Consul-General had been to introduce modern accounting procedures into the chaotic, and corrupt, system of Egypt’s finances. It was commonly regarded—outside Egypt—as his greatest triumph.
Nikos had taken to the new procedures—they were, after all, bureaucratic procedures—like a duck to water and was jealous in their defence.
‘He needs to be able to have a few more lunches,’ said Owen. ‘It’s important.’
‘Quite right,’ said Georgiades. ‘Rosa’s been cutting down on the food lately. She says I’m overweight.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Nikos. ‘It’s just that if he eats them now, he won’t be able to eat them later.’
‘Hard times,’ said Georgiades, as he followed Owen out of the office, ‘and harder to come. That’s what they all say. You know, I don’t understand this financial stuff at all. What’s gone wrong? We were doing all right, weren’t we?’
‘We were doing too all right, apparently. That seems to be the root of the problem.’
‘I’m a child in these things,’ Georgiades confided. ‘Rosa does all the sums in our household. What a head that girl has got! It comes from the old woman, you know, her grandmother. Sharp as a knife! Looks after it all. I stay right out of it.’
‘A good thing you married her,’ said Owen.
‘
He
married
her
?’ said Nikos from his desk. ‘
She
married
him
.’
Barclay was as good as his word and showed Owen round the Derb Aiah district. It was a warren of narrow, mediæval streets to the north of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens, lying between the newer European quarter to the west and the Old City to the east.
At first sight it was unpromising since it seemed to be an area of
rabas
, tenements consisting of one or two sleeping-or living-rooms, a kitchen and latrine (but not a bathroom; you went outside to wash). Many of them were built above shops.
They were easy to pick out because they tended to be built at an angle to the street; that is, instead of there being a flat wall above the shop, there was a sort of triangular street corner with windows looking both ways, windows without glass, of course, just fretted woodwork which gave passage to the air and allowed the women inside to observe without being observed. In Cairo you always felt as if you were being watched; and you usually were.
‘This street, old boy.’
Half way along the street, tucked in behind the
rabas
, were some marvellous old Mameluke houses. The box-like windows of each storey projected further and further across the street so that at the top they almost touched the windows opposite. The structures rose like the fortress of a Spanish galleon.
‘Look at the woodwork!’ breathed Barclay. ‘There’s no one who can do that today. Once that goes—’
They went down the tiniest of alleyways and came out in a small square. At first it looked a very ordinary little square with nothing to mark it out except a rather plain flight of mosque steps which appeared to lead up to a blank wall.
But at the top of the steps there was an open passage, at the other end of which there was something blue and shining. They went down the passage and came out in a courtyard. In the centre of the courtyard was a blue tower. It flashed and shone in the sunlight, sparkling like a turquoise.
‘It’s the tiles, you see,’ said Barclay.
The tower was faced with thousands of tiny blue tiles which caught and reflected the sunlight like the facets of a precious stone.
They went inside. The tower was, Owen realized, a small Dervish mosque. It was fitted out with fine, soft carpets and beautiful glass mosque lamps. From the dome, painted blue to match the tiles outside, hung a cage of fretted meshrebiya woodwork, with a canopy roof like a Turkish fountain and lots of Moslem prayers hanging from it.
They came out and walked round the outside. At the back of the tower there was some scaffolding and some men were at work repairing the tiles.
‘It’s being restored,’ said
Nikos had taken to the new procedures—they were, after all, bureaucratic procedures—like a duck to water and was jealous in their defence.
‘He needs to be able to have a few more lunches,’ said Owen. ‘It’s important.’
‘Quite right,’ said Georgiades. ‘Rosa’s been cutting down on the food lately. She says I’m overweight.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Nikos. ‘It’s just that if he eats them now, he won’t be able to eat them later.’
‘Hard times,’ said Georgiades, as he followed Owen out of the office, ‘and harder to come. That’s what they all say. You know, I don’t understand this financial stuff at all. What’s gone wrong? We were doing all right, weren’t we?’
‘We were doing too all right, apparently. That seems to be the root of the problem.’
‘I’m a child in these things,’ Georgiades confided. ‘Rosa does all the sums in our household. What a head that girl has got! It comes from the old woman, you know, her grandmother. Sharp as a knife! Looks after it all. I stay right out of it.’
‘A good thing you married her,’ said Owen.
‘
He
married
her
?’ said Nikos from his desk. ‘
She
married
him
.’
Barclay was as good as his word and showed Owen round the Derb Aiah district. It was a warren of narrow, mediæval streets to the north of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens, lying between the newer European quarter to the west and the Old City to the east.
At first sight it was unpromising since it seemed to be an area of
rabas
, tenements consisting of one or two sleeping-or living-rooms, a kitchen and latrine (but not a bathroom; you went outside to wash). Many of them were built above shops.
They were easy to pick out because they tended to be built at an angle to the street; that is, instead of there being a flat wall above the shop, there was a sort of triangular street corner with windows looking both ways, windows without glass, of course, just fretted woodwork which gave passage to the air and allowed the women inside to observe without being observed. In Cairo you always felt as if you were being watched; and you usually were.
‘This street, old boy.’
Half way along the street, tucked in behind the
rabas
, were some marvellous old Mameluke houses. The box-like windows of each storey projected further and further across the street so that at the top they almost touched the windows opposite. The structures rose like the fortress of a Spanish galleon.
‘Look at the woodwork!’ breathed Barclay. ‘There’s no one who can do that today. Once that goes—’
They went down the tiniest of alleyways and came out in a small square. At first it looked a very ordinary little square with nothing to mark it out except a rather plain flight of mosque steps which appeared to lead up to a blank wall.
But at the top of the steps there was an open passage, at the other end of which there was something blue and shining. They went down the passage and came out in a courtyard. In the centre of the courtyard was a blue tower. It flashed and shone in the sunlight, sparkling like a turquoise.
‘It’s the tiles, you see,’ said Barclay.
The tower was faced with thousands of tiny blue tiles which caught and reflected the sunlight like the facets of a precious stone.
They went inside. The tower was, Owen realized, a small Dervish mosque. It was fitted out with fine, soft carpets and beautiful glass mosque lamps. From the dome, painted blue to match the tiles outside, hung a cage of fretted meshrebiya woodwork, with a canopy roof like a Turkish fountain and lots of Moslem prayers hanging from it.
They came out and walked round the outside. At the back of the tower there was some scaffolding and some men were at work repairing the tiles.
‘It’s being restored,’ said
Similar Books
