The Donkey-Vous

Chapter 10

" Not dead?”

“That’s right. Or so his wife believes.”

“Well, yes, but surely-”

“She’s deluding herself? She doesn’t think so. And I’m not sure I think so either.”

“Then how-”

“They got the note, remember? Which the old woman showed to the police. The second note, the one with the demand for paying the ransom, never came. The old woman thought that meant they’d found out, about her going to the police, I mean. She thought she’d killed her son.”

“Hadn’t she?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. You see, the second note did come, only this time it was the wife who intercepted it. Or her daughter, that sharp little Rosa. They didn’t show it to the old grandmother. They thought she’d say no. So they decided to handle it themselves.”

“You mean they paid?”

“Have been paying. Are paying. They couldn’t do it in one go. They haven’t the money. It’s tied up in the business and the old woman keeps a tight hold on that. So they had to do it a bit at a time. Sell off some of the wife’s jewels each week. They’re down to the clothes now.”

“Christ! What do they do when the money runs out?”

“You don’t ask that kind of question. In the end they’ll have to go to the old mother. That’s what the girl wants to do. The wife can’t bring herself to just yet. There’s such a lot riding on the outcome that she wants to put off bringing it to a head. She’d rather live in uncertainty than be certain the wrong way. The girl says there’s no question about it going the wrong way. She’ll kill the old lady herself-yes, Christ, and she means it, too! You don’t know these Greek families. What with damping her down and being terrified of the old lady and yet being determined to do what she can for her husband, the wife’s falling to bits.”

“Bloody hell!”

“I thought you might like to meet them.”

“Well, yes, I would.”

“OK. I’ll set it up.”

They met in a public gardens by the river where the Greek girls were practicing their dancing. They were rehearsing for Easter Monday when they would be joined in the traditional national dances by the young men, at present rehearsing elsewhere, and the older young women, who didn’t need to practice because they knew the dances so well already.

Georgiades pointed out Rosa to Owen. She was one of the oldest and tallest of the girls, imperious with the littler girls, demanding equality with the adult young women assisting the teacher. There was a slight gawkiness about her which showed up in the dance they were presently performing, which involved them ebbing and flowing in a long line and required a girlish gracefulness. The teacher pulled her out and made her dance the part of the boy, which suited her better, demanding assertion and retreat against the withdrawal and advance of the line of girls.

The pattern of the dance suddenly changed and now the initiative came from the boys. The music became staccato, fiery. Rosa responded at once. Gracefulness was clearly a strain; of fire she had plenty.

When the dance ended she rejoined her mother, who was clapping her hands rhythmically in the shade of a bougainvillaea bright with flowers. Owen could tell at once that she was the girl’s mother. Both were tall and thin and had the special fairness of the Greeks. As he came up to them he saw that both had gray eyes. The mother was beautiful, the girl showed promise of it.

Georgiades introduced them. There was a general break for picnic. Mothers and daughters sat down on the grass and opened baskets with lemonade and sweet cakes. The littlest children ran off and played games among the bamboos. The dance had been accompanied by a bass viol and two fiddles played by men in national costume, who sat down under a cabbage tree and thankfully pulled off their boots.

The mother could hardly bring herself to look at Owen. She stared down into the basket and played nervously with the contents. She had long, thin, pale fingers which were never still.

“It is a long time now,” said Owen gently.

“Yes.”

“During that time, have they ever shown you your husband?”

“No.” She knew what he was thinking. “But I know he lives,” she said defiantly.

“I wondered if by chance they held him in the place to which you take the money.”

“I do not think so,” she said softly.

“Could you ask to see him? It is just that if they agreed to bring him, he might be freed.”

“No!” she caught her breath. “It’s too risky! He might be killed!”

“It is a long time and growing longer.”

“They would not bring him,” said the daughter definitely.

“You are sure? Have you tried?”

The mother could not manage to speak. Her fingers tightened round one of the bottles and she shook her head determinedly.

“You see,” said Owen, as gently as he could, “they go on asking for money until they are stopped.”

“What have you done to stop them?” asked the girl.

“Too little. That is why I am trying now.”

“It is too risky,” said the mother.

“I shall not press you.”

Two small boys ran up and plunged into the basket. The mother tried ineffectively to stop them. The girl leaned across swiftly, grabbed both of them and hauled them back.

“One biscuit each!” she said warningly. “Then you must go away!”

The boys, clearly used to sisterly firmness, stood obediently, received their sticky biscuit and ran off shouting happily into the bamboo thicket.

“They are good boys,” said Georgiades.

“Yes,” said the mother, with automatic pride. “They are growing up so quickly.”

“We have not told them,” said Rosa. “They think our father is away on business.”

“Sometimes they ask,” said the mother. “Sometimes they ask when he is coming back.”

Rosa laid her hand on her mother’s. Although it was smaller, not so long, it was recognizably the same hand. “Do you take the money yourself?” asked Owen.

“I did at first.” The mother’s voice was barely audible. “And now?”

The woman did not reply.

“We have made other arrangements,” said Rosa.

“Can you tell me what they are?”

“No.” Rosa looked him fiercely in the face.

“I wondered if you had seen them,” Owen said to the mother. “I thought perhaps you could tell me what they looked like.”

“It was dark,” said the mother faintly.

“It is always dark,” said the girl.

“And always the same place?”

“It has changed,” said the mother, “twice.”

“You must have talked with them a little. Is there nothing you can tell me? I ask only to stop them taking others.”

“You are not to speak like that,” said Rosa. “It is hard enough for her already.”

The mother gently waved her daughter down.

“I would tell you if I could. I haven’t been there for some time. The first time there was a man. I could not see his face. It was dark and he held a galabeah over it.”

“What did he say?”

“Only that if I wished to see my husband again I must pay. I told him,” her voice faltered, “I told him all. About our mother. The business. I said, ‘I will bring you what I have.’ He pressed me but I could say no more. Then he told me to go away and come again the next day. And so I did. When I came again there was another man. He questioned me fiercely but seemed satisfied. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘bring us money every three weeks. Do not miss a payment or it will go hard with your husband.’ I said: ‘If I pay you, will you give me back my husband?’ ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘We have no quarrel with your husband, nor with you. Except that when you have finally paid and get back your husband, then you must go. You must leave Cairo and go. Egypt is Arab and is not for you.’ ”

The woman lifted her head and looked Owen in the eyes for the first time.

“He would not have said that if he had not meant to return my husband. That is why I know he is still alive.”

The men had put on their boots and were tuning their instruments. The line of girls in their fine lawn chemisettes was starting to form.

“Go away,” said Rosa, “and do not come back!”

There came a squeal from inside the bamboo thicket. The mother hesitated, muttered a goodbye, and then as another squeal came dived after it.

Owen and Georgiades turned to go.

“We don’t know he’s still alive,” said Owen, as they set off along the path. “They may just be conning her.”

There was a noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Rosa was about three yards behind.

“Don’t ever say that again!” she said. “Don’t ever say that! Don’t you dare even whisper it! She still believes.”

They stood abashed and awkward.

Rosa came up to them.

“You keep out of it!” she said to Owen. “You keep right out of it!”

Owen called Berthelot in to the Bab el Khalk. This was to be no cozy tete-a-tete in the hotel. He wanted him in his office.

“Monsieur!”

They shook hands.

Nikos went out again, leaving the door open. It was late morning and the shutters of Owen’s room had been closed to keep out the sun. That made it airless if the door was closed. Having the door open had another advantage. Nikos could hear.

There was something different about Berthelot. After a moment Owen realized what it was. Berthelot was braced.

He sat down expectantly on the edge of his chair while Owen took his hat and stick and put them in the corner. Owen came back to his desk and sat down.

“I have asked you to come, Monsieur, because I hope you may be able to help us.”

Berthelot suddenly looked relieved.

“Thank God!” he said.

“ Comment? ”

“Your pardon, Monsieur. I was afraid that…I thought that perhaps you were going to tell me…my uncle…”

“No, no.”

Berthelot’s relief seemed genuine.

“ Mille pardons. It is just that-”

“Nothing new has come through.”

Berthelot visibly relaxed.

“Thank God.” He took out his handkerchief and made to mop his face, then wiped his hands instead. Owen switched on the fan. The great blades above began to whirl noisily, making all the papers on the desk flutter.

Berthelot stopped his wiping and looked at Owen.

“It is strange, n’est-ce pas, to be thankful for that? But one is grateful for small mercies.”

“Not so small.”

Berthelot nodded.

“They will deal in the end,” said Owen.

“Will they? They do not seem anxious to.”

“That is part of the dealing.”

“If one could be sure-”

“I think you can be sure.”

“But if they should lose their heads-”

“This lot,” said Owen, “are unlikely to lose their heads.” Perhaps some bitterness came through, for Berthelot gave him a quick glance.

“Of course!” he said. “You are against us dealing. That is proper of you. But…” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t mind if you deal.”

“You don’t?” Berthelot was surprised. “But I thought…the first time…”

“I don’t mind you dealing. It’s just that I’m still going to try to catch them.”

“Of course, of course.” Berthelot looked at his hands. He was still holding his handkerchief. He put it away. “Our interests are different,” he said. “My chief interest is in getting my uncle freed. After that, well, anything I can do to help.”

“Tell me about your dealings with Izkat Bey.”

Berthelot looked startled.

“That is nothing to do with the-the disappearance of my uncle.”

“Tell me about them, nevertheless.”

“They are perfectly normal business dealings. Confidential, of course.” He stopped. “Are you saying-? Well, I did wonder about it myself. But then I couldn’t see why- Well, only in general terms. And, besides, how could they have known about it?”

“Tell me.”

“Very well. Only it is in confidence, of course. Normally, I wouldn’t-but in the circumstances-”

“Yes,” said Owen. “In the circumstances.”

“Well-how much do you know?”

“Just tell me.”

“Very well. Izkat Bey is helping us to buy some land. I won’t say where the land is-”

“On the other side of the river.”

“Well-”

“Sidky’s land.”

“You obviously know all about it.”

“Why Izkat Bey?”

“He was our contact.”

“With Sidky?”

“Of course.”

“Other people would have done for that. Why Izkat Bey?”

“He was also a contact with other people.”

“I won’t ask you to name them.”

“I wouldn’t tell you their names.”

“Just tell me the nature of their interest.”

Berthelot looked puzzled.

“Their interest wouldn’t be commercial, would it?”

“Yes.”

“I thought the person we were talking about wasn’t the sort of person to have commercial interests?”

“Well, call it a financial interest.”

“He expected to make some money out of it?”

“Yes. Not out of our side, of course, the building side. But when it was up and running. Privately, of course. Very privately.”

“He wouldn’t be running it himself?”

“Oh no!” Berthelot was shocked. “He couldn’t possibly.” He hesitated, and then said, “That was, in fact, where we came in. You see, we could offer not just construction facilities and not just the necessary finance, but also a management team. We provided a complete package.”

“What was the nature of the management team?”

“Well, they had to know how to run a business like that. They had to have the Khed-the confidence of the person we are talking about. That wasn’t so easy, actually, because he knows a lot of the people in the business and knows them only too well.”

“Tell me about the business.”

“You know about that.”

“Tell me all the same. The scale, for a start.”

“Oh, big.”

“How big?”

“Well, bigger than Anton’s.”

“ Antons? ” Owen tried too late to keep the surprise out of his voice.

There was a little silence.

“You didn’t know? We were going to Anton for the management team. His syndicate would be putting up some of the necessary finance. We didn’t need them, actually, but we thought it was best to cut them in. Local interests, you know. It always works better that way. It’s bad to upset rivals. And then the Khedive knew him and our contact in Cannes knew him.”

“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.

They were very proud of their boots and had come along, in traditional national dress with a few props such as guns, daggers and swords, to exhibit them to the tourists to be photographed.

The Kodaks had for once deserted the little white donkeys with their red saddles and blue brocade and strayed out into the street in pursuit of the boots. This had, naturally, brought all traffic to a stop. Equally naturally the traffic was the last to find this out. People continued pushing and shoving, arabeah drivers continued to urge their reluctant animals forward, various other animals wandered about in bewildered fashion and the only motion discernible on the Street of the Camel was general swirl.

One consequence of this was that most ordinary trade had come to a halt. The tourists on the terrace were too engrossed by the spectacle in the street to pay any attention to the vendors thrusting their wares through the railings at them. A temporary truce was forced on the vendors; and so when Owen and Mahmoud managed to struggle through the crowd and finally reach the strawberry-seller and flower-seller they found them unoccupied.

“By Allah, it is good to see you!” said the strawberry-seller warmly.

The flower-seller inquired after their fathers. Owen’s was dead but he refrained from mentioning the fact as he did not want to encourage a diversion. The diversion came anyway because when Mahmoud in turn inquired after the fathers of the strawberry-seller and the flower-seller he was answered at great length, the scope of the reply extending, so it seemed, to the health of the entire village.

Midway through Owen lost track. The heat, the noise, the press of people and the avalanche of detail sent him into a daze. At some point they all sat down in the dust, the better to consider-surely Owen could not be hearing correctly? — the flower-seller’s account of the diseased leg of one of the village camels. Sitting might have been more comfortable had it not been for the fact that the pressure of the crowd was forever making people fall over them. Not that that disturbed anyone.

The recital went on for hours, or so it seemed to Owen. The crowd was still as thick, more tightly jammed if anything. For some time he had been conscious of an approaching wail and thump. The wail ceased to approach and continued to sound at intervals forlornly. A wedding must have got stuck in the crowd. The tourists on the terrace above were still disregarding the vendors and following the Balkan display of boots. The vendors, discouraged, turned to the nearer spectacle and formed a little ring around Owen and Mahmoud and the flower-and strawberry-seller and listened rapt to the tale.

Owen abandoned all hope of getting anywhere. Mahmoud, however, worked patiently on, bent courteously forward to catch the strawberry-seller’s words, offering little suggestions now and then which blocked off a detour or returned after a diversion. And gradually, very gradually, he brought the conversation around.

Owen came to with a jolt when he realized that they were talking now about Moulin.

“His wife is here,” said the strawberry-seller.

“Is she?” said the flower-seller. “I thought she had gone.”

“Not that one. Another one.”

“Has he two wives, then?”

“If he has, this is the senior one. She has gray hair and a straight back.”

“I have not seen her.”

“She does not come out on the terrace.”

“What does she do, then?”

“Sits inside, I suppose. Perhaps she stays in the harem.”

“Has he any sons?” someone asked from the outer circle. “If he has, I have not seen them.”

“There is that young one with the bulging eyes.”

“Ah yes, but he is not a son.”

“He is very like a son.”

“I don’t think the old man has any sons.”

“No sons! Then there will be no one to mourn for him after he is gone.”

“Or inherit.”

“It is very sad if a man has no sons.”

“The one with the bulging eyes,” said Mahmoud, coming in quickly to cut off a potential diversion, “was he there that day, the day the old man disappeared?”

“Yes, he was there,” said the flower-seller. “He came out on the terrace.”

“Ah yes, but that was later. After the old man had disappeared.”

“He didn’t come out before?” asked Mahmoud.

“No.” They were quite sure on the point. “He always comes later. The old man sits there first by himself.”

“All alone.”

“Yes, all alone.”

“He has no sons, you see,” offered one of the outer-ring. Mahmoud, foreseeing another diversion, carried on hastily. “He might not have been lonely. He would have spoken to people.”

“Not many,” said the strawberry-seller doubtfully.

“He spoke to the dragoman,” said Mahmoud.

“Yes, but that was only that day.”

“Perhaps he spoke to him at other times, not on the terrace?”

“Perhaps.”

“If the dragoman was a friend of his, he will grieve for him.”

“That is true,” they assented.

“I must speak words of comfort to the dragoman,” said Mahmoud. “Which dragoman is it?”

“Abdul Hafiz,” said the strawberry-seller.

“No, no,” said the flower-seller. “Osman.”

“It was definitely Abdul Hafiz. I remember, because I was surprised that he should come and talk to Farkas.”

“Why should that be surprising?” asked Mahmoud.

“Because Abdul Hafiz thinks that Farkas is ungodly.”

There was a general chorus of assent.

“That’s why I think it was Osman,” persisted the flower-seller. “He talks to Farkas.”

“I know. If it had been him I would not have been surprised. But I was surprised. That was because it was Abdul Hafiz.”

“Are you sure that wasn’t another day?”

“What wasn’t another day?”

“That-”

“Where is Farkas?” asked Owen.

They looked around.

“He is not here,” they said.

“I know that.”

“He hasn’t been here for some time.”

“Perhaps he’s getting some more stock,” someone suggested. They all laughed.

“How long has he not been here?” asked Owen. It sounded a flower-sellerish sort of question. Perhaps the disease was catching. They understood, however, without difficulty. “He hasn’t been here for several days.”

“Can you remember when he was last here?”

“Was it by any chance,” said Mahmoud, “the day that we last spoke with you? Was that the last day he was here?” They thought before replying, understanding the point of the question. Then they looked at each other.

“Yes,” they said together.

A flock of turkeys had been infiltrating its way through the crowd. One of them came to the strawberry-seller’s basket and sampled his wares. The strawberry-seller leaped up with a shout and belabored the turkey, which turned and scuttled off into the crowd. A series of indignant shouts marked its passage. There was a sudden fierce blare of hautboys as it came up against the wedding. Panicking, it turned and rushed back the way it had just come, pecking everything and everyone in its path.

The crowd broke apart. Somebody fell on to the strawberries. The strawberry-seller started beating him. Another turkey appeared, closely followed by another. Owen jumped for the steps, narrowly missing the snake charmer. Mahmoud leaped up beside him.

Two frightened turkeys ran past the bottom of the steps. Bedlam broke out as they reached the donkeys.

There was a sudden fanfare as the wedding minstrels, profiting by the gap the turkeys had made, reached the steps. Behind them, wavering uncertainly between two giant camels, came the bridal palanquin. There was a loud jingle of bells as the first camel went past.

“By God!” said the blind snake charmer, alarmed. “There it is again!”

Mahmoud turned in a flash and ran down the steps.

“You said that before when I was making them play again the disappearance of the old man with the stick. What do you mean, father? There is what again?”