The Mamur Zapt and the Men Behind. Michael Pearce

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      ‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘you’ll need to. Your friend won’t.’

      Roper had been drinking three or possibly four to Owen’s one. Owen was counting on him lapsing into insensibility before long. That was the only prospect he could see of the evening ending.

      ‘Where are you from, love?’ inquired the girl.

      ‘Caerphilly.’

      ‘Oh.’ The girl was plainly disappointed. ‘I thought for a moment you came from near me.’

      ‘Tyneside?’

      ‘Durham.’

      ‘The accents can be a bit similar.’

      The plump girl brought Roper back.

      ‘That was all right,’ he said to Owen.

      ‘A last drink.’

      ‘Hell, no, man. Haven’t started.’

      The dancing began again. This time the second girl was on stage. She was less expert than the plump girl but by this time, no doubt, distinctions were escaping Roper. The café as a whole, mostly Arab, favoured plumpness and the applause was muted. Disappointed, the girl came towards Roper. The two went off together.

      Owen was fed up. He was one of those people who wake very early in the morning and had been up since five. Conversely, he always fell asleep early in the evening. Or would if he could.

      He felt a light touch on his arm. It was a gipsy girl.

      ‘I saw you at the Citadel,’ she said.

      ‘What are you doing over here?’

      ‘Business is better.’

      Owen felt his pockets. The girl laughed.

      ‘You’re safe,’ she said. However, as she kept her hand on his arm he took the precaution of transferring his wallet to the button-down pocket of his shirt.

      The girl laughed again.

      ‘That wouldn’t stop me,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you just give me some?’

      ‘Would you content yourself with that?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Owen gave her some money.

      ‘Thank you.’ She looked around. ‘They’re all busy,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay here and talk to you for a moment.’

      The gipsies worked in gangs. Unusually in this Muslim country they used both men and women. The women distracted attention while the men slipped round. Of course, the women were quite capable of picking a pocket themselves.

      ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Soraya. Would you like to come with me?’

      Owen shook his head regretfully.

      ‘It would be nice,’ he said. The Ghawazi girls were noted for their accomplishments. They were without exception strikingly pretty, with thin aquiline faces, long black hair and dark lustrous eyes. They did not wear veils. And what aroused Arab men almost beyond endurance was a general sauciness, a boldness which was almost totally at odds with the self-subjection normally required of Muslim women.

      ‘I’m with someone,’ he explained.

      ‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘I saw him. He did not like the dancing at the Citadel.’

      ‘He is a stranger here. He does not know.’

      ‘You are not like him.’

      ‘I hope not.’

      He tried out a few words of Egyptian Romany on her. She looked at him in surprise.

      ‘You speak our tongue?’

      ‘A little.’

      The language spoken by the Egyptian gipsy was not pure Romany. Much of it consisted of Arabic so distorted as to be unintelligible to the native Egyptian. Some of the words, however, were of Persian or Hindustani origin, and this interested Owen, who had served in India before coming to Egypt.

      He told her this.

      ‘I am a Halabi,’ she said, meaning that she was one of the gipsies who claimed Aleppo in Syria as their place of origin.

      ‘Have you been there?’

      ‘No.’

      Roper returned, weaving his way unsteadily through the tables.

      ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Who have you got there?’

      ‘Her name is Soraya.’

      ‘How about coming upstairs with me?’ he said.

      Soraya considered.

      ‘I would prefer to go with you,’ she said to Owen.

      ‘You can bloody come with me,’ said Roper.

      He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes.

      ‘Here!’ he said. ‘Do you want some of these?’

      Soraya’s eyes glistened.

      ‘No knives!’ warned Owen.

      ‘Just keep out of it,’ said Roper. He grabbed the girl by the arm.

      She pulled a knife out of her sleeve and slashed him across the hand. Roper swore and let go of her arm. She snatched the bank-notes, ducked under his arm and was gone.

      ‘What the hell!’ said Roper, dazed.

      He sat down heavily in his chair and looked at his hand. A film of blood spread slowly back to his wrist.

      ‘Well, damn me!’ he said.

      ‘Want a handkerchief?’ said Owen.

      ‘What do you think I am?’ said Roper. ‘Some kind of pansy?’

      ‘To tie it up,’ said Owen, ‘so that the blood doesn’t get on your suit.’

      Roper swore again.

      ‘She a friend of yours?’ he said to Owen.

      ‘Not until now.’

      Roper went on looking in dazed fashion at his hand. Suddenly he thumped on the table.

      ‘Drink!’ he said. ‘Drink!’

      The waiter brought him a whisky, which he downed in one.

      ‘That’s better!’ he СКАЧАТЬ