Donkey-Vous by Michael Pearce Page A

talking!”
    “She gets around?”
    “She certainly does! Andalaft’s, Cohen’s, Haroun’s: she’s got money and knows how to use it!”
    “Apart from shopping, though?”
    “She’s got friends. The Princess Samira, the Prince Haidar—”
    “She’s got bigger friends than that, though.”
    “Oh? Who?”
    “That would be telling.”
    “We don’t really know,” said another of the drivers.
    “We don’t know,” said the third, “because when she goes to visit them she doesn’t use us.”
    “Then how—”
    “They send a carriage. Especially for her.”
    “To the hotel?”
    “Yes. We don’t like it, of course, but we know when to keep our mouths shut.”
    “And did this carriage often pick her up?”
    “Two or three times a week.”
    “And return her?”
    “Yes. A couple of hours later. Long enough.”
    “If you hurry,” said another of the drivers.
    “Perhaps she’s eager.”
    The drivers fell about laughing.
    “Anyway, maybe it’s not that,” said the first driver. “What else would it be?”
    They burst into laughter.
    “I’ll tell you what, though,” one of the drivers said to Owen. “Once or twice he went with her.”
    “Who went with her?”
    “That young chap. The one you were asking about. The one with the eyes. Though what contribution he was going to make I can’t think.”
    “You’d better ask Abbas. Abbas!”
    Some way along the row of arabeahs one of the other drivers lifted his head.
    “What?”
    “Suppose a man is with a woman and then another man comes along. What does the other man do?”
    A guffaw ran along the line of recumbent arabeah-drivers. The one who had lifted his head sprang to his feet. “I will kill you, Abdullah!” he said, and reached toward his belt. “Be careful!” one of the other drivers warned him: “The Mamur Zapt is along there!” Abbas stopped in his tracks and stood for a moment undecided. “You wait, Abdullah!” he called eventually. “I will come to you later.” Abdullah seemed unconcerned.
     
    Paul rang from the Consul-General’s office.
    “Hello!” he said. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes, thanks. Why shouldn’t I be?”
    “Everyone’s been saying how peaky you look and how you obviously need a rest.”
    “It’s this damned heat,” Owen complained. Then it sank in. “Everyone?”
    “Everyone who’s rung me this morning.”
    “Samira?”
    “Samira, for instance. The other one would surprise you.”
    “Go on; surprise me.”
    “The Khedive.”
    “
The Khedive
?”
    “I knew it would surprise you. It surprised me. He’s never taken an interest in your health before. Nor in the health of anyone else in the Administration. I congratulate you.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “Something, obviously. That’s why I rang to let you know.”
    “Samira was on to me yesterday. She told me to lay off Moulin.”
    “And now His Highness is telling you the same thing. Isn’t that interesting? You must be getting warm.”
    “Why should he be bothered about Moulin?”
    “Why indeed. Perhaps he’s not.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Perhaps he’s bothered about something else.”
    Owen thought about it.
    “Paul,” he said then, “are you trying to warn me off? Is this something I should clear politically?”
    “Who would you clear it with?”
    “Garvin, I suppose.”
    “What would he know about it?”
    “The Consul-General, then?”
    “Look,” said Paul, “the Consul-General doesn’t have ideas of his own. He only has the ideas I put in his head.”
    “And what ideas are you putting in his head at the moment?”
    “I don’t think you look peaky at all,” said Paul. “Quite the reverse, in fact.”
     
    “I need your help,” said Owen.
    Zeinab, lying on the bed, at first seemed deaf to this plea. Then she turned her head slightly.
    “What is it?”
    “I didn’t get anywhere with Samira.”
    “You were talking to her for a long time.”
    “Yes, but she didn’t tell me anything. Not much anyway. She