The Night of the Dog (17 page)

“I agree with all that,” said Owen. “But.”

“But what?”

“Remember what Nikos said: apply the analysis not to the Moslems but to the Copts. Not Osman, but Osman plus money. Not Andrus, but Andrus plus money. Where does it come from?”

“Sympathizers. There are a lot of Copts who agree with him. They’re subscribing.”

“Using the bank as a collecting point? Well, you might be right. But I’m sticking with the analysis.”

“Test it out,” Georgiades invited. “Talk to him.”

“Andrus? I might just do that.”

“After all,” said Georgiades, “you’ve got an excuse.”

“What?”

“Zoser. He talked to Zoser the night before the killing. Remember?”

Mahmoud leaned forward in his chair. Since it was ostensibly in connection with the Zoser case, it was his business, and they met in his office.

“So on that night,” he said, “the night before the Zikr was killed, you talked only about the money she was to give out?”

“Why do you ask me these questions?” asked Andrus. “What have I to do with the Zikr?”

“You talked only about the money she was to give out?”

“Yes. As I said.”

“Did you have any money with you?”

“No. It is best not to carry money in Cairo at night. She was to collect it from the church house in the morning.”

“Where you would give it her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give it her?”

“Of course.”

“Personally?”

“Yes. I was there when she came.”

“You are there a lot,” said Owen, “these days.”

It was the first time he had spoken. Andrus gave him a hostile look.

“Yes. I am. The church has a considerable charity programme which I administer. There is nothing wrong with that, surely?”

“Not with that, no.”

“You talked that night about the people she was to give the money to,” said Mahmoud. “Their names?”

“Their names?”

“Yes. Could you tell me the names, please.”

“Why should I tell you their names? What business is it of yours?”

“I need to know them.”

“I forget them.”

Mahmoud sighed and made a note with his pencil. He would check the names with the woman. If there were any names.

“You talked with the woman,” he said. “Did you also talk with her husband?”

“With Zoser?”

“Yes, Zoser.”

“Whom you killed,” said Andrus, looking at Owen.

“He killed himself. And someone else.”

Andrus looked as if he was going to say something, then changed his mind.

“Answer my question!” said Mahmoud.

Andrus looked at him with undisguised fury. Owen suddenly remembered that Mahmoud was a Moslem.

“Of course I talked to him,” said Andrus.

“What about?”

“How can I remember?”

“Did you talk to him about what happened at your father’s tomb?”

“I may have done. I do not know.”

“And what was his response?”

Andrus did not reply. He seemed to be looking into space. Perhaps it was the reference to his father’s tomb. Owen suddenly felt unexpectedly sorry for him. It came home to him for the first time that what had seemed to him a trivial event, a stupid joke, was something genuinely much bigger to Andrus. It had touched him on a raw spot. That harsh, unaccommodating man had clearly loved his father, perhaps had loved him alone. Owen felt a twinge of pity.

“And what was his response?” Mahmoud prompted softly.

Andrus came back from space and looked at him bitterly.

“I do not know why I should tell you,” he said. “However, I will tell you. He was shocked and horrified. He felt for me as would anyone of a right mind. And then he was angry. That this should happen to one he knew and an elder of the church. At first he could not comprehend it. But then he realized. This blow was not aimed at me but at the Church. It was struck not at the weak man who suffered it but at the strong God who was the man’s master. And he said to himself: ‘That man is weak indeed who lets his master suffer such an insult. We looked for redress from the Mamur Zapt and received none. But that was right. We were wrong to look for redress from others when we should be taking the wrong done to our master upon ourselves.’ That was Zoser’s response.”

“That was what you told him,” said Owen.

“That was what he said,” said Andrus.

And almost certainly believed it. When he had finished he sat glaring at them in defiance and pride. Owen could believe that he had poured out all the wound and hurt that was in his heart when he spoke to Zoser. And he could believe that although Zoser might not have said these things he had actually felt them. And if he had felt them, might have done something about them.

Had Andrus intended that Zoser should do something about them?

“You told him these things,” said Owen, “in order to inflame him.”

“I did not.”

“You killed Zoser,” said Owen. “Not I.”

For the barest second Andrus seemed to flinch. Then the moment passed and the certainty returned.

“God is great,” said Andrus, “and will not desert his servant.”

“There is a law of man, too,” said Mahmoud, “and that too must be obeyed.”

He probed on, and Owen was glad, for it gave him time to think. He needed to think, because although he was sure that Andrus had been speaking the truth, and that he had not deliberately incited Zoser to kill, he still felt puzzled. If everything he had projected onto Zoser was true, or a true picture of his own feelings, why had he not taken the action upon himself?

As Mahmoud continued with his patient questions, and Andrus continued with his impatient replies, an answer began to come to him. Andrus, for all his faults, was, politics aside (and no Egyptian would accept that politics had anything to do with morality), a moral man. He would not kill. On the other hand, his wound went so deep and he was such a vengeful man that he had wanted his wounder dead. When he had spoken to Zoser something of this had come across, perhaps not consciously but perhaps not completely unconsciously either. He had said it speaking what he believed to be truth and justice, said it and left it. If Zoser picked it up, then that was God’s will. If Zoser did not pick it up, then that was God’s will. There had been an act but he, Andrus, had not acted. He had done nothing inconsistent with his morality.

Listening to Andrus now, Owen felt again his immense moral rigidity. He had to have absolute certainty. There was no room for doubt, least of all self-doubt. Mahmoud’s barbs, and there were plenty of them now, for Mahmoud was getting irritated, bounced off his massive self-assurance like wooden arrows off a rock of granite.

If they were going to get anywhere with Andrus, not on the Zoser business, Owen was satisfied about that, but on the other, then that granite surface must be undermined. Somehow or other they had to get beneath the certainty and feed the seeds of doubt.

“Tell me, Andrus,” said Owen, “why do you spend all day and every day at the church house?”

“I am doing God’s work,” said Andrus, caught rather off guard.

“Are you sure that God would own it?”

There was a little silence.

“Why should he not own it?”

Owen did not reply, merely waited.

“God loves charity,” said Andrus, with slightly less than his usual self-assurance.

“No doubt, but what is that to do with what you are doing?”

“What are you accusing me of? Why don’t you speak out?” Andrus began to grow angry. “Do you think I am frightened of you?”

Owen took no notice.

“You are spending a lot of time there,” he said almost conversationally. “Have you given up your business?”

“My business is no concern of yours.”

“I thought you might have given it up. You spend so much time at the church house.”

“Have you been spying on me?”

“I would have thought you needed the money.”

“My business is doing well,” said Andrus, “and I have no need of money.”

“For what you are doing at the church house, I mean,” Owen explained.

“I give to charity what I can afford.”

“Yes, but the other things.”

“What other things?”

“The other things you do at the church house.”

“I do not know what you mean,” said Andrus. “I do God’s work.”

“Oh no. God is a god of peace.”

Andrus was brought up short. After a moment he said to Owen:

“You are mistaken. He is a god of war. Ask him.” He pointed to Mahmoud. “He is a Moslem and will tell you.”

Mahmoud looked uncomfortable.

“God is a god of neither peace nor war,” he said. “It is man who makes war and man who makes peace.”

Andrus stood up.

“Are you going to take me?” he said to Owen.

“Perhaps.”

“I am not frightened of you.”

“Why should you be,” asked Owen, “when all you will get is justice?”

“Your justice.”

“Egyptian justice.”

“Does a Copt ever get justice,” asked Andrus, “in Egypt?” He turned impatiently towards the door. “Come! Take me!”

“Sit down!”

If he took Andrus now it would be no good. The Copts would merely regroup without him. And Andrus would be untouched, impregnable behind his rigid simplicities. His world was still certain.

“Why do the British hate the Copts?” asked Andrus.

“We do not hate the Copts. We are neutral between Copts and Moslems.”

“How can a Christian be a Christian and be neutral?”

“We are all servants of the Khedive,” said Owen, correct in form if not in substance, “British as well as Copt, Copt as well as Moslem.”

“I do not understand,” said Andrus, “how a Christian can voluntarily choose to serve a Moslem.”

“Many do,” Owen pointed out, “including many Copts.”

For some reason this seemed to irritate Andrus particularly.

“They are traitors!” he said passionately. “They are traitors to the Coptic cause.”

“To try to provide good government to the people of Egypt is hardly to be a traitor.”

“The people of Egypt! Who are the people of Egypt? We are. The Copts. And for two thousand years we have had a government not our own. And why is that? Because we Copts have let others govern us. We have even helped them to govern. We have worked with the Government when we should have been working against it. For two thousand years we have done that. And for two thousand years every government has been that of an invader.”

Where had he heard that before?

“You are a Moslem,” Andrus said to Mahmoud, “and you are an invader. You are invaders too,” he said to Owen, “but you are Christian. When the British came we thought that they would lift the Moslem yoke from off our backs. But Christian turned against Christian. They supported the Moslems instead of sweeping them away.”

The moment of doubt, if there had been one, had gone. Andrus was back in his old self-confident stride. He would go to prison, if he had to go to prison, convinced of his rightness, proud of his martyrdom.

It was time to move in.

“Andrus,” said Owen, “you surprise me. You hate the Moslems. Why then do you support them?”

Andrus stopped.

“Support them?”

“Yes. Against your own people, too.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Andrus declared flatly.

“Sheikh Osman. You give him money.”

“Nonsense!”

“All the money that Sheikh Osman has used in the past few weeks in his war against the Copts is money that you have given him.”

“Nonsense!” said Andrus. “I have given him no money. How would I give him money? You invent these things to trick me.”

“Every week,” said Owen, “every Friday, you take money to Mordecai.”

“Well,” said Andrus, “what of it?”

“Which he gives to Osman.”

“That is just a lie,” said Andrus. “Why do you bother with such tricks?”

“I will bring Mordecai to you if you wish, and he will confirm what I say.”

“You have told him what to say.”

“I will show you the evidence that Osman goes to him every Friday and comes away with the money you have given him.”

“But—but this cannot be.”

“All the money that has been used against the Copts has been supplied by you. And you talk of traitors!”

“Mordecai is the traitor. How dare he do this thing?”

“He does only what he has been told.”

“The money was brought for another purpose.”

“What purpose, Andrus?”

Andrus was silent.

“You brought the money, Andrus, and gave it to Mordecai to be used against the Copts. Against your own people. Why did you do that, Andrus?”

“I did not bring it for that purpose,” said Andrus hoarsely. “Mordecai has tricked me.”

“Not Mordecai. It is not Mordecai who has tricked you. Mordecai has only carried out instructions. Whose instructions were they, Andrus? If they were not yours, whose were they?” Andrus would not reply.

The Mamur Zapt sat in his office, thinking. Nikos started to come into the room, stopped and withdrew unobserved. No one after that was allowed past the office. The bearers sensed the situation and stayed quietly in their office at the other end of the corridor. They were in any case somewhat subdued by Yussuf’s misfortunes. A sympathetic peace descended on the corridor.

In fact, Owen was thinking mostly about Zeinab. Since their visit to the opera relations between them had been distinctly cool, and Owen was feeling the effects of being deprived. He had decided that it was time to think things through and settle them once and for all, but whenever he started thinking about Zeinab thoughts became memories of touch and smell and look and emotion and he became most unsettled. He had to admit, too, that a certain drama had gone out of his life. He considered himself on the whole a pretty steady person, but the trouble with steadiness was that it could very easily become the humdrum. Zeinab, whatever else she might be, was definitely not humdrum. She had all an Arab’s volatility, added to which was an emphatic unpredictability which was all her own. Too strong-willed and forceful to remain easily in any slot into which a male-oriented Moslem society might force her, regarding marriage, certainly to a Moslem, as the ultimate form of prison, conducting life as a ceaseless battle for Home Rule and Independence, she sometimes found things too much for her and plunged into pits of despair, from which she would spring out again almost immediately with a soar and a vehemence which left Owen dazzled. He loved her both when she was cast down and when she was leaping up, and also in between when she was normal, although as far as Zeinab was concerned normality was a flexible concept. However, “love” was, for Owen, a strong word and one which needed thinking about. Particularly in view of Paul’s remarks and what he had said about Jane Postlethwaite.

Paul’s remarks first. There was no need for him to get married yet. Paul’s views notwithstanding, he was not old. On the other hand, Owen was uncomfortably aware, a lot of men were married. Especially senior men. You could safely disregard Paul’s opinion that marriage was a prerequisite of life at the top, because Owen could think of notable exceptions, Kitchener included. Yet there was no doubt that it helped. You fitted more snugly into society, especially, the tight little society around the Consul-General, if you were married and could take your wife along to dinner parties with you, instead of forever having to be fixed up with a stray aunt or somebody. Owen did not think of himself as ambitious. He had left India for Egypt because he wanted to get out, not up. He loved his work as Mamur Zapt. It was still new to him and he wanted to go on doing it. But there might come a time, there was no denying it, when he might have had enough, and then if he wanted to move it would have to be up. But what to? That opened up whole chains of other thoughts which he put resolutely away. He had enough to think about as it was.

But the thought of possible other careers brought him to Jane Postlethwaite. There was no doubt that she would be an asset. Certainly her uncle would. An influential politician would command patronage, although one didn’t like to think of it like that. Jane’s husband would find ways smoothed for him, things open to him. Paul was acute on such matters. Marrying Jane Postlethwaite would be good for his career.

But what about Jane herself? She had a mind of her own and what she wanted would in the end decide what was done. She might well reject him out of hand. It would be a very sensible thing to do and Jane Postlethwaite was a sensible girl. On the other hand, now he thought about it—that was one of the advantages of taking time out to think things through— there had been occasions when she had looked at him in a special way which made him think that she might not reject him.

However, evade and evade as he might, in the end he had to come to it: did he love Jane Postlethwaite? Enough to marry her? No, not enough to marry her, that was not it. Love her, full stop. Well, “love” was a strong word, etc., etc. Christ, he was going round in circles.

He needed some coffee.

That was another problem. He had to do something about Yussuf. Yussuf had been put in the cells to cool off and Owen had not long before been down to see him. Yussuf had been quite inconsolable.

“I have shamed the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “Release me from your service! I am not worthy.”

As Owen had not appointed Yussuf to his service in the first place but Yussuf had appointed himself, this seemed beside the point. However, he seemed suitably penitent, so Owen left him there while he tried to work out what to do with him.

On his way back from the cells one of the bearers had intercepted him. Yussuf’s ex-wife had come to the police station and would not go away. When Owen went out to see her she was squatting in the dust of the yard, her head covered, rocking to and fro in grief.

“My man is in prison, aiee-e,” she wailed.

“Be quiet, woman!” said one of the bearers. “You have caused enough trouble.”

“Aiee-e,” wailed the woman. “My husband has wronged the Mamur Zapt. He was bearer to the Mamur Zapt and forgot his place because of his foolish wife.”

Well, that’s something, at any rate, thought Owen. If Fatima was prepared to admit her foolishness something might yet be saved from the wreckage.

“Have mercy, effendi!” cried the woman, rocking to and fro.

“Have mercy and free this foolish man because of his foolish wife.”

The bearers looked embarrassed and tried to get her to go. The woman shrugged off their hands and remained sitting where she was.

“Have mercy, effendi.”

“I might have mercy,” said Owen, “if I thought there was any point in it.”

The woman stopped wailing.

“Why should there be no point in it, effendi?” she asked quietly, in a perfectly normal voice.

“Because his heart would still be troubled.”

“He loves me,” said the woman, slightly with surprise, slightly with satisfaction.

“He loves you and wants you back. Will you not return to him?”

The woman dropped the fold from her face and looked up at him seriously.

“I would, effendi,” she said, troubled. “Suleiman is a pig. All he wants is harem business. He keeps on all the time. A little, I don’t mind. It’s good for a woman. But this pig thinks of nothing else.”

“Yussuf is a good man,” said Owen. “He has his faults, but he is a good man.”

“A woman could do worse,” Fatima conceded, “as I have found, unfortunately.”

“Besides,” said Owen, “he might have learnt his lesson.”

The woman looked up at him. There was a glint in her eye.

“I think he might, effendi,” she said.

“Then what is to be done?”

“Suleiman will not agree to a divorce,” Fatima said, “unless you give him money. A lot of money. He thinks that because you are a good master you will want Yussuf to be happy and so will pay a lot.”

“She isn’t worth it,” said one of the bearers firmly.

“Do not let yourself be beguiled, effendi,” said another of the bearers. “Yussuf will be better off without her.”

“Suleiman will tire of her,” said another, “when he has had his fill.”

“The Mamur Zapt has more wisdom than you,” the woman retorted with spirit.

“I will think about this,” Owen had said.

And thinking was what he was doing, without success.

The trouble at the bottom was money. That was another thing he had to think about. The Curbash Compensation Fund was completely exhausted. He couldn’t pay for Yussuf. He couldn’t pay his agents. And he certainly couldn’t manage any of the substantial bribes on which the Mamur Zapt’s day-to-day management of the city depended. What was he to do? Even if he survived the present crisis with its unusually heavy demands on resources, there were still a few weeks to go before he received his allocation for the next year. He would have to cut back just when spending might be most needed. There was, after all, the Moulid coming up. He would have to pay for the policing of that out of this year’s money. With what?

If only John Postlethwaite would go away things could return to normal and he might be able to get some money as a special case in view of the emergency and the delicate state of politics. But what with Postlethwaite and the political situation there was absolutely no hope.

But if John Postlethwaite went he would take Jane Postlethwaite with him. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? He was going to be leaving soon anyway so Owen would have to make up his mind about Jane. Oh Christ, there he was going round in a circle again.

Lastly, he thought about Andrus. He thought he understood now about Zoser. There had been no plot. Andrus had gone to Zoser and poured out his heart. Zoser, as rigid as Andrus and far less intelligent, had taken it upon himself to put right the wrong which had been done to his friend and his church. He could have learned who had perpetrated the deed either from Andrus or through the ordinary gossip of the bazaars. And once he had learned, for the uncomplicated Zoser there would have been no gap between decision and action.

Zoser, poor man, had seen to his own punishment. Andrus’s was still to come.

Over the killing of the Zikr, Andrus, though not blameless, was probably not very guilty. On the other matter, however, inciting unrest in the city which had already led to trouble between Moslem and Copt and might still lead to massacre, Andrus was, if not the prime mover, then definitely a prime mover, and for that he must be made to pay.

But that was not what Owen was thinking about. Nor was he thinking about who really was the prime mover, for he thought he knew that already. All he was waiting for was confirmation.

No, the problem which really preoccupied him, which he kept returning to from one direction after another, and one in which he never seemed to make headway, was how to use the information he had to bring the conflict between Copt and Moslem to an end. It had to be soon, it had to be quick, and so far he had seen no way of achieving it.

Not that he had made much progress on anything else. Even Yussuf, the simplest of the problems. He wished he could speak to Zeinab about it. Zeinab was quite good at that sort of thing. Zeinab—oh God, there he went again.

Yussuf. Well, at least he had learned his lesson. He would never do that again. He was absolutely ashamed of himself. And as Owen reflected on Yussuf, and on the effects of shame, the glimmerings of an idea began to come to him.

He became aware of someone in the room. It was Nikos.

“He has come back,” he said.

“Did he see where Andrus went?”

“Yes.”

After the interview Andrus, much to his surprise, had been released; but when he left Mahmoud’s office one of Owen’s agents had followed on behind him.

“Who did he go to?”

“Sesostris,” said Nikos. “As you expected.”

“What do you want?” said Andrus.

“I want you to withdraw all your people from the streets, to send them home and to tell them to stay at home, until at least after the Moulid. You are to instruct them not to respond to Moslem provocation. There won’t be any after tomorrow, but if there is they are not to respond to it. They are to take special pains not to offend Moslem susceptibilities. Above all, they are not to use any violence. If they do, I expect you to tell me their names and I will deal with them.”

Andrus laughed incredulously.

“Is that all you want?” he demanded. “You must be mad.”

“It’s not quite all,” said Owen, “but it will do for a start.”

“If you think I’m going to do any of these things,” said Andrus, “let alone all of them, you must be crazy.”

“I think not.”

“Well, I’m not going to do them. Not any of them.”

“Oh, but you are.”

“If you think you can frighten me,” said Andrus, “you are mistaken.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what makes you think I am going to do them?”

“Because if you don’t,” said Owen, “I shall let it be generally known that Andrus has been giving money to the Moslems for them to use against Copts.”

“No one would believe you,” said Andrus, but his face went pale.

“Won’t they? Even when they hear the evidence?”

“They will believe it to be a trick.”

“Even when they hear the evidence? Mordecai?”

“Mordecai would never dare.”

“Mordecai has already agreed.”

“But—but it wasn’t like that.”

“Will anyone believe you? Anyone?”

Andrus licked his lips.

“I cannot,” he whispered. “I cannot.”

“You can,” said Owen, “and will.”

“Take me to prison.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“If I take you to prison,” said Owen, “people will say: ‘There goes Andrus, the enemy of the Moslems.’ But you are not their enemy. You are their friend. You give money to them to use against Copts. Therefore go free.”

Andrus looked at him, stunned. He sat like that for a long time. Then he buried his face in his hands.

“Very well,” he said in a choked voice. “Very well. I will do it.”

He stood up and almost tottered. He had suddenly aged.

“That is not all,” said Owen.

“Not all?”

Andrus seemed totally bewildered. His hands trembled.

“Sit down.”

It was as if Andrus’s legs had given way under him.

“What more do you want?” he whispered.

“You are to send a message to Sesostris. You are to tell him that you have to see him urgently. You will tell him that it must be in secret and that it is very, very important. And then you will tell him to come to a place that I will tell you of and at a time that I will tell you. And there you will meet him and say what I tell you.”

As realization dawned, Andrus blanched.

“I cannot,” he said. “You ask too much.”

“Think of this,” said Owen, “as payment. Payment for the two men who died because of you and the many who might have died.”

“I cannot. I would be ashamed.”

“If you do not, the shame will be not just on you but on your father’s house. ‘There is Andrus,’ they will say, ‘the man who gave money to the Moslems to use against the Copts.’ ”

Andrus buried his face in his hands again.