The Face in the Cemetery. Michael Pearce
German nationals in Egypt in Pharaoh’s time?’
There was another pause.
‘Perhaps it had better be looked into,’ said the man unwillingly.
‘Perhaps it had. And the Consulate notified.’
‘The German Consulate has been closed,’ said the man triumphantly.
‘But another Consulate will have taken on the job of looking after the interests of German nationals remaining in the country.’
There was an audible sigh.
‘Please continue to keep me informed,’ said Owen.
In the shops at least there were signs that there was a war on. The prices of all imported goods rose sharply. The rise in the price of petrol didn’t affect many people since there were still very few cars in Egypt and only the rich had them. But the rise in the price of paraffin was a different matter. The poor used paraffin for both heating and cooking (wood had been scarce in Egypt for years) and were hard hit.
The rise in the prices of imported goods Owen could understand, but those weren’t the only prices that rose. The cost of flour and sugar went up too and they were things that were produced locally. He had only just seen sugar cane growing in huge quantities down by Minya. He couldn’t understand it and nor could the ordinary Egyptian. The newspapers were full of complaints and charges of profiteering.
They were talking about this one evening in the Officers’ Mess at the Abbassiya Barracks. The regiment was leaving for Europe the following day and Owen had been invited for a farewell drink.
‘It’ll mean problems for you,’ said his friend, John, one of the Sirdar’s ADCs and someone who had been a useful contact at Army Headquarters.
‘Why him?’ asked one of the other officers.
‘Because the man in the street will become restive, and he’s the one who will have to keep order when we’ve gone.’
‘Thank you for pointing that out,’ said Owen. ‘However, in one way things should become easier: there’ll be fewer drunken soldiers around.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said someone, laughing, ‘but the Australians will be here instead. Or so the rumour goes. You might do better to come with us.’
There was a general laugh.
‘Where do you stand, actually, Gareth?’ asked John curiously. ‘You’re on secondment, aren’t you?’
Owen had served with the British Army in India before coming to Egypt.
‘It started as secondment,’ said Owen, ‘but then I applied for a transfer. And after that it became permanent.’
‘So, strictly speaking, you’re a civilian now?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes, but with your experience –’ said John.
‘You were up on the North West Frontier, weren’t you?’ asked one of the other officers.
‘For a while, yes.’
‘Just the sort of man we need.’
The thought had occurred to Owen, too.
The Parquet official had obviously taken heed of Owen’s observation – perhaps it was the mention of the Consulate that had done it – for in the mail the next morning was a copy of the letter he had sent to the mamur at Minya. It asked him to supply further details of the ‘incident’ in the cat cemetery. In particular, it asked for details of any damage to the site – a thrust at Owen, this? – but also the cause of death.
McPhee’s mind, too, seemed to have been on the cat cemetery that morning – possibly because he and Owen were on their way to intern some other unfortunates – for, as they were passing the House of the Kadi, just after noon, he glanced at his watch and said:
‘Shall we go in? And have a look at the cats?’
‘Cats?’ said Owen.
‘Yes. They bring the offal just about now.’
They went through an ancient ornamental gateway into a beautiful old enclosed courtyard. Sure enough, a servant was just emerging from the Chief Justice’s house carrying a large bowl. He threw the contents on the ground and at once dozens of cats emerged from all corners of the courtyard and began to tuck in.
‘It used to be a garden,’ said McPhee. ‘The Sultan Baybars set it aside specifically for the use of cats. Over the centuries the garden was built on, but the custom of feeding the cats has survived. Only now, it’s the Kadi that does it.’
‘The Kadi feeds the cats?’
‘That’s right. I think the Prophet was fond of cats, or perhaps he said he was, once.’
They turned back and through the gateway.
‘I know this is Muslim,’ said McPhee, ‘but am I fanciful, do you think, to see a continuity from that cemetery in Minya? That was Pharaonic, of course, but often later practice has its roots in some earlier custom, and it would not be surprising. What do you think?’
Owen had absolutely no opinion on this at all and they continued on their way up the Darb el Asfar.
They had almost reached the Bab-el-Foutouh when McPhee said:
‘You know, Owen, about that business at Minya: there are a lot of things that trouble me. That poor woman, of course, and how she landed up there. Horrible! Just think of how her husband must feel! And then those brigands. You really would have thought that the local police would have eliminated them by now. And then those shots! Surely, arming the local ghaffirs is not a sensible way of dealing with such problems. I really do feel you should speak to someone.’
‘I have.’
He told McPhee about his conversation with McKitterick.
McPhee listened intently.
‘Have I understood you correctly, Owen? The ghaffirs are being issued with new service rifles, brought together and trained to operate as some kind of independent force?’
‘An independent army, I called it.’
‘But under whose command?’
‘The Ministry’s, apparently.’
‘Owen, I find this rather disquieting. Does the Sirdar know? What does he, as Commander-in-Chief of the Army in Egypt, think of another army operating independently in the country?’
‘Well, it’s not quite like –’
‘And under foreign command, too?’
‘Well, hardly foreign. It’s the Ministry –’
‘But, Owen, you know as well as I do what the political situation is like here. Sadly, not everyone is on our side. There are some here – politicians –’ McPhee spoke the word with disdain, ‘who question the relevance of the war from an Egyptian point of view. Is the Minister among them?’
‘Well, I really don’t know –’
‘But, Owen, it is important to know. Where does he stand? Could he be playing his own game?’
‘Look, he’s got McKitterick right by his side –’
Every Minister had an English ‘adviser’ alongside him. It was one of the ways in which the British made sure that the Government was going in the right direction.
‘But, Owen, he could be pulling the wool over McKitterick’s eyes!’
‘McKitterick’s not daft.’
Although, come to think of it, this new policy with respect to the ghaffirs was not very bright.
McPhee tut-tutted impatiently.
‘Owen, where did the idea