The Mamur Zapt and the Donkey-Vous. Michael Pearce

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      ‘No, no. None of those things.’

      ‘Then what happened?’

      ‘I do not know,’ said the charmer. ‘I do not know. I was confused.’

      ‘You know all things that happen on the steps,’ said Mahmoud. ‘How is it that you do not know this?’

      ‘I do not see,’ protested the charmer.

      ‘But you hear. What did you hear on the steps this afternoon?’

      ‘I heard nothing.’

      ‘You must have heard something.’

      ‘I could not hear properly,’ protested the charmer. ‘There were people—’

      ‘Was he seized?’

      ‘I do not know. How should I know?’

      ‘Was there a blow? A scuffle, perhaps.’

      ‘I do not know. I was confused.’

      ‘You know all that happens on the steps. You would know this.’

      The snake-charmer was silent for so long that Owen thought the conversation was at an end. Then he spoke.

      ‘I ought to know,’ he said in a troubled voice. ‘I ought to know. But—but I don’t!’

      The donkey-boys were having their evening meal. They were having it on the pavement, the restaurant having come to them, like Mohamet to the mountain, rather than them having gone to the restaurant.

      The restaurant was a circular tray, about a yard and a half across, with rings of bread stuck on nails all round the rim and little blue-and-white china bowls filled with various kinds of sauces and pickles taking up most of the middle, the rest being devoted to unpromising parts of meat hashed up in batter. The donkey-boys in fact usually preferred their own bread, which looked like puffed-up muffins, but liked to stuff it out with pieces of pickle or fry. They offered some to Mahmoud as he squatted beside them.

      ‘Try that!’ they invited. ‘You look as if you could do with a good meal.’

      Mahmoud accepted politely and dipped his bread in some of the pickle.

      ‘You can have some too if you like,’ they said to Owen. ‘That is, unless you’re eating up there.’

      ‘Not for me. That’s for rich people.’

      ‘You must have a piastre or two. You’re English, aren’t you?’

      ‘Welsh,’ said Mahmoud for Owen.

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Pays Galles,’ said a knowledgeable donkey-boy. Many of them were trilingual.

      This sparked off quite a discussion. Several of them had a fair idea of where Wales was but there were a lot of questions about its relation to England.

      ‘They conquered you, did they?’

      ‘It was a long time ago.’

      ‘It’s hard being a subject people,’ they commiserated. ‘We should know! Look at us!’

      ‘The Arabs.’

      ‘The Mamelukes.’

      ‘The Turks.’

      ‘The French.’

      ‘The British.’

      ‘We’ve had a lot of rulers,’ someone said thoughtfully. ‘When’s it going to end?’

      ‘Very soon, if the Nationalists have it their way,’ said someone else.

      That set off a new round of discussion. Most of the donkey-boys were broadly in sympathy with the Nationalist movement but one and all were sceptical about its chances of success.

      ‘They’re the ones with the power,’ said somebody, gesticulating in the direction of the terrace, ‘and they’re not letting it go.’

      ‘They’ve got the guns.’

      ‘And the money.’

      ‘At least we’re getting some of that,’ said someone else.

      ‘You’re doing all right, are you?’ asked Mahmoud.

      ‘Not at the moment we’re not.’

      ‘When the next ship gets in we’ll be all right,’ said someone.

      ‘When a new lot arrive at the hotel,’ one of the donkey-boys explained, ‘the first thing they do is come down to us and have their pictures taken with the donkeys.’

      ‘For which we charge them.’

      ‘It’s better than hiring them out for riding. You don’t tire out the donkeys.’

      ‘Or yourself,’ said someone.

      There was a general laugh.

      ‘The children are best.’

      ‘It’s a bit late in the year for them, though,’ said someone.

      ‘Not too busy, then, today?’ suggested Mahmoud.

      ‘Busy enough,’ they said neutrally. The donkey-boys did not believe in depreciating their craft.

      ‘There’s been a lot of excitement up there today,’ one of them said.

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘They’ve lost someone.’

      All the donkey-boys laughed.

      ‘It’s easy enough for these foreigners to lose themselves in the bazaars,’ said Mahmoud.

      ‘Oh, he didn’t lose himself in the bazaars.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘He lost himself on the terrace.’

      There was a renewed burst of laughter.

      ‘Get away!’

      ‘No, really! There he was, sitting up on the terrace as bold as life, and then the next minute, there he wasn’t!’

      Again they all laughed.

      ‘You’re making this up.’

      ‘No, we’re not. That’s how it was. One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t.’

      ‘He just walked down the steps?’

      ‘Him? That old chap? He couldn’t СКАЧАТЬ