‘Got in yesterday evening!’ said Owen.
‘Then you will certainly need a drink!’ said Nuri, taking him by the arm. ‘And I know just the one to give you! It is the Saint-Loup. Just in from Paris. It is a little strong for my taste — too much gin. Destroys the balance, I think. But, then, it comes from America!’
‘It’s new to me,’ said Owen.
‘But then you’ve been away,’ said Nuri.
‘Not that long!’ said Owen.
‘But in the south! A wasteland, dear boy. An absolute wasteland! Why do you let yourself be sent down there?’
‘Interest.’
‘Surely not! In the south?’
‘A girl in a bride box,’ said Owen. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard?’
‘I did hear something about it. It sounds intriguing. And sent to Ali Maher! Of all men!’
‘Why of all men, Nuri?’
‘He’s a bit of a stick, you know.’
‘I wanted to ask you about him.’
‘Then we shall certainly need a drink. How about the Savoy?’
Owen wondered who was paying.
Nuri waved a hand. An arabeah, one of the horse-drawn cabs of Cairo, drew in.
The Savoy was not one of Owen’s favourite hotels. It had a nice terrace, admittedly, although there was nothing that you could see from it except the traffic going across the Nile Bridge. The reception rooms, however, were cool and airy. As Nuri said, it was a pleasant place to hang around in — depending, of course, on who you wanted to hang around with. Nuri’s tastes in that matter were not quite the same as Owen’s.
They found a secluded alcove and prepared to sample the Saint-Loup.
‘By the way,’ said Nuri, ‘I sent you a note …’
‘And I sent it on,’ said Owen, ‘to someone who might be able to help.’
This was true, although less helpful than it seemed. Nuri Pasha seemed relieved, however.
‘My dear boy!’ he said, affectionately patting his hand, in the Arab way, on Owen’s arm. The waiter, in full Arab robes, because this went down well with the tourists, of whom the Savoy was full, brought the two Saint-Loups in long glasses packed with ice, because, again, this went down well with tourists.
Nuri took a long sip. ‘So, dear boy,’ he said, putting the glass down, ‘you wanted to know about Ali Maher?’
‘Please,’ said Owen.
Nuri took another sip and then looked at his glass doubtfully. ‘A strange fellow,’ he said. ‘His mother, they say, was a Sudani, although it is hard to be certain among all his father’s wives. For some strange reason, certainly, he has always taken an interest in the Sudan. A taste for the savage, perhaps? He even took a wife from there himself. Although it worked out rather as you might expect. They had a boy, I gather, who wasn’t quite right in the head.’
‘I have met the boy.’
‘That is more than most people have. His father keeps him out of sight. It might be awkward, you see, from the point of view of his political ambitions.’
‘He has political ambitions?’
‘Yes. He’s trying to establish himself as a Unionist. You know, one of those fanciful fellows who works for the unity of the Nile Valley.’
‘The union of the Sudan and Egypt?’
‘A crackpot idea if ever there was one. But then, he’s a bit of a crackpot himself. A century behind the times. The Sudan was part of Egypt seventy years ago. It was where we used to go to get our slaves,’ said Nuri, with a tinge of regret.
He was thinking, perhaps, of Zeinab’s mother, who had herself been a slave, although she had not come from the Sudan but from Middle Europe, another fruitful source of slaves to the Ottomans.
‘And you say that his Unionist interests extend to practical politics.’
‘He thinks they do. He thinks they could open a whole new area for Egyptian politics. “Dream on!” I told him. But the idea is not completely crazy. When I was young I occasionally thought along those lines myself. Occasionally. But then, of course, I grew up. I realized the British would never allow it.’
‘But still he dreams?’
‘An odd fellow, as I said. He lives in a sort of mental cocoon, cut off from the world around him, dreaming his dreams. He’s always been like that. He comes from a good family but in his youth he seemed to go wild. He took off for the Sudan. The ancestral pull of the wild. Or just the influence of his mother. Anyway, he stayed there for some time. Went native. And when he came out he was a changed man. Began talking politics. Had seen the light. Been given a vision. Thought he could lead his people out of the wilderness. “Ali,” I told him once, “you are not, believe me, another Mahdi!” He looked uncomfortable, and said: “Of course not!” But, you know, I rather fancy that he had that in his mind. Or some idea like that. Egypt and the Sudan joined together, perhaps, with him as its leader. Crackpot, as I say; but I think he takes the idea seriously.’
‘He sees himself as Khedive?’
‘I don’t think that. Not any longer. It’s more that he thinks if he makes enough noise, the Khedive will have to notice him and take him in.’
‘Into the government?’
‘I know! Crackpot! But not completely crackpot. His ideas start by being sane. But then, somehow or other, they go off the rails. Do you know what I think? I think it’s in the family. That boy of his. Well, I think it’s in him, too. In Ali Maher himself.’
TWELVE
‘It hasn’t happened again, then?’ said the Greek.
‘Just the once,’ said Nassir.
‘That’s a relief!’ said Georgiades.
‘I don’t know,’ said Nassir. ‘She was some looker!’
‘Yes, but, I mean, you wouldn’t want to be spending all your time doing that.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nassir.
They both laughed.
‘A married man like you!’ said the Greek.
‘Just because you’re married, doesn’t mean you don’t notice,’ said the clerk.
‘The veil was made for men like you!’
‘She wasn’t wearing a veil.’
‘She wasn’t wearing a veil?’
‘Not a real one. Just one of those half ones you see on posh ladies. And all filmy, so that you can half see through them.’
‘I worry about you, Nassir!’
‘You ought to be worrying about him!’
‘Clarke Effendi?’
‘Yes, Clarke Effendi. I never supposed he was like that.’
‘Bowled over like that, you mean? Well, these quiet ones sometimes are, you know. They keep it shut in, and then suddenly it breaks out. Bang! Like that! Feel like it myself, sometimes.’
‘Even with a wife like yours? It’s you we should be worrying about!’
‘I keep it bottled up.’
‘Well, you surprise me, my friend. The things one learns when one gets to know people!’
‘Oh, she’s quite safe from me. But what about you, Nassir, will you be going along there now you know where she lives?’
‘She’s probably got a husband who’s an all-in wrestler.’
‘But you know where she lives?’
‘In the Tisht-er-Rahal. Just off the Derb-el-Akhmar. Where it becomes the Sharia el Tabarneh.’
‘By the Mardam Mosque?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I know it well.’
He should. It was where Owen lived.
In his mail that morning Mahmoud received a letter. It was addressed to him personally at the Parquet.
It was from the Pasha’s lady, who said that she was now in Cairo. She had brought Karim with her and they were staying at a small hotel called the Atbara near the Sukkariya Bazaar. It was a Sudanese name and the Sudanese Bazaar was nearby, on the other side of the Sukkariya. It was one of the poorer bazaars but there were some interesting shops specializing in the inlaying of mother of pearl and the general working of trocchee shells. Set against the dark wood usually used in Cairo they were very effective. Just beyond the end of the street was the famous mosque of El Azhar, which was also the great university.
Mahmoud turned the letter over in his hands. Why this sudden rush of letters from the Pasha’s lady? And why to him?
He thought he could answer that one. He was probably the only member of the Parquet that she knew personally, and the Egyptian way was always to go through the personal.