an appartement of her own. This was unusual for a single Egyptian woman; but then Zeinab was unusual in many respects.
She was the daughter of a Pasha, which explained how she could afford to own an appartement but which did not account for the audacity of maintaining a separate establishment itself. Most Pasha’s daughters were as harem-bound as other Egyptian women and spent their lives at home with their families until they could be suitably married. The circumstances of Zeinab’s birth and upbringing were, however, mildly out of the ordinary, even by Egyptian standards.
Her mother had been one of Cairo’s most famous courtesans and the young Nuri Pasha had been desperately in love with her, to such an extent, indeed, that he had scandalized Cairo society by proposing marriage. To his surprise, and the even greater surprise of society, she had turned him down, preferring to keep her independence. This had endeared her to Nuri – who liked a bit of spirit in his women – even more, and the two had lived happily together until, tragically, Zeinab’s mother had died giving birth to Zeinab.
The shattered Nuri had clutched at the baby as representing all that was left of the great passion of his life, acknowledging Zeinab as his daughter and bringing her up as, in his view, a Pasha’s daughter should be brought up.
This was not quite, however, as other Pashas’ daughters were reared. Like most of the old Egyptian ruling class, Nuri looked to France for his culture, and had brought Zeinab up to share that culture. Being Nuri, however, he had rather overdone it, with the result that Zeinab was as much a Frenchwoman as she was an Egyptian. She spoke French more naturally than she spoke Arabic.
Consistent with this approach, the doting Nuri had throughout her childhood allowed her considerably more licence than her peers enjoyed, rejoicing, indeed, in every expression of independence as reflecting something of the spirit of her mother.
True, still, to his enthusiasm for things French, especially women, he had encouraged her, as she approached womanhood, to assume the ton of the young Parisienne. Basing himself, however, largely on the latest magazines that he had received from Paris, he had tended to confuse the current normal with less widely shared notions of the New Woman, which, admittedly, he interpreted as merely the adding of a piquant new flavour to the more traditional ones of sexual attraction. The upshot of all this was that by the time she was eighteen Zeinab had come to take for granted a degree of freedom unusual among Muslim women; and what Nuri was reluctant to grant, she took.
Zeinab, too, was enthusiastic about French culture, although her interests were more aesthetic. The Cairo art world, where she found most of her friends, was heavily French in tone, and had the additional advantage of taking a more relaxed view of women than the rest of Egyptian society. She was able, therefore, to pursue her interests in painting and music more or less in peace, and sometimes thought that one day she might establish a salon along the lines of that of the great Parisian ladies.
First, however, she would have to get married, and this presented a problem, since the only man she could contemplate was someone who shared her views on personal freedom, and there appeared to be no rich young Egyptian men in that category. That only left Owen; and he, alas, was English.
Meanwhile, she was just coining up to thirty.
‘Mahmoud? Married?’ she said now, raising herself upon her elbows. She seemed disconcerted. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was the marrying kind.’
‘I think it was a bit of a surprise to him, too.’
He told her about the evening.
‘School?’ said Zeinab. ‘She must be about fourteen.’
‘I think she’s left school now.’
‘Well, that, I suppose, is something.’
‘I met her father. He seems all right.’
‘The trouble is,’ said Zeinab, ‘that Mahmoud is not marrying the father.’
‘I know. It does seem strange. But there you are, Time passes.’
‘Yes,’ said Zeinab.
‘Owen, I’ve had a letter this morning –’
It was McPhee, the Deputy Commandant of the Cairo Police.
‘Everyone’s had them,’ said Owen.
‘Not just me, then.’
McPhee seemed pleased. He turned to go. Then he came back.
‘I’ve had them before,’ he said.
‘The same writing?’
‘It’s a letter-writer’s hand,’ said McPhee, who, despite his eccentricity, knew his Egypt.
‘Got one?’
McPhee laid it before him.
‘It’s the same as mine,’ said Owen. ‘And the same as everyone else’s. Whoever it is always used the same writer.’
‘We could look out for him, I suppose,’ said McPhee. ‘Though there are dozens of letter-writers in the city.’
‘The ones to you, and to the Mamur Zapt,’ said Nikos, the Secrets Clerk, ‘were both posted in the Box.’
Fastened to the wall outside the Governorate was an old wooden box in which from time immemorial it had been the habit of the citizens of Cairo to deposit petitions, complaints about the price of bread, denunciations of their neighbours and accusations against their neighbours’ wives, together with sundry informations which were thought might be of interest to the Mamur Zapt. And some of them were.
McPhee had told him once – McPhee was a fount of such curious knowledge – that it was like the ‘Bocca del Leone’ at Venice, a letterbox decorated with a lion’s head, into which Venetians could drop communications which they wished to bring to the attention of the authorities. In Venice the communications had to be signed. In Cairo the informant could remain anonymous, but Owen, who liked the custom, felt that didn’t matter. In principle it was a way of giving every citizen a chance to communicate with the highest in the land; although these days the Mamur Zapt was not, as he once had been, the right-hand man of the Sultan, the most powerful of all his Viziers.
‘The point is,’ said Nikos, whose duty it was to unlock the Box every morning and bring its contents to Owen, ‘we could have the Box watched.’
Neither Owen nor McPhee liked the idea. To McPhee it was an affront to the spirit of the city. Owen was uncomfortable with the idea too, though he rationalized his discomfort away on the utilitarian grounds that once the anonymity of the Box was breached, its value as a democratic means of communication would be lost.
Nikos, the ever-realistic Copt, shrugged. He wasn’t, after all, the one who had been receiving the death threats.
For some days now the weather in Cairo had been unusually hot. Fans were whirring overhead in all the offices. The green shutters on the windows were kept closed. The windows themselves hung open and a little air, and a thin sunlight, came through the slats. In Owen’s, as in all Cairo offices, a vessel of drinking water stood in the window where the incoming air might cool it. Not today, however; the water was lukewarm. Owen summoned the office orderly and asked for some ice.
The orderly spread his hands.
‘Effendi, there is none in the ice box. There has been a run on it this week. Everyone else has thought the same as you; only they have thought of it first.’
Owen looked at his watch. It was a bit early to go to the Sporting Club.
‘However,’ said the orderly cheerfully, ‘the ice man comes this morning and when he comes I will bring some ice along for you.’
He still hadn’t come by lunchtime, but when Owen went down into the yard he saw the donkey with its great heavy bags on either side coming in at the gate.
‘No, Effendi, I am not late,’ protested the ice man. ‘I am very busy, that’s all. All the offices want ice, but