The Donkey-Vous

Chapter 6

A new party of tourists had arrived at the hotel; and as Mahmoud and Owen came down the steps a small group of them were being introduced by their dragoman to the donkey-boys.

“This Daouad, this Ali,” said the dragoman, selecting two of them not quite at random since Ali was the biggest of the donkey-boys and Daouad the richest.

“Fine donkeys,” said Daouad. “You want ride?”

They were fine donkeys. There were little white ones with gay blue and silver necklaces and saddles of red brocade. These were for women and children. And there were big Assiut donkeys for the men. These stood tall as ponies, with their forefeet on the pavement, brushing away the flies with independent motions of their enormous ears, their tails bright with henna. A triangular silver charm containing a verse from the Koran hung below their throats and somewhere about them (as on all the cab-horses) was a blue bead to keep off the evil eye. Those for hire bore a number plate in English and Arabic-“Donkey No. 153”-on their saddle pommel.

The dragoman performed one of his party tricks. He borrowed a cigar from one of the tourists and puffed cigar smoke up the nostrils of one of the donkeys. The creature closed its eyes and laid its head back in voluptuous ecstasy.

“Shame on you, Osman!” said another dragoman who was passing at that moment.

“And shame on you, Abdul Hafiz!” Osman retorted spiritedly.

Only the strictest Moslems objected to smoking and dragomans were not usually among the strictest Moslems. The donkey-boys, who had developed the trick in the first place, stood smiling broadly.

The tourists giggled. Osman, encouraged, or possibly provoked by Abdul Hafiz, went a step further. He stuck the cigar in the donkey’s mouth.

“Why, Mum, it’s just like Daddy!” said a small boy and dodged the clip on the ear his father gave him.

The dragoman offered the cigar back to its owner. The offer spurned, as he had hoped, he put out the cigar and stuffed it into the folds of his gown. The party moved off.

The donkey-boys looked up at Owen and Mahmoud as they passed.

“We’ve fallen out of favor,” they said. “You don’t come to see us these days.”

Owen and Mahmoud didn’t even need to look at each other. With one accord they dropped on to their haunches beside the donkey-boys.

“It’s being so busy,” said Mahmoud.

“Yes,” said the donkey-boys, “we’ve watched you.”

They passed them two small enamel cups and one of the boys refilled the pot.

“Let it stand for a bit,” said Daouad, who seemed to be their natural leader, if any group so anarchic could be said to have a leader.

“You’re not getting very far, are you?” one of the other donkey-boys said to Mahmoud.

Mahmoud did not reply, just smiled.

“These things take a long time,” said Ali, who as well as being big was rather indolent.

“Are they going to pay?” asked Daouad.

“They might,” said Mahmoud, “but that wouldn’t mean the end of it for us.”

“You’d go on, would you? What’s the point? It would all be over and done with.”

“Until the next one.”

“Yes,” said Daouad, “there’s always that.”

“They’ll have made a nice bit of money,” said another of the donkey-boys. “One hundred thousand piastres! That’s not to be sneezed at!”

As always, the donkey-boys’ information was accurate. In Cairo it was never possible to keep anything secret for long.

“Yes,” said Daouad thoughtfully. “Do that once or twice and it would set you up for life.”

“Get caught,” said Mahmoud, “and you’d be set up for life all right.”

They all laughed.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “The Mamur Zapt has got us frightened.”

Owen knew he was being mocked; but laughed with them. Almost shamefacedly they poured him some tea. He was a guest and under the strong law of hospitality, while a little teasing was allowable, offence should not be given.

“You haven’t found him yet, then.”

“No,” said Mahmoud, “although I’ve been all along the Wagh el Birket. Slowly.”

They roared with laughter.

“I’ll bet you saw some other interesting things, though.”

“But not him. Anyway,” said Mahmoud, “for all you say, that’s not the sort of place where one would be likely to find him. He’s too old.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“He wasn’t as old as that to start with. He just got like that through going there.”

“It takes some people that way. Look at Daouad!”

“I don’t go to the Wagh el Birket!” said Daouad indignantly.

“Not now he’s married.”

“I’m not married!” protested Daouad.

“Oh? I thought you’d been to a wedding recently?”

The donkey-boys doubled up with laughter. It was obviously some inside joke. They wouldn’t leave it alone and Daouad became angrier and angrier. Eventually Mahmoud was able to steer the conversation on to another subject. Another group of tourists came down the steps and Owen and Mahmoud, after the traditionally profuse Arabic thanks, left the donkey-boys to get on with their business.

It was still very hot and really too early to go on expeditions but the tourists were newcomers and had not yet discovered this and the dragomans, having once secured their customers, were certainly not going to tell them.

“They might suggest it later,” Mahmoud said, “when they’ve become their regular dragoman and make definite appointments. Even then, though, they’re not allowed into the hotel unless they’re a properly accredited hotel dragoman. That’s where the hotel dragomans have an advantage. Mind you, they’re not allowed to pester the guests. There’s a corridor behind Reception-it leads out into a little backyard behind the kitchens-and they have to stay in that. When their party arrives, if they’ve made an appointment, or if somebody comes along who looks as if they might want a dragoman, the staff on Reception give the dragomans a signal. If it’s not an appointment they have to take it turns. The first in the line comes forward.”

Mahmoud had been doing some research on the hotel dragomans. There were seven of them, all properly licensed by the police. “I thought we might go along afterwards,” he said, “and look at their files.”

On the day that Moulin disappeared there were only five of them on the premises, the other two having gone with parties to the Pyramids. Of the five, two who had appointments for later had spent the afternoon asleep in the backyard (confirmed by various members of the kitchen staff who had also gone out there to sleep where it was cooler), one had gone on an errand, and only two had been in the corridor at about the time in question. They had stayed in the corridor, according to their own account and confirmed, though not confidently, by Reception, until about half past four, when the first of them, Osman, the smoke-puffing one, had been summoned to take a party off to the bazaars. The second, Selim, had been called for about ten minutes later.

“But by then we’re not really interested,” said Mahmoud. “It’s really from about four o’clock to twenty past four that we’re concerned with.”

“Presumably you’ve asked those two in the corridor and they’ve denied ever having gone out on to the terrace?”

“Oh yes. May God strike them dead, etc. They’d have to deny it because the hotel is very strict on the point. They’ve got to stay in the corridor.”

“Is it possible to get from the corridor to the terrace?”

“Oh yes. It’s only a few steps and if the Reception staff were busy…Still, there would be a risk.”

“But one of them couldn’t have gone out without the other knowing.”

“That’s right.”

“So they’d both have to be in it together.”

“The trouble with the whole affair,” said Mahmoud, “is that everyone is in it all together.”

Mahmoud being Mahmoud, he had not taken anything for granted but had checked stories whenever he could. The dragoman who said he’d gone on an errand, Abdul Hafiz, had indeed gone on an errand. He had gone to collect a parcel for one of the guests from one of the shops in the bazaar, had definitely done so and had handed it in to Reception soon after four-thirty. No doubt on that point at least, for Abdul

Hafiz had wanted to give it directly into the hands of the guests (because of the bakhsheesh) and had been very reluctant merely to deposit it at Reception. It was something that all participants remembered and had clearly made an impression on all of them.

Likewise the two dragomans who had been with parties to the Pyramids had definitely been there and for the whole day too. It would have been impossible for them to have slipped back to the hotel at any point.

And the two dragomans sleeping in the backyard appeared genuinely to have been sleeping.

“Though, of course,” said Mahmoud, “there is no real precision about times.”

“And the yard is just at the other end of the corridor,” Owen pointed out. “They could have slipped along it easily enough.”

“Yes. Though there would have been a risk. They could easily have been seen.”

“That applies to them all.”

“Yes.”

It applied particularly on the terrace where if a dragoman had appeared, as Colthorpe Hartley reported, he must have been seen-indeed, was seen-by Colthorpe Hartley. Mahmoud had tried repeatedly to see if Colthorpe Hartley could identify the dragoman. That, in fact, had been part of the point of the ill-fated reconstruction. However, that attempt, like the others, had failed. Faced with the hotel dragomans, Colthorpe Hartley was barely able to tell them apart. His mind, he assured Mahmoud-and this Mahmoud could readily accept-went blank, “absolutely blank, old boy.” He was, however, quite positive that he had seen “one of those fellows” and Mahmoud was inclined to believe him.

“It fits in with what the snake charmer told us,” he said. “Someone from above the steps.”

“That could apply to a waiter.”

“But Colthorpe Hartley saw a dragoman.”

Naturally enough Mahmoud had tried to find corroboration for Colthorpe Hartley’s account. That, too, had been part of the point of the reconstruction. He had wanted to see if any of the street-vendors remembered the dragoman. His intention had been thwarted by the general rush of all the vendors to that end of the terrace on the day of the reconstruction, which had resulted in a complete mix-up of regulars and general sightseers. He had tried again on the following day when conditions were normal but had not achieved quite the clarification he had desired.

“No one saw a dragoman?”

“Oh yes, everyone saw a dragoman. But they all saw different dragomans!”

Most of the vendors had testified in detail as to the appearance of the dragoman. The flower-seller had described with considerable accuracy one of the dragomans who had been incontrovertibly at the Pyramids on the day in question. The sweetmeat-seller had given a vivid picture of one of the dragomans asleep in the backyard. Four witnesses described with lurid detail the dragoman who had acted the part in Mahmoud’s reconstruction. And the filthy-postcard-seller described a sinister figure with a hunched back and a wall eye and the Fang of the Wolf and-until Mahmoud shut him up.

Mahmoud, ever-hopeful, was still hopeful, though. That was part of the purpose of their stroll across the street. He wanted to reconstruct the image of Moulin’s disappearance again in his own mind, to note the vendors actually present, to see if there was anyone he had missed out. He had, moreover, not given up hope of assisting Colthorpe Hartley’s mind to some merciful clarity of vision and meant to try him again.

He and Owen stood in the shade and watched the events across the street. It was nearly four o’clock and people were coming out on to the terrace for tea. Lucy Colthorpe Hartley appeared with her mother and a little later, regular as clockwork, Colthorpe Hartley himself appeared. Waiters came and went, Mahmoud checked them off against a list.

A dragoman came out of the hotel. Owen tensed for a moment but he was with a party. The party was straggly and ill-disciplined-hence the gap-and the dragoman had to rush around making sure they were all there. This particular dragoman-Owen did not recognize him but thought he might be Abdul Hafiz-looked extremely harassed, too preoccupied with his charges to be mindful of other things.

“All the same,” said Mahmoud, “there is considerable freedom of movement. If you saw a dragoman on the terrace you’d probably assume he was just chasing up stragglers.”

“Porters,” said Owen. “Wouldn’t there be porters?”

“Yes. But not at this time of day. Guests arrive earlier or later.”

“Suppose a guest has been buying things in the bazaar?”

“The dragoman would help carry. If it was heavy Reception would get porters.”

“Reception,” said Owen. “Do they ever come out on the terrace themselves?”

“Never. Once you’ve made it to Reception you don’t do things like that. That’s for underlings.”

It had to be the waiters or the dragomans. Mahmoud had been through the waiters with a fine-tooth comb. Certainly they would have helped Moulin down the steps, if he had gone down the steps. But on the terrace it was busy and you couldn’t afford to be absent from your post for too long. Being a waiter at Shepheard’s was a plum job and not one you would want to throw away too easily. Of course, it wouldn’t have to take long. It would take only a moment to help Moulin down the steps. Someone must know. The snake charmer. The donkey-boys.

Near to where Owen and Mahmoud were standing was another donkey-vous. It was on the opposite side of the street from the hotel donkey-vous and as far removed from it in self-esteem as it was possible to be. The donkeys here were shadows of the splendid beasts on the other side of the road. Their trappings were tawdrier, the saddles more worn, the henna less dazzling. The donkeys themselves were older, smaller, flyier, more careworn, more beaten down. They were also cheaper and this was the only thing that kept the donkey-vous going. Few tourists came their way-the hotel donkey-boys would consider themselves disgraced if they let a tourist through who then went across the street and chose a donkey from a rival donkey-vous. The clientele was local and Arab and on the whole from the poorer streets by the Wagh el Birket.

The donkey-boys, too, seemed a beaten-down lot, sitting subdued in the shade, hardly daring to pluck up enough courage to address Owen and Mahmoud. Or perhaps not courage but hope. They seemed a hopeless bunch, listless and faint-hearted.

One of them, however, after a while summoned up enough assertiveness to ask Owen if he wanted a donkey. He seemed quite relieved when Owen said he didn’t. The ice thus broken, however, he seemed emboldened enough to want to chat.

“You’re often over there, aren’t you?” he said.

“We have been lately,” said Owen.

“Ever since that old man went from the terrace. That was a smart move! No one knows who did it or even how it was done. Smart work!”

“I’ll bet they’ll make a lot of money,” said one of the other boys enviously.

“A hundred thousand piastres!”

They shook their heads almost in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” said one.

“They’ll have to share it.”

“Still…”

It was obviously the main topic of conversation in the neighborhood.

“What I’d do with it-!” said a boy dreamily.

“You wouldn’t have it long. The police would get you.”

“Not before I’d spent it. It would be worth it.”

“Anyway,” one of the other boys put in, “the police haven’t found out yet and maybe they never will!”

“If you could get away with it-!”

“One hundred thousand piastres!”

The incident was fueling pipe-dreams all along the Street of the Camel, thought Owen. That was another reason why, even if Moulin were released, it could not be allowed to rest.

“You were talking to Daouad,” said the first donkey-boy diffidently.

“Was I?”

“Yes. Over there!”

He pointed across the street to the other donkey-vous.

“I know Daouad,” he said with pride. “He’s going to marry my sister!”

“Ah. I think I heard them speak of it.”

“It won’t happen,” said another boy spitefully. “Your family can’t pay a dowry big enough for someone like Daouad.”

“My sister’s beautiful.”

“That may be. But someone like Daouad isn’t looking for beauty, not when he marries, that is. He’ll want money.”

“My uncle may help us.”

“Your uncle!”

“He’s doing well. He’s just bought a new horse for his arabeah.”

“To go with his old one. One new horse, one old horse, that isn’t a fortune!”

“Your uncle drives an arabeah, does he?” asked Owen. Arabeah-drivers were generally one up from donkey-boys, though this would have been hotly disputed by the donkey-boys across the road.

“Yes,” said the first boy proudly.

“One of those over there?”

“No. He is in the Ataba el Khadra. Sometimes he brings people to the hotel.”

“Does he ever take people from the hotel?”

“They wouldn’t let him! Not those drivers over there!”

“He took someone last week.”

“Ah, but that was different.”

“Why was it different?” asked Owen.

“Because he was only picking someone up from the hotel. There was someone in the arabeah already.”

“Does that often happen-other carriages come?”

“No. Not often.”

“It happened the other day, though, didn’t it?” said one of the other donkey-boys with a grin.

They all laughed.

“It was for that woman, the one your uncle picked up. We know whose carriage it was, too!”

“A posh one,” suggested Mahmoud.

“Very posh. A bit different from your uncle’s,” they said to Daouad’s friend, who appeared to be something of a butt; though perhaps they were merely envious.

“All the same, your uncle did pick her up,” said Owen consolingly.

“That was on another day. She’s popular, that one.”

“Did he pick up anyone with her?”

“A man.”

“I didn’t know your uncle’s arabeah would take three people, Ali,” said one of the donkey-boys.

“It can do.”

“If they sit on each other’s knees.”

“That new horse of your uncle’s would have to work hard.”

“Because the old one doesn’t.”

“A two-man arabeah will take three people,” Ali insisted. “But not your uncle’s.”

The conversation seemed to be setting into a groove. Owen and Mahmoud walked slowly back across the street. They would pick up the question of Ali’s uncle and his passengers later.

They took an arabeah themselves to the police headquarters at the Bab el Khalk. That was where Owen’s own office was but they weren’t going there. Instead, they went down to the basement and got a clerk to bring them the files of the hotel dragomans.

There was little in them: application forms for a dragoman’s license (all the dragomans could write); health certificates (in case of contagious diseases) and testimonials. There were quite a lot of these, copied out in the ornate script of the bazaar letter-writer. Many were from former guests at hotels, some implausibly effusive, others deliberately ambiguous. Most were politely appreciative, one or two genuinely perceptive. Of Osman someone had commented: “You can trust this man absolutely provided you pay him more than anyone else does.” The testimonial was written in English and transcribed faithfully by the letter-writer. Of Abdul Hafiz someone had written, again in English: “Can be relied on for confidential commissions.” Owen wondered what they were.

Mahmoud went through all the files, including the ones of those dragomans who had been at the Pyramids on the day Moulin had disappeared. He concentrated particularly, though, on the two who had been in the corridor. One of these was Osman.

Osman had been at Shepheard’s longer than any other dragoman, a tribute to his dexterity if not necessarily to his integrity. He was better educated than the other dragomans, having been not only to the madrisseh, the secondary school, but also, for a time, to the University of El Azhar. The university admitted students at an early age and Osman had gone there when he was thirteen and left when he was fifteen, without completing his studies. At El Azhar these were mainly of a religious character. It could well be that Osman’s bent was more for the secular, since he had started by serving in a hotel and worked gradually toward the status of dragoman.

The other dragoman who had been in the corridor, Selim, was more of a shadowy figure. He had worked for some time at Luxor before coming to Cairo and had developed there a vivid but not necessarily accurate knowledge of antiquities which stood him in good stead when he took parties to visit the Pyramids.

The only thing of interest about Abdul Hafiz was that he was a Wahhabi. It was something Owen might almost have guessed from Abdul’s reaction to Osman’s tricks with the cigar smoke, for the Wahhabis were a strict sect with severe standards; so severe, indeed, that it was a little surprising to find Abdul in the post of a dragoman, which would necessarily bring him into contact with the more indulgent standards of the West. Life, and poverty, however, forced compromise on even the strictest and no doubt Abdul, like many Cairenes, was glad of the money. Certainly he had performed his duties, according to the testimonials, in exemplary fashion.

Owen had heard nothing for a while from either Berthelot or from Madame Moulin and suspected he was being deliberately kept ignorant of developments. That there were developments became clear when he received a phone call from his friend Paul at the Consulate-General.

“Keep off Moulin for a bit,” he said.

“Is that an order or a diplomatic request?”

“It’s a Diplomatic Request to us, it’s an order to you.”

“From the French?”

“Who else.”

“It means they’re going to pay.”

“Very likely,” Paul agreed.

“They’re going to meet the kidnappers’ demands.”

“That’s right. And they don’t want you mucking it up this time.”

“Is it really a Diplomatic Request?”

“Yes.”

“And the Old Man has agreed?”

“Why not? It doesn’t cost us anything. And it’s about time we did something to oblige the French.”

“It’s the principle,” Owen complained.

“There are several principles involved. One is not to give in to kidnappers. The other is to oblige the French when it doesn’t matter. The second principle has higher priority at the moment.”

“It hasn’t usually.”

“That’s why it has now. They’re getting restive, not just over the contracts, and we need to give them a sop.”

“It’s OK from the point of view of Moulin himself, poor sod,” said Owen.

“Quite right. A touch of compassion. We have a heart too. I told the French that only this morning.”

“It’s just that it might encourage other people to do the same.”

“Kidnap Frenchmen? Well, as long as it’s Frenchmen…”

“It could be anybody.”

“I know. I’m not suggesting you drop the case. I’m just suggesting you take a break.”

“Go to Luxor?”

“Well…”

“I thought you were saying the other day I didn’t need a break?”

“You don’t. But what you do need for a couple of days is a change of activity. Preferably one which would take you out of Cairo.”

“OK,” said Owen resignedly. “Two days, is it?”

“Make it three. I’ll let you know if you can come back earlier.”

Zeinab’s father, Nuri Pasha, had offered to lend Owen a house in the country, so Owen took him up on the offer. It was a small estate about forty miles out of Cairo with cotton fields and orange trees. Owen found it interesting to ride around the estate and see the work that went on: the picking of the cotton, the threshing of the corn with buffaloes, the milking of the buffaloes and the watering of the oranges. Zeinab did not and sulked most of their stay. Owen had hoped this might count as the holiday he had promised her. Zeinab, comfortable only in Cairo and Paris, made it clear it did not.

No message came from Paul, so they took the full three days. When they got back to the station one of Paul’s bearers was waiting for them. He handed Owen an envelope. Owen opened it. Within was a single sheet of paper on which was written simply (!)-an exclamation mark. There was nothing else.

Later Owen found out that the proposed exchange had fallen through. The kidnappers, at the last moment, had insisted on more money. “If we give in they’ll merely up it again,” Madame Moulin had said, and declined to deal.

It didn’t take Georgiades very long to find out who Ali’s uncle was, nor to find out that on one occasion he had indeed picked up Madame Chevenement and Berthelot from the hotel. And it was the work of the time it takes to drink a cup of tea to find out where he had taken them. It took, however, rather longer to persuade Ali’s uncle to take Georgiades and Owen to the spot himself, but this was because Ali’s uncle, seeing the chance of a bargain, had stuck out for an inordinately large sum of money. In the end, though, he was persuaded to take them there for not much more than the price of an ordinary fare.

The arabeah was waiting for them in the Ataba el Khadra, the busy square from which nearly all the tramways of Cairo started. Georgiades had considered, since it was such a hot day, asking Ali’s uncle to pick them up from the Bab el Khalk but had decided that so close a proximity to the police headquarters would alarm him unnecessarily.

He was alarmed enough as it was, staring fearfully at them from his perch at the front of the cab. The cab itself was old but roomy, with torn, shabby seating leather and a distinct smell of sweat. The two white horses were twitching at the flies with their hennaed tails and Owen was able to impress Georgiades by referring familiarly to the obvious newness of one of them.

New or not, it shared its senior’s obvious reluctance to raise its pace above a steady amble. The place they were going to was on the outskirts of the city and Owen soon realized that it was going to take them a long time to get there.

He used the time to bring Georgiades up to date on recent developments: such as the collapse of the arrangements to ransom Moulin.

“They’re getting cocky, aren’t they?” said Georgiades. “One hundred thousand piastres is a lot of money. You’d think they’d take it and run.”

“They think they can make more. That’s the trouble about giving in too quickly. It gets taken as a sign of weakness.”

“You’ve got to start dealing at some point. It’s hard to get it right.”

“If you have to start dealing.”

“If you don’t, you get what that poor bastard Tsakatellis got.” The arabeah turned toward the river and began to go across the bridge. They got the first puff of the river breeze.

“Incidentally,” said Georgiades, “about Tsakatellis; you talked to his mother. Did you talk to anyone else in the family?”

“Only the Copt who ran the shop.”

“It might be interesting to talk to someone else. In the family.”

“She rather gave me the impression she was in charge.”

“Greek mothers are like that,” said Georgiades, sighing. “She handled the whole kidnapping thing herself.”

“That’s why I’d like to talk to someone else about it. Do you mind if I do?”

“Go ahead,” said Owen. “You’re the expert on things Greek.”

Crossing the bridge, revived by the breeze, the horses had positively-well, at least strolled. Now they seemed to have stopped altogether.

“What’s going on?” said Georgiades.

“Nothing is going on,” said Ali’s uncle.

“I know. That’s why I’m asking. Why have the horses stopped?”

“They have not stopped,” said Ali’s uncle, hurt. “They have merely slackened their pace.”

“Why?”

“There is a camel in front.”

“Then overtake it.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Because in front of the camel there is a cart.”

“Cannot you pass both of them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because coming in the opposite direction is a donkey with a load.”

Georgiades leaned out to inspect.

“The donkey is still far away. Even your horses could pass. Where is your spirit, man? Are you not an arabeah-driver?” Thus goaded, Ali’s uncle attempted to overtake, but so half-heartedly that in the end he was obliged to cut in on the cart, which earned him a torrent of abuse from the carter. Instead of instantly responding in kind, as most arabeah-drivers would have done, delighted at the chance to display their own rhetorical skills, he cracked his whip over his horses and scuttled away fearfully. He seemed as low-spirited as his nephew.

“How did Izkat Bey come to choose him?” asked Owen, astonished.

Izkat Bey was the man who had been in the arabeah when it had picked up Madame Chevenement and Berthelot from Shepheard’s.

“Accident. He came out into the street looking for an arabeah and to his misfortune he found this one.”

Ali’s uncle, who did not usually attract such splendid custom, had been only too ready to reveal the identity of so distinguished a person to Georgiades.

“Why didn’t he use his own arabeah?” asked Owen.

“Didn’t want to be recognized, I suppose.”

Izkat Bey was one of the Khedive’s senior Court Officials. His function at Court was obscure but of his power there was no doubt. He was close to the Khedive and, like most of those close to the Khedive, a Turk. He shared the ruling circle’s arrogance toward the Egyptians and antipathy to the British and seemed particularly to relish those commissions of the Khedive which gave him opportunities to display both those qualities. His name was one of those that appeared on Zeinab’s list.

When Owen had asked Abdul for a list of Samira’s guests she had at first refused. “I do not spy on my friends,” she said haughtily. Then, characteristically changing her mind, she had furnished him with a list. “It is not complete, however,” she had warned him. “I have left off all my friends.” The inference was that Izkat Bey was not one of Zeinab’s friends. This was quite likely as the Bey had a traditional view of the role of women. He came to Samira’s because she was royal and because he was bidden; and Owen guessed that he saw the occasion as one for the transaction of business rather than for the pleasures of social intercourse.

The arabeah threaded its way along beside the river bank until it had left most of the built-up area behind it. They came to an area of market gardens, cultivated fields and fields of maize. They came suddenly upon a great pile of pumpkins which marked the spot where a small secondary track, barely a yard wide, ran off to the left down to the river. All around were patches of peas, beans, tomatoes, onions, cauliflowers, mangoes, guavas, figs and watermelons. There was no one in sight except for over to the left where a small boy on a buffalo was working a sakiya, one of the traditional, heavy wooden water-wheels.

It was here that Ali’s uncle stopped.