The Fig Tree Murder. Michael Pearce

Чтение книги онлайн.

       2

      The Tree was in a bad way. It lay prone on the ground and although it was green at the top it was very brown underneath. Its bark was gnarled and twisted and much gashed where the irreverent, or, possibly, the reverent, had carved their names.

      ‘That’s why I had to put a railing round it,’ explained the man who claimed to be its owner, a Copt named Daniel.

      There was a wooden palisade all round the Tree. It, too, was covered with names.

      ‘It costs ten piastres to put your name on,’ said the Copt.

      ‘Ten piastres!’ said Owen, aghast.

      ‘That includes the hire of a knife,’ said the Copt defensively, brandishing a large blunt-edged instrument.

      ‘But ten piastres!’

      ‘Think, Effendi!’ said the Copt persuasively. ‘Your name bound to a holy relic for perpetuity! That will surely count for something on the Day of Judgement!’

      ‘You don’t think overcharging may also count for something on the Day of Judgement?’

      ‘The Tree has many virtues, Effendi,’ said the Copt, smiling.

      ‘Evidently. But does it not, from what I hear, have vices, too?’

      ‘That is a calumny put about by the Muslims.’

      ‘But is there not some truth in it? For I have heard a man lies dead because of the Tree.’

      ‘That is a story got up by Sheikh Isa. For his own ends.’

      ‘Ah?’

      ‘He wishes to drive me out. So that he can take over custodianship of the Tree himself.’

      ‘But why would he want to do that? If the Tree lacks virtue? And isn’t the Tree a Christian relic rather than a Muslim one?’

      ‘It is a Muslim one too. As for the virtue, that would return if the Tree were in proper hands. Muslim ones. They say.’

      ‘And what do you say?’

      ‘That Sheikh Isa is a greedy old bugger who just wants to get his hands on the cash!’ said the Copt wrathfully.

      ‘The Tree is cursed,’ said Sheikh Isa. ‘Anyone can see that. Otherwise, why would it be lying on its side?’

      ‘Old age?’

      Sheikh Isa brushed this aside.

      ‘The question is: why has it been cursed? And the answer is obvious. The Tree fell down a year ago. At exactly the time,’ said Isa with emphasis, ‘that they began to build this new city.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘Well, it’s plain, isn’t it? God doesn’t want them to build the city. It’s an abomination to him. So he cursed the Tree to show us his anger.’

      ‘Why does he abominate the city?’

      ‘I don’t presume to know God’s mind, but I can make a guess. It’s to be a City of Pleasure. That’s what they say, don’t they? Now God is not against pleasure, but I think his idea of pleasure may well be different from that of the Pashas. Do you think he wants to see such a holy place turned into a Sodom and Gomorrah?’

      ‘Holy place?’

      ‘Not here,’ said Sheikh Isa impatiently. ‘The Birket-el-Hadj.’

      ‘Ah, of course!’

      The Birket-el-Hadj was the traditional rendezvous for the Mecca caravan. It was about three miles north of Matariya.

      ‘Do you think God wants a place like that just where they should be beginning to put their thoughts in order for the Holy Journey?’

      ‘Perhaps not. But, of course, fewer and fewer people are travelling that way now. They prefer to go by train—’

      ‘Train?’ roared Sheikh Isa, almost foaming at the mouth. ‘Go to Mecca by train?’

      ‘Just to the coast—’

      ‘Train?’ shouted Sheikh Isa. ‘They heap abomination upon abomination! Shall we stand idly by when God’s will is set at naught? Has he not sent us a sign that all can read? Does not the Fall of the Tree spell the Fall of the City—?’

      ‘Why don’t you just lock him up?’ said the Belgian uneasily.

      ‘On what grounds?’

      ‘Causing trouble.’

      ‘That’s not an offence.’

      ‘It bloody is in my eyes. Anyway, doesn’t the Mamur Zapt have special powers?’

      ‘He does. But it’s wisest if he uses them sparingly.’

      ‘I reckon it would be pretty wise to nip this thing in the bud. Before it gets out of hand.’

      ‘You don’t lock up religious leaders just like that.’

      ‘Religious leader? He’s a potty old village sheikh. Look, Owen, I just don’t understand you. This is a very important job and we’re behind schedule as it is, we’ve got to push things along. This business of the man on the line cost us a day and a half. And now you come along and tell us there’s a problem about a Tree!’

      ‘I’m just telling you to be careful, that’s all.’

      ‘Well, all right, we’ll be careful. Hey, I’ve got an idea! If that old man is bothered about the Tree falling down, why don’t we just lift it up again? Prop it up with stays? I could send a truck round, we could use a hoist—’

      Matariya, although so near to Cairo, was in many respects a traditional oasis village, half hidden under a mass of palms, banana trees and tamarisks and clustered around an old mosque with crumbling, loop-holed walls and a crazy, tottering minaret. Probably because of the proximity to the gathering place for the Mecca caravan, many of the houses were pilgrims’ houses, their walls brightly decorated with pictures of the journey to Mecca.

      Against one of the houses a many-coloured tabernacle had been erected beneath which old men were СКАЧАТЬ