The mouth of the crocodi.., p.19
The Mouth of the Crocodile, page 19
‘I have said: to make the meeting more representative.’
‘And you did that on your own responsibility. Is this usual?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Obviously you have been the secretary to many committees. Does this often happen?’
‘Well …’
‘Does this ever happen?’
‘Why are you pressing me like this?’
‘Because you are not replying. This was your own idea, was it? Or was it someone else’s?
‘Someone else’s.’
‘Whose?’
‘You have no right to ask me in such a way, Mamur Zapt! I object to it very strongly—’
‘The Khedive does not know about this, does he? It was all your own idea. As I shall report to him.’
‘It – it was someone else’s idea.’
‘Whose? Tell me, Hussein. You will have to tell me in the end.’
‘It was not one person.’
‘A group?’
Hussein nodded. ‘Yes, a group.’
‘Their names?’
‘I shall not tell you their names.’
‘Were they at the meeting themselves? Probably not. Which was why they wanted someone there. Whose name you added to the list.’
‘Did I ever tell you about …’ Crockhart-Mackenzie continued.
There was an apparently endless stream of things that he had not told Georgiades about, and he related them as they walked along the river bank. Although by the time they reached Mr Nicholson’s house, Georgiades was beginning to feel that the flow of reminiscence must surely be about to dry up.
It was early in the morning and Crockhart-Mackenzie had promised to show Georgiades just where it had happened. They had gone early because Georgiades was anxious to capture as much as he could of what it had been like that morning, the morning when Sayyid had drowned. Crockhart-Mackenzie had been more than ready to help. He did not often get the chance to unload the considerable store of anecdotes that he had accumulated over the years in the Sudan, most of them spent at Atbara, and the Greek was an interested and sympathetic listener.
‘Take crocodiles, for example: in the old days you would see them sunning themselves on the banks of both sides of the river. Like logs, they were, green and yellow and with their skin corrugated like bark. You had to watch it when you were walking along the banks. One snap and they’d have you! And then they’d take you down to a sort of store they kept beneath the river bank. A crocodile’s larder, so to speak.’
Georgiades gave a sympathetic chuckle.
‘Never seen one myself,’ said Crockhart-Mackenzie. ‘But I met a chap who had. He’d been diving for the company that put up the bridge. And down there, tucked in under the bank, were two or three of them. Bodies. I tell you, he got out of there pretty fast! I think they dropped a stick of dynamite there! Had to, before any of the divers would go back.
‘Of course, that was some time ago. There haven’t been crocodiles on this side for years. The occasional one, perhaps, and that’s the trouble. There are reports of one every now and then, whether true or not. The Sudanis believe they’re true, that’s the point. That’s why they wouldn’t go down to look for him. Sayyid. In the end, his brother had to go down. It’s a question of inheritance, you see. You’ve got to produce the body. Otherwise they would be claiming all the time. You’ve no idea of the tricks they get up to.’
‘So his brother went down?’
‘Had to. Didn’t like it much, but had to. Particularly because he wasn’t his brother really but his brother-in-law. Sayyid came from Port Sudan; he wasn’t a native of Atbara. Married a girl from Atbara soon after he got here. He was quite well off and they thought they’d made their fortune. And then he went and drowned! The family wouldn’t have got anything if they had not been able to produce the body. Of course, there was his own family to consider as well, not the Atbara one, the one he’d married into, but his own, back in Port Sudan. They would have wanted a share and would have been prepared to argue about it, so they had to bury him quick, which they couldn’t do without the body, so …’ He stopped for a moment to watch a felucca skim close into the bank before wheeling away again.
‘Left that a bit late!’ said Crockhart-Mackenzie, with the air of an expert.
‘Were was I? Oh, crocodiles. Not many left now. But still the odd one, I dare say. Oh, yes, and Sayyid—’
‘You knew Sayyid?’
‘Only too well.’
‘Only too well?’
‘I’d had my eye on him for some time. Ever since he came to Atbara, in fact. What is a man like him – intelligent, educated – doing coming into a place like this and looking for a job as a lowly clerk?’
‘That’s what he did?’
‘He did! Mind you, it was a good job he went into at the office. I was surprised, because I didn’t know they were looking for someone. And the next moment, there he was, straight into a plum job. Must have known someone, I reckon. Anyway, there he was. And the next moment, he was causing trouble.’
‘Causing trouble?’
‘Not just in the office but among the workers generally. They were all right until he came. The occasional spot of bother, perhaps. But nothing out of the ordinary. Then along comes this bloke and the next minute, you’ve got trouble all over the place!’
‘Nasty!’ murmured Georgiades.
‘It was. And shall I tell you what I think?’
‘Please!’
‘I think it was not an accident. That’s what he’d come here to do.’
‘Come here to …?’
‘Stir up trouble. Someone was targeting Atbara. That’s my belief.’
‘But who …?’
‘Foreigners.’
‘Foreigners?’
‘That’s right. Because who else could it be? Everyone else here has got an interest in the railway working. Now, you might not think it but the trains are pretty important in a place like the Sudan. The Sudan is a big place. As big as India. And the trains are what hold it together. So why should anyone inside the country want to smash them up?’
‘Smash them up?’
‘Sabotage. There had been instances of sabotage. There was one only the other day – that train that was caught in the sandstorm.’
‘Sabotage?’
‘That’s right. One example among many.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It happens all the time. Well, not all the time. But more often than you’d like to think. And stirring up trouble. That’s as good as sabotage. And that’s what that Sayyid was doing!’
‘Just as well he was drowned, then!’
‘My thought exactly!’
The bank beneath the Nicholsons’ house was crowding up when they arrived. Why this particular part of the bank should be like that was not clear, but it had been the practice for years for Sudanis to come down early in the morning to wash themselves. Perhaps there lay the answer: the practice had grown up over time and now it was an established tradition. The river bed had dried up at this point and the banks receded, which left plenty of room. Goats grazed, dogs walked and people washed. They never swam. Sometimes they walked out into the river and splashed water over themselves, but they never walked in far, especially now, when the memory of the drowned Sayyid was so fresh in their minds. There was usually, said Crockhart-Mackenzie, more larking about, too. Georgiades could quite see how young Jamie might have been pushed.
‘That’s the Nicholsons’ house,’ said Crockhart-Mackenzie. ‘Just there where the flight of steps comes down. It leads up to their garden. A very nice garden, too. The boy takes the dog for a walk every morning. Down the steps and along the bank. Usually he keeps away from the people. Not that the dog would do anything. It’s a lovely dog. An Alsatian. Big, and I suppose that keeps anything bad from happening. Not that it’s likely to.’
‘And Sayyid?’
‘Just about here. The edge is just a little bit further out. It goes down very steeply. How Sayyid came to fall over it, I don’t know. But I suppose that’s the answer. He was near here and didn’t know about the edge. And then you can quite see how, with all the people here milling about, someone might not have noticed that he was floundering.’
Georgiades could quite see that. ‘Did you ask around?’ he asked.
‘Of course. But no one had seen anything.’
Georgiades knew how it came about that crowds did not see anything. A man stabbed in Cairo and the next moment the street was empty. He thought he would ask around himself. But not when Crockhart-Mackenzie was here.
A dog came down the steps with a lady behind it.
‘Hello, Jean!’ said Crockhart-Mackenzie.
‘Hello! With Jamie away, I’m doing the duties, as you can see.’
‘Mind you don’t get pushed in!’
‘I won’t be pushed in,’ said Mrs Nicholson. ‘They always treat me very respectfully. They usually treat Jamie respectfully too. That’s why I cannot understand—’
‘It might still have been an accident.’
‘Of course. But Jamie doesn’t usually make a fuss about things. And if there was pushing being done, he’s usually doing it!’
‘Times are a bit troubled at the moment.’
‘In the works. So I gather.’
The Alsatian walked off along the bank. It passed right by some goats, but did not disturb them. They continued tugging at the knots of grass.
‘Did I ever tell you about Old Crocodile?’ said Crockhart-Mackenzie as they walked back.
Yes, several times.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Georgiades politely. ‘The ones on the bank?’
‘No, no, the Old Crocodile. One of the characters of Atbara. About a hundred years old, old enough to have fought at Omdurman. When Kitchener smashed the Mahdi.’
‘Oh, yes. Gun-boats, machine guns …’
‘And proper artillery. The Mahdi didn’t have a chance. Well, after the trouble, some of them got away and followed the Khalifa – that’s the Mahdi’s Number Two, and successor. But Wingate tracked him down and smashed him, too. And after that there was no more trouble. And never has been since. Ever since then the Sudan has been peaceful. That was the way to do it, you know. Smash them first time and, after that, it’s easy. That’s what I tell the Consul-General. “Don’t pussyfoot around,” I say. “Go in hard! And then you won’t have to do it again!”
‘But he doesn’t listen to me, and nor does anyone. They say it’s different these days. The times are different and the people are different. That Mamur Zapt: too soft. Useless! Lets people get away with anything! Not like the old days.
‘Anyway, I was telling you about the Old Croc: he got away after the battle. Fled with the Khalifa and fought on. Until Wingate rounded them all up and shot them. Did I ever tell you about that? No? Well, when they could see it was all up, the Khalifa ordered all the amirs to dismount. They rolled out their furwas on the ground, sat down and faced Mecca. They knew what was coming. Brave men, I’m not saying they weren’t. They sat there and let Wingate shoot them.
‘But not the Old Croc! Well, he was a young croc then, I suppose. Just a boy. But a plucky one. When the shooting started, he lay down and went on lying until it was all over. By this time it was dark and he crawled away and escaped.
‘Well, that was a long time ago and now he lives in Atbara. Been living here for fifty years. I often see him, go over and have a chat with him. Talk about the old days. He’s a good sort, the Old Croc. Still spits fire! Well, I don’t mind that. I give it back to him, too. He still won’t give in, and I respect that.
‘He’s got a grandson who works on the railways. Well, times change, and change isn’t always bad. I often see him, the grandson, that is, when I go past the depot.
‘He’s fascinated by trains, sits watching them for hours. Works in the sheds. Keeps the trains running. That’s the difference, these days. Putting his back into making the Sudan work. Funny, isn’t it, that it should work out like that?’
ELEVEN
The Consul-General had blocked the purchase of rolling stock from abroad. The Khedive, in high dudgeon, had retired, sulking, to the Abdin Palace. The elderly Pashas who had formed what might be called the Khedive’s Group, the ones who had met in Khartoum to look over the proposed railway contracts, had retired to their homes with, it must be said, not a little relief. And yet Yasin al-Jawad, Aisha’s father, seemed to have suddenly become very busy. It was not just Aisha who had noticed it; so had the men Owen had put on to studying the activities of Aisha’s father.
There was now talk of Yasin paying a fleeting visit to Atbara. The talk came from the young lawyers who sat around in Abdin Square, conveniently placed between the Palace and the School of Law. Owen knew about the talk because he had been sitting in the Square, too, giving his old friend Yacub, the writer of letters, some copying to do.
‘I do not believe for one moment,’ said Yacub, ‘that you are giving me this just out of regard for me.’
‘You might be wrong there,’ said Owen. ‘I have a very high regard for you.’
‘That is not quite the same thing.’
‘And I was hoping that through you I could tap into the talk of the Midan.’
‘That is more like it,’ said Yacub. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘I hear that Yasin al-Jawad is about to leave us again.’
‘I have heard that, too.’
‘And not bound this time for Khartoum but for Atbara.’
‘That, too, I have heard. It is the talk of the Midan.’
‘Is that because things are beginning to stir?’
‘There is usually no action without a reason.’
‘When we talked before, I asked you if you could give me a name. You said you couldn’t. But if I put a name to you, would you be prepared to tell me if that might have been among the names that you would have given me if you had been so willing?’
‘Try it.’
‘Hussein. He is a secretary in the Palace.’
‘That might have been among the names, yes. But at the bottom.’
‘Used, but not using?’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘And Yasin al-Jawad?’
Yacub shook a finger at Owen. ‘Now, now,’ he said, ‘we did not agree that we should go that far!’
Owen laughed. ‘You are a wily old bird, Yacub.’
‘And so are you, Mamur Zapt! But I will give you a straight answer to that: he is not at the bottom, like Hussein; but nor is he at the top.’
‘Like?’
Yacub shook his head severely.
Owen laughed again. ‘He is very busy,’ he said. ‘Could you give me an idea of what he is busy with?’
Yacub reflected on this. ‘The copying you have just given me is welcome. For I am not busy.’
‘This would be a good moment, then, to give you some more?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Yacub, as if the idea had just occurred to him.
‘Some will be with you an hour after I go.’
‘Hussein is a man who makes things happen. He pushes things along.’
‘When they have got stuck?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know,’ said Owen, ‘I am surprised at the concentration on the Sudan. The Sudan has never been of much interest to the Khedive. Why is it now?’
‘That is not the question you should be asking.’
‘What is the question I should be asking?’
‘Why should others suddenly be taking an interest in the Sudan?’
‘Why are they?’
‘I am not going to do all the work,’ said Yacub. ‘At the moment I have a lot of copying to do.’
Yasin left for Atbara the following morning. This time he did not take Aisha with him. Aisha was in high dudgeon, too. She had not forgiven her parents for this talk of marriage. Her mother attempted to discuss it ‘reasonably’ with her daughter but was spurned. Aisha made it clear that she was not ever prepared to listen to talk of a fat Pasha. ‘They are not all fat,’ said her mother. But this was part of the reasonable unreasonableness that Aisha so strongly objected to. Nor was her father, before he went away, any more use. Normally she could count on him in any battle with her mother to take a different kind of ‘reasonable’ view – Aisha’s – but now he turned a deaf ear. He was preoccupied all the time. All the time. She couldn’t get him to set aside even a moment for sensible discussion with her. She even sat on his lap, which she normally did only in the case of emergencies; but this time the magic did not work.
‘I am sorry, Aisha, but you are old enough to realize that sometimes we have to take a considered view.’
‘I have taken a considered view!’
‘One taking in all the factors in a rapidly changing situation. You could yet be useful to me.’
‘I was hoping you were going to be useful to me.’
But her father was too busy with last-minute conversations before his departure to spend time in talks with her. With him not taking an interest Aisha could see it all rested in the hands of her mother and she was worried that, left to her own devices, her mother might have committed herself too far to be able to withdraw when the time finally came to resolve matters.
There was no one, she complained bitterly to Jamie, to whom she could turn.
‘What about that lady who you talked to before?’
‘The Lady Zeinab? I have been thinking about her. The trouble is …’ Aisha hesitated. ‘I think she is too worldly wise. I have been thinking of going directly to the Mamur Zapt.’
‘Isn’t he … worldly wise?’
‘Not in the same way. I don’t think men are.’
Jamie was out of his depth. ‘He has always seemed pretty wise to me.’
‘It’s not the same thing. He is shrewd about some things, politics, and that sort of thing. But on things like this …’
‘My father says he’s a wily bastard.’
‘My father says that, too. But don’t you see, it’s not the same thing. He doesn’t know about young girls.’
Jamie also did not know about young girls. Girls like Aisha, for example.
‘The trouble is,’ said Aisha, ‘that he lacks experience. Now that they’ve had a baby, he’ll probably be all right in about ten years. But I can’t wait that long!’
