the reward would be great. So great that he might not even have to carry loads any more.’
‘That indeed would be a reward worth earning.’
Ibrahim stood for some time considering the matter. The sweat was still running down his face. From time to time he dabbed at it with his handkerchief.
‘Well, Effendi,’ he said at last, ‘there is nothing to be lost by doing what you ask and there could be much to gain. I will do it. What is it you ask?’
After he had gone, Owen became aware that the urchin was still standing by him.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and put his hand in his pocket.
Sidi took the coins with surprising inattention.
‘Effendi,’ he said, ‘that reward you mentioned: would it apply to me?’
‘If you found what I want, yes.’
‘I would buy donkeys,’ said Sidi. ‘It would be better if they carried the loads, not me.’
‘With such an abundance of management insight, Sidi, you are bound to prosper.’
‘I hope so, Effendi. Now, about my sister: are you sure—?’
In the Bab-el-Khalk, the headquarters of the Cairo Police, the heat was stupefying. Owen, working at his desk, had wedged a sheet of blotting paper beneath his writing hand to soak up the persistent trickles of sweat that ran down his arm and threatened to turn everything he wrote into an indecipherable damp smudge. The water in the glass beside him was lukewarm again; only a few minutes before, his orderly had come round to fill the glass with ice. Yusef had said the ice was melting even in the ice house. It had been melting, he said, even when the cart arrived and the men had carried the ice loaves, each tenderly wrapped in sacking, down into the cellar.
The Bab-el-Khalk was as quiet as a morgue. Christ, what would the morgue be doing if the ice was melting! He decided not to think about that. Instead, he changed the image. As quiet as a tomb. Yes, he quite liked that. As quiet as a tomb and as dark as a tomb, with all the shutters closed against the sun, as they had been since early morning.
But not so quiet! Voices, feet running. Someone running along the corridor. The pad of bare feet, the slap of slippers.
Yusef burst into the room.
‘Effendi! Effendi! A man—’
A man with his galabeeyah hoisted up round his knees, the better to run, his feet bare, his turban dishevelled, exposing his skull cap, his face running with sweat—’
‘Effendi! Mustapha is being attacked again!’
‘Mustapha?’
‘The café! Oh, Effendi, come quickly! It is terrible!’
Owen jumped to his feet, grabbed his topee—better than a tarboosh if there was a prospect of being hit on the head—and ran out of the room. He found the man running beside him.
‘Quick, Effendi! Oh, quick!’
Well, yes, but how? Arabeah? There was a line of the horse-drawn carriages in front of the Bab-el-Khalk but no one would describe them as speedy. Donkey? There would be donkeys tied up in the courtyard, but somehow—Got it! The Aalim-Zapt’s bicycle! He ran down into the courtyard. There it was, green, gleaming, modern!
‘Tell the Aalim-Zapt!’ he shouted, as he sped through the gate.
He hurtled across the Place Bab-el-Khalk. That was easy. It was when he came to the more crowded streets of the native city that he ran into trouble. A massive stone cart was almost entirely blocking the thoroughfare, useless to shout, a little gap at one side—Christ, another one just behind! Another gap, at the expense of a chicken, Jesus, stalls all over the road, onions, tomatoes a few more onions and tomatoes when he’d finished, and now a bloody Passover sheep! Fat, obtuse and in the way! A flock of turkeys, a man carrying a bed, a line of forage camels, three great loads of berseem flopping up and down on either side—steer clear of them—and now a donkey with a rolled-up carpet stretched across its back, the two ends sticking out right across the street, a man sitting on top—! Or was he on top, still? Owen did not dare to look.
He became aware of
‘That indeed would be a reward worth earning.’
Ibrahim stood for some time considering the matter. The sweat was still running down his face. From time to time he dabbed at it with his handkerchief.
‘Well, Effendi,’ he said at last, ‘there is nothing to be lost by doing what you ask and there could be much to gain. I will do it. What is it you ask?’
After he had gone, Owen became aware that the urchin was still standing by him.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and put his hand in his pocket.
Sidi took the coins with surprising inattention.
‘Effendi,’ he said, ‘that reward you mentioned: would it apply to me?’
‘If you found what I want, yes.’
‘I would buy donkeys,’ said Sidi. ‘It would be better if they carried the loads, not me.’
‘With such an abundance of management insight, Sidi, you are bound to prosper.’
‘I hope so, Effendi. Now, about my sister: are you sure—?’
In the Bab-el-Khalk, the headquarters of the Cairo Police, the heat was stupefying. Owen, working at his desk, had wedged a sheet of blotting paper beneath his writing hand to soak up the persistent trickles of sweat that ran down his arm and threatened to turn everything he wrote into an indecipherable damp smudge. The water in the glass beside him was lukewarm again; only a few minutes before, his orderly had come round to fill the glass with ice. Yusef had said the ice was melting even in the ice house. It had been melting, he said, even when the cart arrived and the men had carried the ice loaves, each tenderly wrapped in sacking, down into the cellar.
The Bab-el-Khalk was as quiet as a morgue. Christ, what would the morgue be doing if the ice was melting! He decided not to think about that. Instead, he changed the image. As quiet as a tomb. Yes, he quite liked that. As quiet as a tomb and as dark as a tomb, with all the shutters closed against the sun, as they had been since early morning.
But not so quiet! Voices, feet running. Someone running along the corridor. The pad of bare feet, the slap of slippers.
Yusef burst into the room.
‘Effendi! Effendi! A man—’
A man with his galabeeyah hoisted up round his knees, the better to run, his feet bare, his turban dishevelled, exposing his skull cap, his face running with sweat—’
‘Effendi! Mustapha is being attacked again!’
‘Mustapha?’
‘The café! Oh, Effendi, come quickly! It is terrible!’
Owen jumped to his feet, grabbed his topee—better than a tarboosh if there was a prospect of being hit on the head—and ran out of the room. He found the man running beside him.
‘Quick, Effendi! Oh, quick!’
Well, yes, but how? Arabeah? There was a line of the horse-drawn carriages in front of the Bab-el-Khalk but no one would describe them as speedy. Donkey? There would be donkeys tied up in the courtyard, but somehow—Got it! The Aalim-Zapt’s bicycle! He ran down into the courtyard. There it was, green, gleaming, modern!
‘Tell the Aalim-Zapt!’ he shouted, as he sped through the gate.
He hurtled across the Place Bab-el-Khalk. That was easy. It was when he came to the more crowded streets of the native city that he ran into trouble. A massive stone cart was almost entirely blocking the thoroughfare, useless to shout, a little gap at one side—Christ, another one just behind! Another gap, at the expense of a chicken, Jesus, stalls all over the road, onions, tomatoes a few more onions and tomatoes when he’d finished, and now a bloody Passover sheep! Fat, obtuse and in the way! A flock of turkeys, a man carrying a bed, a line of forage camels, three great loads of berseem flopping up and down on either side—steer clear of them—and now a donkey with a rolled-up carpet stretched across its back, the two ends sticking out right across the street, a man sitting on top—! Or was he on top, still? Owen did not dare to look.
He became aware of
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