me here,” said Mahmoud.

“That is because these days you are at the top of the ladder and it is other men who are sent to places like this.”

“It is good for young men to come to places like this when they start,” said Mahmoud. “Then they know what they are up against.”

The man opposite chuckled.

“Still the same Mahmoud el Zaki,” he said drily. “Unbending as ever. Nevertheless, he has come here, so he must seek a favor.”

“Not necessarily a favor. A deal, rather.”

“That’s more like it. And,” said the man, glaring at Owen, “you have brought a friend with you with whom indeed we might be able to do business.”

“I don’t think so. This is the Mamur Zapt.”

“I know.”

“Greetings, Mustapha el-Gharbi,” said Owen.

“And to you greetings. It is a pleasure to have the Mamur Zapt with us again.”

“Again?”

“I used to do business with one of your predecessors.” Which one was that? wondered Owen. The one who was dismissed for corruption?

He felt Mahmoud stiffen beside him.

“It is always good to do business with friends,” he said diplomatically.

“That is so. And doubly good where pleasure and benefit coincide.”

“Let us hope that is the case today. I am in the market for information.”

“Is that so?” El-Gharbi stroked his beard. “What sort of information?”

“About a body that may have come ashore,” said Mahmoud.

“What makes you think I might possess that kind of information?”

“Your people work the riverbanks. They are like ants or beetles. They work all day. And they do not miss much.”

“They are good workers,” said El-Gharbi, with the air of one making a concession.

“The body we are interested in came ashore in the Al-Gadira district four nights ago. It fetched up on a sandbank. The watchman went to tell the local Chief and when he came back the body was gone.”

“Well, well,” said El-Gharbi. “How puzzling for him.”

“It puzzled me, too,” said Mahmoud. “For your people do not usually take the body. They strip it and leave it.”

“Bodies in themselves are usually worth nothing,” said El-Gharbi.

“This one is worth something.”

“How much?”

“That is what we have to determine.”

“Tell me about this body.”

“It is the body of a young girl. She was wearing pink shintiyan.”

“Not a peasant woman, then. But then again, if she had been, you would not have been coming to see me. How did she come to be in the water?”

“We do not know. She was on a boat.”

“Ah yes,” said El-Gharbi. “Four nights ago? That would have been the Prince’s dahabeeyah. Well, of course, that does put the price up.”

“You have information, then, that might interest us?”

“I might. It is not straightforward, though.”

“Would you be prepared to sell?”

“I might. The circumstances are, however, complex. And the price would have to be right. The market is, shall I say, a live one.”

“What do you think would be the going price in such a market?”

“I would say that five thousand pounds, Egyptian, would attract interest.”

“Alas,” said Owen, “I feel that the largeness of spirit for which you are famous has expressed itself in the figure you give us.”

“On the contrary. The affection I feel for you personally has led me, if anything, to understate it. The market is, as I have said, a live one.”

As the negotiations proceeded, Owen became more and more convinced that this was so. El-Gharbi seemed to feel under no pressure at all to reduce his asking figure, and Owen felt that this was not just a matter of negotiating tactics. He seemed to be sure he would make his price.