Death of an Effendi. Michael Pearce
a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘Others. Have you heard of a Russian named Kropotkin?’
‘No,’ said Owen.
‘He is a prince. But an unusually intelligent one. He says that cooperation, not competition, is the natural way of things. You British will not make the ordinary Egyptian feel part of things because you believe in competition. But that is not what the ordinary man wants. It is not natural to him. What is natural is cooperation. And that is what is needed here.’
‘And Mr Kropotkin will bring it?’
‘Alas,’ said Tvardovsky. ‘It may take a bit of time.’
After lunch the financiers, unused to the heat, returned to their tents for a siesta. Owen took a chair, however, and sat outside beneath an orange tree, where the foliage was thick enough to give dense shade. He could have gone back to his tent, next to Tvardovsky’s, but from here he could see better.
At about four the financiers began to emerge from their tents and make their way to the armchair area, where they were served afternoon tea. They drank their tea, as the Egyptians did, without milk.
From time to time someone came and led one of them off. Individual interviews had been arranged with the Governor of the Bank of Egypt and the Financial Adviser. ‘In the end,’ said Tvardovsky, ‘a financier has to work alone. We do not trust each other.’
Tvardovsky went for an interview, too. Owen accompanied him to the tent but did not go in.
Dinner was early in view of the shoot the next day. Tvardovsky sat at Owen’s table again. He drank heavily.
‘Steady on,’ said Owen. ‘We’re making an early start tomorrow, remember.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Tvardovsky. ‘The killing.’
It was still dark but in the tents the lamps were on. Suffragis hurried about carrying bowls of hot water for shaving and coffee for those who needed it. Up on the terrace a light breakfast had been prepared but the main breakfast would be later, after the shoot. People were already walking down to the water.
Owen emerged from his tent carrying a gun. Tvardovsky, coming out at the same time, regarded it distrustfully.
‘What’s that for?’ he said.
‘Protective camouflage,’ said Owen. He did not expect to use it. Duck-shooting was not what he was about.
Tvardovsky himself was gunless. Nevertheless, he walked down to the boats with the others.
They were flat-bottomed boats, like punts, suitable for the shallow water at the edge of the lake and for lying among the reeds. The boatman held the boats for the shooters to clamber in, two to a boat, with a boatman there to paddle and retrieve.
At the last moment there was a hitch. There were not enough boats to accommodate everyone.
‘I’ll sit this one out,’ said Tvardovsky.
‘So will I,’ said Owen.
‘No, no,’ said the maître d’hôtel. ‘No problem.’
He produced two more boats. They were of the basket sort, made of reeds. Empty, they seemed to lie on top of the water. Carrying someone, they sank down and water seeped in through the sides so that there was a little pool of water inside the boat, in which the person was sitting. After that, though, they sank down no more and the level of water remained the same, matching that outside.
‘Actually,’ said the maître d’hôtel, ‘you’ll find them more suited for shooting. The boatmen will be able to take you right in among the reeds and you’ll get a better shot.’
Tvardovsky shrugged and climbed in. That was the snag. The boat could only take him, not Owen. Owen was being marshalled towards a similar boat lying alongside. Tvardovsky looked up at Owen.
‘I won’t be far,’ said Owen.
Tvardovsky shrugged again.
‘Where gun?’ said the boatman.
‘No gun,’ said Tvardovsky.
‘No gun?’ The boatman turned to the maître d’hôtel, bewildered.
‘No gun,’ said the maître d’hôtel. ‘Just watch.’
The boatman exchanged glances with the man holding Owen’s boat. The shrugs were ever so slight.
Owen got into his basket. At once the water seemed to rush in.
‘All right,’ said the boatman, grinning. ‘Not sink.’
For a moment Owen was not so sure about that; nor about the general stability of the craft. It rocked crazily and he grabbed at the plaited gunwales on either side. Then the boat settled. He found himself sitting in water. After the first shock it was not disagreeable: pleasantly warm, almost languorous – sensuous, even. He settled the gun between his knees.
Then he remembered and cursed. He felt down into his pocket. Never mind that gun, it was the other one that mattered. He pulled it out, dried it against his tunic and then stuck it into his breast pocket.
His boatman gaped.
‘This one,’ he said, tapping the gun between Owen’s knees. He pointed to the small arm. ‘No need,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Owen. It hadn’t felt very wet. He hoped the chamber had not been affected.
The boatman pushed the boat out and then got in. He began to paddle.
In the other boats the boatmen stood up and poled their craft along. This close to the shore the water was very shallow and the trick was not to get out but to get in, among the reeds. This was where the basket boats had the advantage. The other boats had to hold themselves out on the edge of the reeds. The basket boats could go right in.
The boatman pushed the reeds aside with his paddle and edged through. Tvardovsky’s boat was just ahead of them.
‘You stay close to that,’ Owen directed.
The boatman nodded.
The reeds had closed all around them so that it was as if they were in a little enclave of their own. All they could see was the sky, which was, of course, all that they needed to see.
They settled down to wait. While they had been paddling out there the darkness had cleared and the sun was just coming up over the top of the reeds, a great ball of red.
The reeds were very still. But then, as the sun came up and the warmth began to touch the water, there were little rustles of movement. The lake was waking up.
The boatman reached forward and touched the gun.
Owen shook his head.
The boatman mimicked putting it to his shoulder and firing.
‘He doesn’t like shooting,’ said Owen in Arabic, jerking his head in Tvardovsky’s direction. ‘He just wants to watch.’
The boatman shrugged, accepting.
Tvardovsky sat sombrely in his boat, a little apart from Owen. Owen tried to catch his eye but Tvardovsky was staring into the reeds.
Suddenly there was a loud report and then from all along the shore, birds flew up into the sky. For a moment all was confusion as the birds scattered and squawked but then there were more reports and suddenly, from over to their right, the ducks came flying. They came with almost unbelievable speed, heading right across their front and out towards the centre of the lake.
At once, raggedly, almost in panic, the shooting started. From somewhere very near them, just beyond the reeds, a veritable barrage opened up.
Tvardovsky put his hands over his ears. The noise was deafening.
The fusillade seemed to have no effect on the ducks. They just flew on and on, an endless number of them.
But