‘I wouldn’t mind, but everybody’s watching …’
Heads were popping out of every window. Including Nikos’s.
‘Everyone get back to work!’ shouted McPhee.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ shouted a new voice. It was Garvin, the Commandant of Police.
‘Nothing, sir. Everything in control!’ said McPhee swiftly.
Hussein seized back the duster and he and Ali began dusting furiously.
‘Haven’t you men got anything better to do?’ demanded Garvin, coming out into the yard.
‘I’m afraid, Commandant, it’s my fault,’ said Zeinab, stepping forward.
‘Why, Zeinab, how nice to see you! But what are you doing here? Come inside.’
‘Must be a Pasha’s daughter at least,’ muttered Hussein.
‘The one they were sending that dog to, I’ll bet!’
‘Dog!’ said Leila, beginning to cry again. ‘In my sister’s bride box!’
‘Never mind, my little one!’ said Hussein, who had daughters of his own and only occasionally felt like selling them into slavery. ‘It’s not there now, and we’ll polish the box up so that it will look like new!’
When Zeinab and Leila got back to the house, Owen had returned from Denderah. Leila was suddenly shy at this stranger, although she remembered him as the funny man who had pulled faces at her. She hid behind Musa’s wife in the kitchen and was only gradually coaxed out. Zeinab hadn’t realized that there had been a weight on her shoulders but was now conscious that it had gone. Owen was pleased to be back with Zeinab and in a comfortable house again. He had grown used to and liked Arab houses, but they had their disadvantages and he missed English armchairs. Besides, he had not really been in a proper house since he left Cairo. It was good to be back.
It felt less good the next morning when he got into his office and saw the mountains of paperwork awaiting him. Nikos, he was convinced, had been building them up deliberately.
He looked first at the Brotherhood but all was as it had been. When he realized the scale of the arms shipments he had wondered if they were something to do with it, but on reflection it did not seem so. This was a new lot, which in a way was more worrying.
Nikos brought him up to date and then he had Georgiades in to give a report. All seemed satisfactory there, although he knew that it was now top of his agenda. The slavery issue was still there but had slipped down the agenda. The bride box was even further down. But something to do with it was niggling at the back of his mind and sooner or later he would have to give it his attention.
Meanwhile, there was the paperwork. And what was this? A missive from Nuri Pasha? One of those. He sent it on automatically and without additional comment to the tax people.
Towards the end of the afternoon he pushed all the papers aside and sat there for some time thinking.
The next day was Friday, the Muslim sabbath, and all the government offices were closed. Many of the officials who worked in them were Copts, like Nikos, which meant that they were Christian. Nevertheless, they took the Muslim sabbath. And also the Christian Sunday, although there was argument about this. As it happened, Nikos didn’t usually bother about sabbaths, either Muslim or Christian, and he was in early the next morning when Owen arrived. Well, that was satisfying. It meant that Owen’s day was spoiled, which would teach him not to go gallivanting off from the office when there was work to do.
Through the window he could hear the muezzin giving the morning call from the minaret, summoning the faithful to prayers. To his surprise Owen got up and left, putting his flowerpot-like red fez on his head.
He took a train the short distance across the city, getting out not far from Nassir’s warehouse. Then he walked round the corner to the mosque Georgiades had told him about. Already the faithful were streaming in.
The mosque was not one of Cairo’s larger ones. It consisted of porticoes surrounding a square court, in the centre of which was a tank from which worshippers could scoop up water for the necessary ablutions. Owen went across to it and washed his hands three times and then splashed water on his face and head, lifting up the fez to do so. Then he joined the rows of worshippers before the Mecca-facing wall, took off his shoes and placed them sole to sole on the matting before him at the point where his head would touch the ground, and sat back on his haunches.
In front of him, on the exterior facing wall, was the mihrab, the niche which marked the direction of Mecca. To the right of this was the mimbar, or pulpit, and just in front of it was the dikka, a small platform on columns and with a kind of parapet. Beneath and in front of this was the desk which held a copy of the Koran, from which extracts were read during the prayers. At one point a muballigh would chant the equivalent of a hymn. Owen always liked the one about the spider showing favour to the Imam of Mecca by weaving its web in his cave.
When the worshippers protected themselves, bowing their head to the ground, Owen bowed likewise. Between prostrations he studied the people in the mosque — unobtrusively, of course, since it was forbidden to let your attention wander.
They were the usual mixture of Cairo rich and poor. In prayer all men were equal. A rich man or a man of rank might, however, bring his prayer mat with him.
At the last moment before the prayers began a man came into the mosque with a servant carrying a particularly beautiful prayer mat, which he placed on the ground for his master. When the prayers were over, the servant rolled up the mat and carried it out again behind his master.
The master was obviously a man of importance for as he left various people greeted him deferentially. A little group gathered around him and paused for a moment in conversation.
‘It is good to see rich and poor pray together,’ Owen said to the man beside him.
‘It is,’ agreed the man.
‘Tell me,’ said Owen, ‘who is that worthy man?’
‘It is the Pasha Ali Maher.’
Owen mingled with the worshippers as they came out into the sunshine. An unusual number of them seemed to be Sudanese.
There was no reason why they should not be. Cairo was a city of many nationalities — Greeks, Italians, all the shades of the Levant, Ethiopians — and each nationality had its own church. This one appeared to be for the Sudanese. There were a lot of Sudanese in Egypt, usually acting as servants. Not always though: there were well-to-do Sudanese as well, usually merchants of some kind, sometimes professionals. So the fact that there was an unusual density of Sudanese here was not especially striking. What was striking was that the Pasha Ali Maher was prominent among them.
Zeinab’s father, Nuri Pasha, was not one of the most devout of Muslims. Even so, he had been to the mosque that morning. The mosque he had gone to was the El-Merdani, which, apart from being one of the most beautiful of Cairo mosques, and therefore pleasing to Nuri’s highly developed aesthetic sensibility, was one of the most fashionable.
It was the one attended by the Court Pashas and also, since Court and Government went together, the one frequented by leading politicians. It was a place where Nuri could meet old cronies and also hope to meet new ones. It was a way of keeping in the swim — au courant, as the Francophile Nuri liked to put it. His influence these days was not, alas, what it had been: Nuri had been a minister once but then on an issue of importance had made the mistake of taking the wrong side — on this occasion, surprisingly, the British — and had therefore been eternally damned in Nationalist eyes. However, Court politician to the last, he still had hopes. So he made a point of cultivating the rising suns, and went regularly to the El-Merdani Mosque.
Owen, who knew his ways, fell in with him just as he was leaving.
‘My dear boy!’ cried Nuri. ‘You’re back!’