he?’
‘Well, he was. Or seemed to be. And then suddenly he was always going out. Especially at lunch-time. Mind you,’ said Abdul Latif loyally, ‘it wasn’t the way Musa says it was. He didn’t go out every day. And he certainly didn’t go at half past eleven!’
‘Popping out for some coffee? You surprise me, with such excellent—’ Owen took another sip.
‘No, no, no. And it wasn’t drink, either, despite what Musa says. No, it was business. He used to have these lunches. And I know it was business because once he forgot to take some papers with him and he sent back for me to bring them to him.’
‘He was in a café, was he?’
‘Yes, effendi. But it was not one of your ordinary cafés, such as you or I might go to, or, perhaps, you might go to. It was a place where rich men of business go and talk about important things.’
‘Really? Do I know it, I wonder?’
‘It is in the Sharia es Shakhain, not far from here.’
‘I think I know it. But are there not several restaurants in that street?’
‘I don’t remember. But this was one is where Greeks go.’
‘Ah!’
‘Very splendid it was. There was an orderly at the door in a beautiful uniform, and he said: “This is not the place for one like you.” And I said: “I have some papers for Fingari effendi.” And he said: “Give them to me.” And I said: “No, for I was told to put them into my master’s hand.” So he let me in and I saw that it was sumptuous.’
‘Did you see the people he was with?’
‘I did not mark them, effendi. I—I was overcome.’
‘Nevertheless, they couldn’t have done their business without you,’ Owen pointed out.
‘True,’ said Abdul Latif, struck. ‘True.’
‘And, plainly, it was as you say and not as Musa says: business was being done.’
‘Musa is like a pair of bellows,’ said Abdul Latif. ‘All wind.’ He picked up the tray and balanced it one-handed while with the other he dabbed at a spot on the desk and straightened out the pen-box.
‘You are a man of method, Abdul Latif,’ said Owen, watching him, ‘and therefore I am surprised that you cannot tell me when the diary went missing. You dusted the papers every day. Did you not dust the diary, too?’
‘Yes, effendi, I did,’ said Abdul Latif. ‘It was there on the desk. Until the Parquet came.’
Owen took Zeinab to the restaurant for lunch. She was quite pleased about this as she had spent the morning in the Ismailiya Quarter shopping.
‘Greek would be all right,’ she said, ‘as long as it’s not full of boring businessmen.’
It was full of boring businessmen but by this time, having traipsed around the Ismailiya all morning and then having come by stuffy arabeah to the Sharia es Sakhaim, she was prepared to settle.
She was the only woman in the restaurant. Even in the modern European quarters it was rare for women to mix with men in public. In advanced upper-class circles, where the culture was heavily French, it was increasingly common for them to appear at private parties. But that was at home and among friends. It was the exceptional woman, or the foreigner, who dared risk opprobrium by appearing in public.
Zeinab was quite prepared to play the foreigner when it suited her. Speaking French as naturally as she spoke Arabic, thinking French, and accompanied by someone who was manifestly foreign, she found this easy; and quite relished the assertion of her independence.
Even so, in deference to local susceptibilities, she dressed in black and wore a veil, although her attire owed more to Paris than it did to Islam. Like many upper-class Cairene women, she conceded as little as she could to local fashion and tilted as much as she dared in the direction of Paris, from where she acquired the majority of her dresses, at prices which made Owen flinch.
He flinched now when she showed him her spoils of the morning. Not that he had to pay for them; Zeinab received an allowance from her bewildered father, a
‘Well, he was. Or seemed to be. And then suddenly he was always going out. Especially at lunch-time. Mind you,’ said Abdul Latif loyally, ‘it wasn’t the way Musa says it was. He didn’t go out every day. And he certainly didn’t go at half past eleven!’
‘Popping out for some coffee? You surprise me, with such excellent—’ Owen took another sip.
‘No, no, no. And it wasn’t drink, either, despite what Musa says. No, it was business. He used to have these lunches. And I know it was business because once he forgot to take some papers with him and he sent back for me to bring them to him.’
‘He was in a café, was he?’
‘Yes, effendi. But it was not one of your ordinary cafés, such as you or I might go to, or, perhaps, you might go to. It was a place where rich men of business go and talk about important things.’
‘Really? Do I know it, I wonder?’
‘It is in the Sharia es Shakhain, not far from here.’
‘I think I know it. But are there not several restaurants in that street?’
‘I don’t remember. But this was one is where Greeks go.’
‘Ah!’
‘Very splendid it was. There was an orderly at the door in a beautiful uniform, and he said: “This is not the place for one like you.” And I said: “I have some papers for Fingari effendi.” And he said: “Give them to me.” And I said: “No, for I was told to put them into my master’s hand.” So he let me in and I saw that it was sumptuous.’
‘Did you see the people he was with?’
‘I did not mark them, effendi. I—I was overcome.’
‘Nevertheless, they couldn’t have done their business without you,’ Owen pointed out.
‘True,’ said Abdul Latif, struck. ‘True.’
‘And, plainly, it was as you say and not as Musa says: business was being done.’
‘Musa is like a pair of bellows,’ said Abdul Latif. ‘All wind.’ He picked up the tray and balanced it one-handed while with the other he dabbed at a spot on the desk and straightened out the pen-box.
‘You are a man of method, Abdul Latif,’ said Owen, watching him, ‘and therefore I am surprised that you cannot tell me when the diary went missing. You dusted the papers every day. Did you not dust the diary, too?’
‘Yes, effendi, I did,’ said Abdul Latif. ‘It was there on the desk. Until the Parquet came.’
Owen took Zeinab to the restaurant for lunch. She was quite pleased about this as she had spent the morning in the Ismailiya Quarter shopping.
‘Greek would be all right,’ she said, ‘as long as it’s not full of boring businessmen.’
It was full of boring businessmen but by this time, having traipsed around the Ismailiya all morning and then having come by stuffy arabeah to the Sharia es Sakhaim, she was prepared to settle.
She was the only woman in the restaurant. Even in the modern European quarters it was rare for women to mix with men in public. In advanced upper-class circles, where the culture was heavily French, it was increasingly common for them to appear at private parties. But that was at home and among friends. It was the exceptional woman, or the foreigner, who dared risk opprobrium by appearing in public.
Zeinab was quite prepared to play the foreigner when it suited her. Speaking French as naturally as she spoke Arabic, thinking French, and accompanied by someone who was manifestly foreign, she found this easy; and quite relished the assertion of her independence.
Even so, in deference to local susceptibilities, she dressed in black and wore a veil, although her attire owed more to Paris than it did to Islam. Like many upper-class Cairene women, she conceded as little as she could to local fashion and tilted as much as she dared in the direction of Paris, from where she acquired the majority of her dresses, at prices which made Owen flinch.
He flinched now when she showed him her spoils of the morning. Not that he had to pay for them; Zeinab received an allowance from her bewildered father, a
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