A Zikr death, anyway,’ he amended. ‘Do you know who’s on it?’
‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Me.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Owen.
‘Have you an interest?’
‘You bet I have. Can we have a talk about it?’
‘About half an hour? The usual place?’
They met on neutral ground, that is to say a cafe equidistant between the Parquet offices and the Bab el Khalkh, where Owen worked. Relations between the Departments were at best lukewarm and there were also practical advantages in confidentiality. Sometimes the right hand got further if it did not know what the left hand was doing. Also, although Owen had known Mahmoud for about a year now and they were good friends, their relationship was—perhaps necessarily—sometimes an uneasy one. Owen was more senior and had an access to power which Mahmoud would never have. Besides which, there were all the usual tensions between Egyptian and Englishmen (or, in Owen’s case, Welshmen), Imperialist and Nationalist, occupier and occupied. At times, too, Owen found Mahmoud’s emotional volatility difficult to handle; and no doubt Mahmoud on his side found British stolidity just as exasperating. There was an element of emotional negotiation in their relationship which was best managed away from their own institutions. If the meeting had been at the Ministry of Justice or at Police Headquarters both would have had to play roles. Sitting outside the cafe in this narrow back street, with only the occasional forage-camel plodding past with its load of berseem, they could talk more freely.
‘I’ve only just received the case. You were there, I gather?’
‘Yes.’
‘With this Miss Postlethwaite.’ Mahmoud stumbled slightly over the word. Although he spoke English well, he spoke French better, and the word came out sounding as it would have done if a Frenchman had pronounced it.
‘Yes. She’s the niece of an MP who’s visiting us. Got to be looked after. You won’t want to see her, will you?’
‘It might be necessary.’
‘I don’t know that she’d be able to add anything to what I might say.’
‘You never know. It’s worth checking. Anyway,’ said Mahmoud, who didn’t like any detail to escape him, ‘the investigation ought to be done properly.’
‘Yes, it ought. Both sides will be watching it.’
‘Both sides?’
‘Copts and Moslems.’
Owen told Mahmoud about the things that had been occupying him recently.
‘The best thing you could do would be to find he died of a heart attack.’
‘There’ll have to be an autopsy. Keep your fingers crossed.’
They watched a camel coming down the street towards them. It was heavily loaded with berseem, green forage for the cab horses in the squares. The load extended so far across the camel that it brushed the walls on both sides of the narrow street. Advancing towards it was a tiny donkey almost buried under a load of firewood. The load was as big as a small haystack. On top of it sat the donkey’s owner, an old Arab dressed in a dirty white galabeah. The two animals met. Neither would, neither could, give way, the camel because it was stuck between the walls, the donkey because it was so crushed under its huge load that it was quite incapable of manoeuvring. Both drivers swore at each other and interested spectators came out of the houses to watch. Eventually the drivers were persuaded to try to edge the animals past each other. In doing so the donkey lost some of its firewood and the camel some of its berseem. The wood fell among the pots of a small shopkeeper who came out of his shop in a fury and belaboured both animals. They stuck. Neither could move forward or backwards despite the best help of observers. The rest of the inhabitants of the street came out to help, including the people smoking water-pipes in the dark inner rooms of the cafe. Mahmoud shifted his chair so that he could see better.
‘This could take a long time,’ he said.
The indignant cries of the drivers rose to the heavens where they mingled with the shouts of the onlookers, who for some reason all felt compelled to offer their advice at the top of their voices. The din was terrific. Owen looked on the scene almost with affection. He loved the daily dramas of the Cairo streets in which high positions were taken as in a Greek tragedy but in which no one was ever really hurt. Would that all Egyptian conflicts were like that, he said to himself. He was thinking of the matter of the dog, but was beginning, now, to have a slightly uneasy feeling about the Zikr.
‘It would be good if both these cases were out of the way before the 25th.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the Coptic Easter. And the Moulid of the Sheikh el-Herera.’
‘And the Sham el-Nessim,’ said Mahmoud, ‘you’ve forgotten that.’
The spring festival.
‘Christ. Is that on too?’
‘This year, yes.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘I’ll try and sort it out before then,’ said Mahmoud, still watching the drama. ‘You’ll have sorted out the dog business by then, too.’
‘Yes, but it mightn’t help.’
Along the street one of the onlookers was taking off his trousers. This usually meant business in Egypt. Trousers, especially good ones, were prestigious possessions and no one would want to risk spoiling them by involving them in action. The onlooker, now trouserless, took hold of the donkey firmly by the head, turned it round, despite the protests of its owner, and began to lead it back up the street. It passed the cafe and turned up a side street. The camel resumed its passage, not, however, without incident. As it approached the cafe it suddenly became apparent that its load would sweep all before it. Patrons, including Owen and Mahmoud, hurriedly rushed chairs and tables inside. The camel went past. At the junction with the side street it stopped and the driver looked back. Clearly he was thinking about the spilt berseem. Vigorous cries dissuaded him from going back. After a few moments’ hesitation he shrugged his shoulders and went on. Meanwhile, the donkey was led back up the street and restored to its owner. By the time it reached the scene of the blockage both the spilt berseem and the spilt firewood had gone.
‘Right!’ said Mahmoud. ‘I’ll do my best. I’ll start at once with the principal witness.’
‘Who’s that?’ asked Owen.
‘You,’ said Mahmoud.
‘You don’t remember anything?’
‘More than what I’ve told you? Sorry.’
‘We’ve got the general picture,’ said Mahmoud. ‘It’s the particulars I’m after.’
‘I know,’ said Owen humbly.
‘You saw this Zikr afterwards. The dead one, I mean. So you know what he looked like. Do you remember seeing him before? When he was dancing?’
‘Sort of,’ said Owen vaguely.
‘He had knives and spears sticking out all over him.’
‘Lots of them did!’ protested Owen.
‘This one especially. Look, I’ll help you. He had a spear sticking into his front chest. A three-foot handle. At least three feet. It must have been waggling about.’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘I would have thought it would have got in the way, dancing.’
Owen shut his eyes.
‘I can’t picture it,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t jog your memory?’
‘No.’ Owen shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Mahmoud sighed.