There was more than one donkey-vous in the Ezbekiya but Owen knew which one to make for. It was next to a postcard-seller, and to get to it you had to go past a row of very strange postcards stuck on the railings: views of Cairo, oleographs of Levantine saints, scenes of the Massacre of the Marmelukes and from the Great War of Independence, portraits of the Madonna and of St. Catherine, and, of course, hundreds of indecent photographs, very precise in some respects, strangely vague in others. At the end of the row, their backs turned to all these visual riches, was a ring of donkey-boys squatting on the ground. Among them was Georgiades.
He stood up when he saw Owen approaching.
“Here’s my friend,” he said to the donkey-boys. “I’ve got to go.”
He shook hands with several of the boys and exchanged farewell salaams with others.
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of something,” he said to Owen, so that the donkey-boys could hear, “and perhaps a bite or two. Have we got time?”
“Sure,” said Owen. “No hurry.”
They went over to the nearby tea-stall and then, with their glasses of tea, drifted over to one of the trees where a chestnut-seller was just lighting his fire. Georgiades peered into his basket.
“These look good ones,” he said to the man. “How about doing a handful for me and my friend?”
“It will take a moment or two,” the man said, “but it will be well worth the wait.”
Owen and Georgiades went a little way off and squatted down beneath the trees to wait. The sun had set and it was already quite dark in the gardens. Beneath the trees it was darker still.
As they sat there someone came up and, as was not unusual, joined them in their conversation. It was the boy they had talked to in the Coptic Place of the Dead, the one who had given them information-and kicked Georgiades on the shin.
“Kick me again,” said Georgiades, keeping his voice at the gentle, conversational level, “and I will kick your balls so hard that they will fly out of your backside.”
Even in the darkness Owen could see the boy’s teeth flash white in a big grin.
“That was good, wasn’t it?” he said with pride. “They didn’t suspect a thing.”
“It was good,” said Georgiades, “at my expense. However, we need not pursue this now. Ali wanted us to meet here,” he said to Owen, “so that we should not be seen by his little friends.”
“Your name is Ali, is it?” Owen asked the boy.
“Yes, effendi.”
“And your mother is Yussuf’s sister.”
“Yes, effendi,” said the boy, pleased that Owen had remembered. Relationships were important in Egyptian society. They conferred obligations. If a man was lucky enough to get a job it was expected that he would use his position to find jobs for others in his family or village. But they were also a guarantee. When a misdemeanour was committed, it was not the offender alone who was shamed but his whole family.
“Well, Ali,” said Owen, “you have helped us already and I am grateful. Help us again and you will not lose by it.”
“Unless they find out.”
“They will not find out.”
The boy was silent.
“Where do you want to begin?” Georgiades asked Owen.
“Let us go back to the Place of the Dead. That night. You saw the men and you told us whose men they were. What about the man who took the dog into the tomb? Whose man was he?”
“The same.”
“Are you sure?” asked Owen. “My friend”-he meant Georgiades-“he asked among the men and they say he was not one of them.”
“That is so,” said the boy.
“Then-”
“He follows the one I spoke of. But not him alone.”
“He follows another too?”
“He is a Zikr.”
Afterwards a lot of things fell into place. For the moment, though, Owen was so caught by surprise that he could only repeat foolishly: “A Zikr?”
“Yes. Do you not know the Zikr? They are dervishes who call upon the name of God. Also, sometimes, they dance.”
“I know the Zikr,” said Owen, recovering.
“Well, then. This man is a Zikr. But he goes to the holy one’s mosque.”
“Which mosque is that?”
“It is close to the Bab es Zuweyla.”
“The blue one?”
“Yes. The blue one.”
The Blue Mosque, which Owen had seen the previous day on his visit to the bazaars, was a dervish mosque, used almost exclusively by such as the Zikr.
“He dances, then,” said Owen.
“Yes.”
“Did he dance the other night?”
“I do not know. I expect so.”
“If we brought you to where you could see the Zikr, could you pick him out for us?”
“It was dark when I saw him,” said the boy unwillingly.
“We would bring you where you could not be seen. And we would pay you better than well.”
“In that case,” said the boy, “I will come.”
“Do you think you will be able to pick him out?”
“I remember now,” said Ali, “that although it was dark that night, there was also a little moon.”
The chestnut-seller laid out the chestnuts on the grating to cool and then brought them over to Owen and Georgiades. Ali slipped back into the shadows. When they looked round, he had gone.
“Will you be able to find him again?”
“No,” said Georgiades. “But the little bugger can always find me.”
He cradled the chestnuts in his hands, enjoying the warmth.
“What was so special about him being a Zikr?”
“I’ve got something else on with the Zikr.”
He told Georgiades about the killing.
“Sounds as if Mahmoud’s got it sorted out,” Georgiades said.
“Zoser, you mean?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Almost certainly, yes,” said Owen. “Still, it would be nice if it was someone else. Not a Copt.”
“At least you’ve got him. That ought to keep the Moslems happy.”
“What about the Copts?”
“They’ll be happy too,” said Georgiades, “if you get the Moslem who put the dog in Andrus’s tomb.”
“That’s why I’m hoping Ali will be able to pick him out.”
Georgiades skinned a chestnut and popped it into his mouth.
“Have you thought,” he said, “that he might be the one who’s not there to be picked out?”
CHAPTER 6
Owen had been to the Coptic Cathedral before but not to a Coptic church; so he was surprised to find that most of the congregation appeared to be on crutches. Closer inspection revealed that the crutches were in fact walking-sticks; and the need for such support soon became apparent. The service was interminably long and the congregation had to stand throughout.
The men, that was. The women were better provided for and were allowed to sit down. They were, however, segregated in a separate compartment off to the right and screened by a heavy grille, through which, nevertheless, some of the women contrived to allow themselves to be seen. The compartment gave only an oblique view of the altar, which perhaps accounted for the distinct murmur of conversation behind the grille.
Owen had borrowed the wife of a Coptic colleague as a companion for Jane Postlethwaite. The two were now inside the grille together and Mena Iskander had been given strict instructions to try to secure Miss Postlethwaite a seat from which she could see Zoser clearly and if possible his wife as well. A tall order, perhaps, though Mena Iskander was a lady of resource and intrigued by the whole situation. Fortunately, Zoser, who was the more important of the two, was also the most easily seeable.
He stood in the front row of the congregation immediately beneath one of the huge, heavily-ornamented lecterns, and during the readings his rapt, upturned face caught the light from the lectern’s candles. Watching his total absorption in the service and the way in which he hung upon the holy words, Owen could not help feeling a moment of doubt. Had they made a mistake?
However, in his time in Egypt, and before that in India, he had met many men of real devotion who yet had done the most terrible things, often in the name of the religion they served. It might be that Zoser was another such.