‘– at some time in the future,’ said Ismet Bey, ‘though at the moment –’
‘On scholarly grounds,’ murmured the German representative.
‘Britain accepts that in the past the post of Khedive’s Librarian has always been reserved to German nationals. However, –’
However, thought Owen, that was all right when the incumbent was someone as unworldly as old Holmweg, the man who had just retired. He was beginning to pick up the hidden agenda now. For some reason Paul, and, presumably, the British government, were set against having someone as politically astute as Paul’s opposite number in the post. But why? It was, after all, only a librarian.
‘– my government could not accept the appointment to the post of someone who would give it a different character.’
He turned to the German representative.
‘Not, of course, that we wish to cast any reflection upon Dr Beckmann. Nor upon his scholarship. It is just that we feel that his qualities, great though they are, are not ones entirely suited to the post, at least for the immediate future. No, gentlemen, I am sorry: I am afraid we will have to cast our net wider.’
He gathered up his papers.
‘Cheeky bastards!’ he fumed, as he and Owen walked away together. ‘Do they think we’re daft, trying something like that on?’
‘But, Paul, does it really matter?’
Paul stared at him.
‘Matter? Of course it matters. It means that he’d be able to carry on even if the Consulate went!’
The whole community turned out to watch the funeral procession. Both sides of the street were lined with people and that was so all the way from the Nahhasin to the Italian church. They bowed their heads and beat upon their chests. Many were openly crying. Used as he was to the extravagance of Arab protestations of grief, Owen could not help being moved. For this was not one of their own that they were mourning but a foreigner.
Since the funeral was that of a foreigner, there was a hearse. With Arab funerals there was no hearse; the body was carried upon a bier. Usually there was a kind of horn at one end, on which the turban was hung. The whole was often covered with a rich cashmere shawl. The bier was borne by the dead man’s friends, often, it seemed to Owen, precariously, for the feeling was intense and grief-stricken mourners would pluck at the bier, threatening to overturn it. Even today at times they pressed in on the hearse, touching the sides as if it was only through touch that they could communicate the strength of their feelings. Communicate or demonstrate? To Westerners there often seemed something histrionic in the affectation of grief. Owen knew, however, that there was nothing false about this. They were mourning someone dear to them.
Sidi Morelli was a Roman Catholic and the funeral service was being held in the Catholic church used by the Italian community. Sidi Morelli’s neighbours, as Muslims, would not go in. This public demonstration of grief and affection was therefore their way of participating. Some were no doubt there merely because they enjoyed a good funeral; but Owen was struck by how many in this most conservative of neighbourhoods were prepared to come out and display their feeling for an infidel.
Beside him, outside the warehouse, while the hearse was waiting, were Sidi Morelli’s three domino-playing friends.
The coffin was brought out of the house and laid in the hearse.
‘We ought to have been carrying that,’ said Fahmy.
‘Let each man die in his own way,’ said Hamdan pacifically.
‘Perhaps it is as well,’ said Abd al Jawad. ‘For it is a long way to the church and he is a heavy man.’
‘There would have been many to assist,’ said Fahmy.
The hearse moved forward a few paces and another carriage drew up outside the house. Signora Morelli and members of her family got in. As she came out of the house she saw the three friends and came across to them and said something. The men were openly moved.
The carriages advanced. The road filled up behind them. Hamdan, Abd al Jawad and Fahmy put themselves formally at the head of the procession.
As the ranks passed in front of him, Owen suddenly saw among them the alert figure of Ibrahim Buktari, Mahmoud’s prospective father-in-law. He was talking animatedly to the efficient young Egyptian whom Owen had noticed at the coffee house. He waved an arm when he saw Owen and Owen fell in beside them.
‘This is Kamal,’ said Ibrahim Buktari; ‘and this,’ he said to the young Egyptian, ‘is a friend of Mahmoud El Zaki’s. A soldier, like yourself.’
‘Soldier?’ said the young Egyptian, surprised. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Mahmoud would have had any friends who were –’
He stopped, embarrassed.
‘Soldiers?’
‘British soldiers.’
‘A hundred years ago,’ said Owen. ‘I’m not a soldier now.’
‘Once a soldier, always a soldier,’ said Ibrahim Buktari.
‘Where are you stationed?’ asked Owen.
‘At the Abdin Barracks, at the moment. I’ve just got back from the Sudan.’
‘Ah,’ said Owen. ‘Have I met your uncle? Wasn’t he one of Sidi Morelli’s domino-playing friends?’
‘That’s him up there,’ said Ibrahim Buktari.
‘Fahmy Salim?’
‘That’s right,’ said the young Egyptian.
‘He was worried about your being sent to the front.’
‘What front?’ said Kamal bitterly. ‘The British are keeping us away from any front.’
Ibrahim Buktari clicked his tongue reprovingly.
‘You’ll get your chance,’ he said.
‘But when? asked the young man. ‘And who against? It’s not the Sudanese that I want to be fighting.’
‘It doesn’t matter who it’s against,’ said Ibrahim Buktari. ‘The important thing, for a young soldier, is to be fighting.’
Kamal laughed and laid his hand on Ibrahim’s arm affectionately.
‘You’re a fine friend for my uncle to have!’ he said. ‘I’ll tell him what you said!’
‘Tell him! And then I’ll tell him that the one thing a young officer wants is war. That’s the way to quick promotion.’
‘Yes, I know. That’s what they all say. But that’s not the only thing, you know. You need to be fighting on the right side.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried Ibrahim Buktari, greatly enjoying himself. ‘There is no such thing as the right side. Not here in Egypt, there isn’t. Sides are all over the place, and the only thing that counts is to be on the winning side!’
‘Shocking!’ cried Kamal. ‘To have respectable elders leading young men astray! What is the country coming to!’
They embraced each other, laughing. This was obviously a continuing pretend argument between them.
Then they sobered up and the young Egyptian excused himself.
‘I must go and walk beside my uncle. It is a long way in the heat and he is much stricken by Sidi Morelli’s death. He may need help before the end. And perhaps,’ he said to Owen, ‘you can talk some sense into this old firebrand. The only people he listens to are the British!’
‘Outrageous!’ shouted Ibrahim Buktari. But the young Egyptian was gone.
‘He’s all right,’ Ibrahim Buktari said to Owen. ‘I’ve known him since he was a boy. Full of wrong ideas, of course.