The Mamur Zapt and the Donkey-Vous

‘Someone may throw them back in my face.’

‘No one will ever know that you have spoken them. I swear it!’

‘On the Book?’

‘On the Book.’

The old man still hesitated. ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘It is not clear in my mind.’

‘The one we spoke of,’ said Mahmoud, ‘the old man with sticks: is he clear in your mind?’

‘Yes. He is clear in my mind.’

‘Did he come down the steps this afternoon?’

‘Yes.’ The old man hesitated, though. ‘Yes, he came down the steps.’

‘By himself or with others?’

‘With another.’

‘The young one you spoke of?’

‘No, not him. Another.’

‘Known to you?’

There was another pause.

‘I do not know,’ said the old man. ‘He does not come down the steps,’ he added.

‘Ah. He is of the hotel?’

‘That may be. He does not come down the steps.’

‘But he did this afternoon. With the old man?’

‘Yes. But not to the bottom.’

‘The other, though, the old one with sticks, did come to the bottom?’

‘Yes, yes. I think so.’

‘And then?’

The snake-charmer made a gesture of bewilderment.

‘I—I do not know.’

‘He took an arabeah, perhaps?’

‘No, no.’

‘A donkey? Surely not!’

‘No, no. None of those things.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I do not know,’ said the charmer. ‘I do not know. I was confused.’

‘You know all things that happen on the steps,’ said Mahmoud. ‘How is it that you do not know this?’

‘I do not see,’ protested the charmer.

‘But you hear. What did you hear on the steps this afternoon?’

‘I heard nothing.’

‘You must have heard something.’

‘I could not hear properly,’ protested the charmer. ‘There were people—’

‘Was he seized?’

‘I do not know. How should I know?’

‘Was there a blow? A scuffle, perhaps.’

‘I do not know. I was confused.’

‘You know all that happens on the steps. You would know this.’

The snake-charmer was silent for so long that Owen thought the conversation was at an end. Then he spoke.

‘I ought to know,’ he said in a troubled voice. ‘I ought to know. But—but I don’t!’

The donkey-boys were having their evening meal. They were having it on the pavement, the restaurant having come to them, like Mohamet to the mountain, rather than them having gone to the restaurant.

The restaurant was a circular tray, about a yard and a half across, with rings of bread stuck on nails all round the rim and little blue-and-white china bowls filled with various kinds of sauces and pickles taking up most of the middle, the rest being devoted to unpromising parts of meat hashed up in batter. The donkey-boys in fact usually preferred their own bread, which looked like puffed-up muffins, but liked to stuff it out with pieces of pickle or fry. They offered some to Mahmoud as he squatted beside them.

‘Try that!’ they invited. ‘You look as if you could do with a good meal.’

Mahmoud accepted politely and dipped his bread in some of the pickle.

‘You can have some too if you like,’ they said to Owen. ‘That is, unless you’re eating up there.’

‘Not for me. That’s for rich people.’