The Mingrelian Conspiracy mz-9 Page 7

‘Look, I’m not exactly in favour of him coming-’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said; ‘suppose you are right, and suppose he has never heard of the Mingrelians; and now suppose you tell him they are here, in Cairo, these people whom he crushed. What do you think he will say? Do you think he will be ashamed, do you think he will postpone his visit? I don’t think so. I think he will say, let the visit go on. What do we care for these Mingrelians? If they cause trouble, put them down! That is what he will say, won’t he?’

  ‘Something like it,’ said Owen, remembering the Charge.

  ‘Very well, then. In that case I am with my grandfather. I think we should stand up. To show that we cannot be put down. We can be knocked down but we will never stay down.’

  ‘Well, I have some sympathy with that,’ said Owen. ‘But standing up is one thing and throwing a bomb is another.’

  ‘The Russians should have thought of that,’ said Katarina, ‘when they threw the first bomb.’

  ‘That is all in the past.’

  ‘The past is never all in the past. You always carry some of it with you.’

  ‘You can’t do it forever. Where do you think we’d have been in Wales if we’d gone on thinking like that?’

  Sorgos stirred in his sleep.

  ‘The Welsh,’ he said drowsily. ‘A mountain people.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Owen. ‘We’d still be in the bloody hills, that’s where!’

  ‘-and so the dog dropped the sack and ran away,’ said the storyteller, ‘and all the names were just left lying there in the street. Now, the trouble was that in all the confusion, and what with all the shaking and jolting they had received, they had got mixed up. There were bits of men’s names mixed with bits of women’s names. Well, they all began crying out. One would shout, “Who am I?” and the other bit would shout, “you’re not you, you’re me!” So then they all began fighting each other. Well, then the blind man came running along the road and he tripped on the sack and fell right in on top of them-’

  ‘Ho, ho!’ said the big man standing in the doorway. ‘Very good!’

  ‘Selim!’ came a shout from inside.

  ‘Coming!’ called the big man. ‘You old bastard!’ he added sotto voce.

  Owen followed him in.

  ‘Not you again!’ said the cafe owner, aghast.

  ‘Me again,’ said Owen cheerfully. ‘How are things going?’

  ‘Terribly,’ said the cafe owner. ‘Your man is useless. He’s big, all right, but he’s got something missing up top. The trouble is, that’s the sort my wife goes for. They’ve only got to be simpletons for her to feel all soft about them.’

  ‘She’d better not feel too soft about this bloke,’ said Owen uneasily.

  ‘That’s just what I’ve told her! Kick the bugger up the backside, I say. That’ll get him moving! Only that’s what I say about all of them and she doesn’t take a blind bit of notice. Here, you idle sod! Fetch some coffee for the effendi! He’s your boss, isn’t he?’ he added more quietly.

  Selim came out of the kitchen looking daggers. He put the coffee before Owen, however, with a flourish.

  ‘Brilliant!’ whispered Owen. ‘You’re doing brilliantly.’

  ‘The next time they beat him up,’ Selim whispered back. ‘I’ll join in and help them!’

  ‘Meanwhile, just put up with him. You’re doing very well, and this is important.’

  ‘He just sits there all day giving orders,’ said Selim. ‘He’s worse than a sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, well, don’t mind him. It won’t be for long. It’s just a question of waiting.’

  ‘I don’t mind waiting,’ said Selim. ‘Not if I’ve got my feet up and a pot of coffee in front of me. But this is not like that. The moment I sit down he’s on to me.’

  ‘There are worse things. Just keep it up, that’s all. Now listen: there’s something you can be doing. Try and find out the name of the gang. Talk to the woman.’

  Selim gave a broad smile.

  ‘I’ll talk to the woman, all right,’ he said.

  Owen and Zeinab had been to the opera; in fact, were still at the opera, only, as this was the interval, and intervals were somewhat protracted in Egypt, they were going for a walk round the nearby Ezbekiyeh Gardens. ‘Gardens’ was perhaps a misnomer. In a country where, given water, anything will grow, and gardens were usually a riot of lush tropical vegetation, the Ezbekiyeh remained barren. There were various explanations for this. The most popular was that it was a British plot; or, conversely, testimony to Egyptian incapacity. Whatever the reason, the fact was that it consisted of only a few scrubby trees and some equally scrubby grass, tempting only for fornicating in, which was the reason, no doubt, why the gardens were fenced off with high iron railings and closed after dark.

  What made the gardens fun to walk round was not their inside but their outside. As in the English tabloid newspapers, all human life was there: from the chestnut sellers roasting their chestnuts on the gratings which covered the roots of the young trees which surrounded the gardens-and perhaps that’s why the trees were scrubby-to the fortunetellers, usually Nubian women, telling fortunes by reading sand spread on a cloth. There were pavement stalls (rags and sweets in promiscuous proximity), pavement restaurants (consisting of large trays with stew in the middle and hunks of bread stuck on nails around the edge), barber shops (the barbers sat on the railings while their customers stood patiently in front of them), hat stands (on the railings), whip stands (ditto), oleographs of Levantine saints (ditto), indecent postcards (ditto and adjacent) and many other treasures. At intervals along the railings were Cleopatra’s Needle-like columns, only they consisted either of tarbooshes piled one on top of the other to an implausible height, or of congealed candy densely spotted with flies.

  At night, however, such detail was lost. Lamps on the railings threw a mysterious, hazy glow and the flames of the chestnut-sellers’ fires created little pockets of moving light and shadow. Owen, impressionable at the best of times and made more so by the music he had just been listening to, loved it.

  They came round on to the Sharia el Genaina, where there was music of a different kind: honky-tonk from the questionable cafes which looked across the street to the houses opposite, where the ladies of the night paraded their charms. In one of the cafes some men were singing mournfully.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ said Owen.

  ‘What language is it?’ asked Zeinab, puzzled.

  ‘Welsh!’

  They could see the singers more clearly now. It was, as Owen had already suspected, his friends, the Welsh Fusiliers.

  ‘Why don’t they keep those stupid bastards back in barracks?’

  ‘But why?’ demanded Zeinab. ‘They sing so beautifully!’

  ‘Because they’re drunk. And they’ll soon be causing trouble.’

  ‘They are singing because they’re unhappy,’ said Zeinab indignantly. ‘Listen to the music. You can hear!’

  ‘Welshmen always go on like that abroad.’

  ‘They are thinking of their homes. It is in the music,’ said Zeinab, who was also impressionable and had also just been to the opera. ‘They are far from their country and they are very sad. If I was taken away from my country,’ declared Zeinab tragically, turning her great eyes on Owen, ‘I would sing like that!’

  They had with them one of Zeinab’s artistic friends, a musician called Rashid.

  ‘What is interesting,’ he said, ‘is that they are singing in parts. You don’t usually get drunken soldiers doing that!’

  ‘There’s a bit of a tradition of choral singing in Wales.’

  ‘Is that so? But this is not what I would normally think of as choral singing. It is not church music, surely?’

  ‘Some of it. But also folk song.’

  ‘It is the spirit of the people,’ said Zeinab firmly, ‘speaking in music.’

  ‘Well-’

  ‘Speaking in music,’ said Zeinab, sensing opposition, ‘because that is all they have left. The English have
taken everything else from them.’

  ‘What’s all this?’ said the musician.

  ‘In their music their spirit rises up and defies the hated English.’

  ‘Look, I know that song,’ said Owen. ‘It’s about sheep-’

  ‘They were humble shepherds,’ Zeinab told the musician, ‘and the British Army came in, just as it came into Egypt, and seized their country and took everything away from them. Except their songs and their spirit.’

  ‘And only in their music can they be free? But that is sad!’ said the musician, concerned. ‘Sad, but-wonderful! And why is it so sad?’ he cried, becoming excited. ‘That is how music is! That is how it has always been! The expression of a free people! That is how it was in Italy with the opera. Did you know that, Zeinab? The rise of opera is inextricably linked with the rise of Nationalism. It was so in Italy. It will be so in Egypt. Yes!’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Zeinab.

  ‘But where is it now? Where is the Egyptian opera? The true Egyptian opera? It has yet to be written.’ Rashid stopped dead. ‘I know!’ he shouted. ‘ I will write it for you, Zeinab! It will have you in it. The spirit of suffering Egyptian woman-’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Zeinab enthusiastically.

  ‘And you, my friend!’ He turned excitedly to Owen. ‘The spirit of nations everywhere, long suppressed and denied! Poor, suffering Wales! I will use some of those soldiers’ rhythms. There will be choral singing. Sheep, too. I could put in a pastoral scene-’

  Owen gently shepherded them back to the Opera House. Paul was standing on the steps.

  ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘What’s going on? Zeinab looks a bit excited.’

  ‘She’s just joined the Welsh Nationalists.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He turned to go in with them but then stopped.

  ‘The Welsh Nationalists? They’re not another bunch with a thing about Russia, are they?’

  Chapter 5

  'Effendi,’ declared Selim, ‘this is the good life! Little did I think when I entered upon your service what riches it would lead me to! To sit in a cafe all day drinking coffee while those other poor bastards are out there walking round in the heat- this is bliss indeed!’

  ‘The man is not always upbraiding you?’

  ‘The man is always upbraiding me,’ conceded Selim, ‘but there are compensations.’

  Owen did not like the sound of this.

  ‘Keep your hands off the woman!’ he said.

  ‘You told me to talk to her!’ protested Selim.

  ‘Talk, not touch.’

  ‘Well, Effendi,’ said Selim with a grin, ‘one thing leads to another.’

  ‘Let it not lead too far! Remember you are here for a purpose!’

  ‘Would I forget, Effendi?’ said Selim in wounded tones. ‘They have but to stick their heads in here and I will stamp on them!’

  ‘There were other things, too. Like keeping your eyes and ears open. Has anyone come secretly to Mustapha?’

  ‘One came yesterday and wanted to speak with him.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Effendi, I do not know. I would have listened but Mustapha sent me out to draw water from the pump. A man like me,’ said Selim, injured, ‘drawing water from the pump!’

  ‘Never mind that. Did Mustapha speak to you afterwards?’

  ‘He was a right bastard. He kept on at me all morning. And not just me, Mekhmet, too. He dealt Mekhmet a blow, and I thought he would strike me, too, only I rolled up my sleeves and he thought better of it.’

  ‘He said nothing about the man who had come to see him?’

  ‘No, Effendi. But afterwards he had a face like thunder.’

  ‘It is a pity he would not talk with you. You must be friendlier to him.’

  ‘I would rather be friendly with his wife,’ said Selim.

  ‘This is important. Find out about the man who came. Find out what was said. If Mustapha will not tell you, talk to his wife.’

  ‘Effendi, I will,’ promised Selim. ‘I will lure her with words of honey.’

  ‘No doubt. But let them be to the purpose. My purpose.’

  ‘You need not fear, Effendi,’ said Selim confidently. ‘I know how to set about it. In fact, I am already four-fifths there. I have told her how closely you and I have worked together against the gangs. Well, I know that is a little bit of an exaggeration, Effendi, since we haven’t worked together against the gangs yet, but the way things are going, it will soon be true. “I know how to handle them,” I said to her. “I am sure you do, Selim,” she said. “You are so big and strong”-’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  ‘ “-and have the ear of the Mamur Zapt,” ’ continued Selim, unabashed. “ ‘You have but to say a thing and he pays heed so if you tell him about this Black Scorpion Gang”-’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Black Scorpion Gang. You told me to find out, Effendi.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you-? That’s what she said? Black Scorpion?’

  ‘Yes, Effendi. And I said-you’ll like this, Effendi-I said, “If we’re talking about scorpions, how about a bit of a nip?” And then she slapped my hands-’

  ‘I just wanted to know which was priority, that was all,’ said Georgiades.

  ‘The Grand Duke is.’

  ‘I thought the cafes were. They were last week.’

  ‘Protection rackets are always with us. Grand Dukes come and go. Or so we hope.’

  ‘The Grand Duke is obviously priority,’ said Nikos, irritated. ‘He’s got to be, until it’s all over.’

  Nikos was working on the security arrangements for the Duke’s visit. It was the sort of job he liked, abstract, systematic, programmable. His desk was covered with schedules, times down the left-hand side of the page, resources across the top, neatly ruled columns, neat multicoloured ticks. But how did colour fit into Nikos’s bloodless systems, wondered Owen? Sparingly, he decided, looking at the columns. Georgiades continued to grumble.

  ‘I was just getting somewhere on the cafes,’ he said. ‘That idea of Rosa’s was really smart.’

  ‘What idea was this?’ asked Nikos, picking up a green crayon and considering it.

  ‘I go round pretending to sell insurance. Against business loss. It works like a charm. They’re all interested. It really gets them talking.’

  ‘Do they talk to any purpose?’

  ‘They will,’ said Georgiades confidently. ‘But I’ve got to keep at them. That’s why I’m asking about priorities.’

  Nikos put down the green crayon without using it.

  ‘I can tell you what his priority is,’ he said. ‘It’s sitting in cafes. He’s never had a job like this.’

  ‘Don’t let the cafes go,’ said Owen. ‘Only fit your visits in around this business.’

  ‘I was afraid you were going to say that,’ said Georgiades.

  ‘Just get on down there!’ said Nikos.

  Georgiades stood up.

  ‘Find out who organized it and whether there’s going to be any follow-up. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Georgiades still sought, however, to delay the evil hour; which lasted from about mid morning until the sun began to ease in the second half of the afternoon.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said; ‘is there any reason why we should treat this more seriously than any of the others?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping you’re going to find out,’ said Owen.

  In fact, he had some sympathy with Georgiades, both over the heat-the Babylon was quite some distance away, although Georgiades would use the new electric tram for most of the journey-and over the general question of priorities. It always irritated him when something came up to disrupt the normal pattern of work, something to which others accorded priority. They nearly always had things the wrong way round. In Owen’s business, forestalling was a lot better than reacting, and forestalling was largely a matter of careful, continuous intelligence-gathering. Any diversion from that was, in his view, something to be res
isted.

  This visit of the Grand Duke, for instance, he could have done without. It was an extra. Why go in for extras when you had enough on your plate as it was? He guessed, though, that the Khedive did not see it like that. If you did not like what was on your daily plate you might be more inclined to go in for extras. The occasional circus was what helped you to stomach the bread.

  Owen, in unusually puritanical mood, decided that he himself was a bread man rather than a circuses man; and bent his head grimly over a query from Finance.

  Some time later Nikos appeared in the doorway. In this heat they always kept the door open. Besides, it improved communication. Owen could monitor what was going on in the office and Nikos could listen in when required to Owen’s conversations.

  ‘A Mr. Nicodemus to see you,’ he said.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘A tip-off, I think.’

  ‘Oh, right. Show him in.’

  Mr. Nicodemus was a short, plump Levantine in the dark suit of the businessman and the normal red, tassled, flower-pot-like tarboosh of the Cairo effendi. He came forward with outstretched hand.

  ‘You won’t know me, Captain Owen, but I come to Cairo frequently on business. I am the Levant agent for a large European engineering company.’

  He presented Owen with his card, French on one side, Arabic on the other. French was the normal language for business in Egypt, although English was catching on. Mr. Nicodemus spoke in English.

  Owen motioned him to a chair and began the usual prolonged courteous enquiries as to health, fatigue and general condition which were the essential preliminary to any Arabic discussion of business. Another indispensable preliminary was the offer of hospitality. A suffragi brought in two little cups of Turkish coffee. Mr. Nicodemus sipped his coffee and praised God and Owen for the flavour; and then business could begin.

  ‘Some time ago,’ he said, ‘I was contacted and asked if I could supply an urgent order for a client in Egypt. The lack of client details, given the nature of the order, made me’- Mr. Nicodemus paused-‘uneasy.’

  ‘What was the nature of the order?’

  ‘It was for explosives.’