The Last Cut. Michael Pearce
‘And work! A garden is built with one’s back.’
‘But out of the sweat of one’s brow a thing of beauty emerges.’
‘Well –’
‘This is truly one of the Wonders of Egypt,’ said Owen, looking round.
‘Well –’ said the gardener modestly.
‘Of Egypt? No, of the world!’
‘It’s pretty good,’ acknowledged the gardener. ‘Though I say it myself.’
‘Who better to say it?’
‘And those stupid bastards –’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Owen hurriedly. ‘But, tell me, Abdullah, you of all men must know the gardens well?’
‘Like the back of my hand.’
‘Just so. And you will be able to tell me this: if you were coming by night and making for the Manufiya Regulator, and did not wish to be seen, by what way would you come?’
The gardener gave him a shrewd look.
‘Would you be carrying something, Effendi?’
‘You might. You might well.’
‘Then there is only one way you would come. For if you came by any other you would have to cross canals. And you would not want, would you, Effendi, to get your load wet?’
‘You would not. So how would you come?’
‘Shall I show you, Effendi?’
Owen was not exactly a connoisseur of gardens. Indeed, he seldom noticed that they were there at all. But even he, now that he looked, could see that there was something special about the Barrage Gardens. They were a miracle of colour. Everywhere there were great splashes of bougainvillea and datura, banks of roses, huge beds of thrift. The trees, many of them rare and not native to Egypt, were tied together with flowering creepers and lianas. The pools, and there were lots of pools, were vivid with the ancient emblems of Lower and Upper Egypt, the papyrus and the lotos.
The gardens occupied the land between the Rosetta and Damietta arms of the Nile which was completely flat. That was not, however, the impression you received as you walked through them. Every rise, every declivity, had been somehow enhanced so that what you were conscious of, unusually in Egypt, was wooded hills and valleys.
It was along one of these valleys that Abdullah was leading Owen. A stream ran down the middle and on the opposite side were crumbling walls festooned with brightly-coloured climbers, the remains of the old French fort which had been here. Scattered along the valley were great clumps of bamboo and prickly pear, all making, thought Owen, if you wanted it, for invisibility.
He saw now that they were coming to the edge of the gardens. For the whole of their walk they had been out of sight of the barrages; out of sight, too, he suddenly realized, of any of the watchmen who might be manning them.
Except that –
‘Hello, Ibrahim!’ said the gardener.
A man was lying on his back beneath a baobab tree, an antique musket stretched out alongside him.
‘He sleeps during the day,’ said the gardener with a grin, ‘because he works during the night. Or so he claims.’
‘He is, then –?’
‘The ghaffir.’
The night watchman. He sat up, yawned and splashed water over his face from a nearby gadwal.
‘I am showing this Effendi how a man might get to the Manufiya Regulator without being seen,’ said the gardener.
‘You are showing him the wrong way, then,’ said the ghaffir, ‘for if he had come this way, I would have seen him.’
‘Not during the night, Ibrahim. For would you not have been walking the gardens?’
‘I might still have seen him,’ said the ghaffir, ‘if he had walked this way. For that is the way I walk when I am going to see that the stores are all right.’
‘And did you in fact see anyone?’ asked Owen. ‘Or anything untoward?’
The ghaffir chuckled.
‘I saw no one, Effendi. But I did see something untoward.’
‘What was that?’
‘Well, I didn’t really see it, Effendi. Unfortunately. But I heard.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘Chuckling, Effendi.’
‘Chuckling?’
‘And other noises, Effendi.’ He winked knowingly. ‘As of lovers.’
‘And you saw them, Ibrahim?’ said the gardener, scandalized.
‘Not actually saw them. They were in the bushes.’
‘And you’re sure about the noises?’ asked Owen. ‘I mean, that they were –?’
‘Effendi, they were like a pair of jackals!’
‘Ibrahim!’ said the gardener, shocked, but delighted.
‘Like this!’
The ghaffir gave an orgiastic cry.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Owen. ‘And where did all this take place?’
‘Just there, Effendi,’ said the ghaffir, pointing. ‘I had just got back from the stores when I heard –’
‘Ibrahim!’
‘All right, all right. And you saw, or heard, nothing else?’
‘No, Effendi. But that was pretty good, wasn’t it?’
‘I’ll bet he had a look,’ said the gardener, as they walked back to the regulator.
At the regulator the men were taking a break. They were sprawled tiredly on the bank.
‘Hard work!’ said Owen sympathetically.
‘It’s what we’re paid for,’ said one of the men.
‘If this is what we’re going to do all day,’ said the man next to him, ‘then I’m not being paid enough!’
‘You’d rather be back at home, would you, Musa?’ asked someone, apparently innocently.
There was a general laugh.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Musa.
‘It’s his wife,’ someone explained to Owen. ‘She keeps him on the go.’
‘You’d better make the most of it while you’ve got the chance, Musa,’ said someone else. ‘You’ll be back there soon enough.’
‘If this gate business doesn’t hold things back,’ said Musa.
The men turned serious.
‘You don’t think it’ll come to that?’
‘We wouldn’t want that,’ said someone. ‘There’s work to be done at home.’
‘You’re just up here for the Inundation, are you?’ asked Owen.
‘That’s right. It works out very well usually. There’s not much we can do at home just now. At this time of year you’ve got to wait for the water. And then when it comes you’ve got to wait for it to sink in before you can plant the seed. By that time we’re home again.’
‘You work your own lands, do you?’
There was a rueful chuckle.
‘It’s mostly Al-Sayyid Hannam’s land now. But, yes, we work it.’
‘They’re