everyone wants ice. The palace wants ice, the hotels want ice, all the barracks want ice. So they cannot help me when I do the government offices. And the government offices want ice most of all. Fortunately I am a man of diligence and resource and so they get ice. Eventually.’
He fished in one of the saddlebags and produced a loadshaped block of ice wrapped in sacking.
‘You want ice, Effendi? You have it. So what are you complaining of?’
Once the funeral was over, the Signora assumed control of the business. The auctions started again.
‘I thought you said there was some cotton?’ said the crumpled Greek.
‘There is,’ said the Levantine wearily, ‘but it’s still in the warehouse. As I told you, the Parquet’s interested in it.’
‘Still?’ said the Greek, aghast.
‘Still.’
‘You don’t know when –?’
The Greek thought for a moment.
‘Presumably you’ve got loads coming into your warehouse all the time?’
‘That’s right.’
‘With cotton?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Any coming in soon?’
‘There is, I believe,’ said the Levantine coldly, ‘a load coming up from the Delta sometime.’
‘Ah, the Delta?’ The Greek seemed interested; indeed, strangely, cheered.
‘It’ll be coming in next month.’
‘Alexandria,’ said the Greek with satisfaction. ‘I like the sound of that.’
‘What?’ said the Levantine.
‘Alexandria. The Delta. That’s much better than Sennar.’
‘Sennar? What’s that got to do with it?’
‘It’s a hell of a place.’
‘The cotton’s the same’ said the Levantine, puzzled.
‘Ah!’ said the Greek, laying his finger alongside his nose.
‘Perhaps it’s different to people who know,’ said the Levantine, impressed.
‘It’s not the cotton, it’s the place,’ said the Greek.
The Levantine looked puzzled, then shrugged his shoulders and moved away.
The Greek went on poking round the lots that were coming up for auction.
After a while he went up to the Levantine again.
‘Yes?’ said the Levantine reluctantly, over his shoulder.
‘This load that you’ve got in your warehouse at the moment, the bales that the Parquet are so interested in: it will be coming through at some time?’
‘Yes,’ said the Levantine.
The Greek pinched his fingers, as if feeling a crisp note.
‘I wonder – is anyone else interested in it, do you know? Not the Parquet, I mean. Another dealer?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I mean, you do have cotton from time to time, don’t you? So there will be people who know. Perhaps they’ll have bought from you before.’
‘Well, I don’t know that I’d call them regular customers –’
‘But they know, don’t they? They know about the cotton. I was just wondering if any of them were particularly interested this time?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
The Greek pinched his fingers again and winked.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘it could be of great help to me to know their names.’
He pinched his fingers.
‘Well,’ said the Levantine, weakening. ‘All right.’
‘And anyone else,’ said the Greek, smiling encouragingly, ‘who shows an interest.’
The Greek wandered out of the showroom, sauntered along the edge of the Market of the Afternoon, and then dived into one of the little streets beneath the Citadel. He came to rest in a little, dark, almost subterranean coffee house.
Owen followed him in.
‘You’re going to have to buy that cotton if you’re not careful,’ he said.
The Greek settled himself comfortably on the stone slab and sipped his coffee.
‘At the last moment,’ he said, ‘I shall feel the cotton and look disappointed. Then I shall ask him if he’s got any more coming in.’
‘They get cotton from both the north and south,’ said Owen. ‘The lot with the guns in comes from the south.’
‘I know,’ said the Greek. ‘Sennar. Then Assuan. A pity.’
‘Pity? Why?’
The Greek looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I thought you might want to send me – I was hoping it would be Alexandria.’
‘Alexandria?’
‘I thought I might take Rosa. She’s been looking a bit peaky lately.’ The Greek looked down at his coffee. ‘It’s the baby, you know.’
‘Baby!’
‘Due in the summer. July.’
‘Baby!’
Rosa was about fourteen. At least – Owen began to calculate, time passed more quickly than you thought – maybe she was a bit more than that now. Sixteen? Seventeen?
‘Congratulations! To both of you. Tell Rosa I’m delighted.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
‘July, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she’s looking a bit peaky?’
‘It’s the heat. She gets tired.’
‘So you thought a holiday would do her good?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Seems a good idea to me. Take her with you … But, hey, you’re not going to Alexandria! The guns came up from Assuan!’
‘It just seemed a good idea … Two birds with one stone …’
‘But it’s not two birds with one stone! You’re not going to Alexandria. There’s no reason why you should go to Alexandria! Assuan, the guns came from Assuan!’
‘All right, all right.’
‘You can take a holiday after!’
Baby! The shocks were raining in fast. First Mahmoud getting married, now Rosa having a baby. He would have to tell Zeinab.
On second thoughts, perhaps he wouldn’t tell Zeinab.
The warehouse this morning was buzzing with activity. Strapping, bulging-armed porters were carrying things to and fro, the harassed warehouse foreman ran about chiding everybody, and the Signora herself, black-dressed, arms folded, stood firm at the centre of the maelstrom.
Two carts were being loaded, one bound for the Ismailiya showrooms, the other for the premises near the Market of the Afternoon. Now that the Signora had taken over the management of the business, the auctions were beginning again.
Among the goods being put on the Market