The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt by Michael Pearce Page B

enthusiastically.
    ‘That is not the sole purpose of my visit,’ said Owen. ‘Nevertheless, I rejoice at the opportunity.’
    Sayid, chattering excitedly, led him up the cliff. As they gained in height, Owen, looking back, could see the roofs of the houses below him, the little walled courtyards, the winding, higgledy-piggledy paths which took the place of streets.
    There, at a corner where a barber had set out his chair and bowl and a small group had gathered expectant of miracles, sat Mahmoud, deep in conversation; and there, on the other side of the village, assisted unexpectedly by Tomas, was Miss Skinner, talking earnestly to another knot of villagers.
    ‘She gives baksheesh,’ said Sayid approvingly, ‘plenty baksheesh.’
    ‘You know her?’ said Owen, surprised.
    ‘Oh yes.’
    ‘And what does she give baksheesh
for
?’
    Sayid looked injured.
    ‘Not
for
, out of. Out of the liberality of her hand, out of the generosity of her heart, out of—’
    ‘I know the lady, too,’ Owen cut in. ‘What is she giving baksheesh for? Things that you have found? Or is it things that you know?’
    ‘I do not understand that latter point,’ said Sayid. ‘We have tried offering her things that we have found. Alas, she knows whether we have truly found them. She gives good prices for what is genuine. Unfortunately, we are running out of that sort of thing.’
    ‘Business is bad, is it?’
    ‘Terrible. It won’t pick up until it get cooler again and the tourists come back.’
    ‘Meanwhile, you’re getting a few things together. I expect?’
    ‘A few,’ said Sayid non-committally.
    Sayid’s house was at the top of the village, a gash in the rock covered over with slabs of limestone and sparsely furnished inside. Owen got the impression the inside wasn’t used very much. There was a bed-roll on the roof, which suggested that Sayid and his wife slept up there. Cooking was done on a brazier in the yard, and it was from there that Sayid’s wife shortly brought them cups of tea.
    She also brought two very small children. Owen complimented Sayid on a growing family. Sayid, however, seemed a little depressed.
    ‘Both girls,’ he said. ‘If she goes on like this, I don’t know what I shall do. Have to get another one, I suppose.’
    ‘Child?’
    ‘Wife.’
    Owen shook his head, commiserating.
    ‘The trouble is, it all costs money,’ said Sayid gloomily.
    They sat on the roof watching the dusk close down and the stars come out. The only lights in the village came from the braziers in the yards and the occasional tallow lamp where someone was still working. The smell of fried onions rose strongly through the evening air.
    ‘Ya Sayid!’
    It was somebody hailing from a neighbouring roof. Sayid rose to his feet.
    ‘They are finished. Come and see!’
    Sayid hesitated.
    ‘Do not let me stand in your way,’ said Owen politely. ‘I must go now anyway.’
    ‘You are sure?’
    ‘I should go to see the woman. Perhaps she will offer me some baksheesh, too.’
    Sayid laughed and they descended from the roof. As they emerged on to what passed for the street, the neighbour came rushing over.
    ‘Perfect!’ he said. ‘Perfect, this time. Come and see!’
    He seized Sayid by the arm and then, encompassing Owen in his overspilling goodwill, caught him up too.
    ‘I—’ began Owen.
    But the man was already urging them through a low doorway and into his house. Down by the river, in the houses that Owen knew, the first room was often given over to the family buffalo. This one was not. It was a workshop.
    There were three windows, each giving light to a workman’s bench strewn with scarabs, amulets and funerary statuettes in every stage of progress. Some were of wood, some limestone and some clay.
    What the neighbour had brought them in to show them, however, were some five ushapti images of glazed faïence, newly made.
    ‘Are they not good? My best work yet,’ said the neighbour, standing proudly beside them.
    Sayid