Did snakes have ears? Owen wondered. He couldn’t remember ever having noticed any. He couldn’t see any on this one, either. Perhaps they were sunk in or something? He would have liked to have looked more closely, but then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to look too closely. His friend the snake catcher had said they always removed the poison fangs before selling them on but Owen didn’t want to be the first to find an exception.
“Have they got ears?” he asked the snake charmer.
The charmer stopped in mid-trill.
“Ears?” he said incredulously. “Of course not!”
“Well, then, how do they hear the music?”
“Look, are you trying to catch me out?” said the snake charmer angrily, blaring a short blast on his flute.
The snake’s head stopped its rhythmic swinging and hung in the air. It certainly seemed to be responding to the music; but perhaps there was some other cue it was responding to? The old man’s swaying, for instance? Or perhaps vibration was picked up in a different way.
The charmer stopped playing and the snake returned to its basket. The old man replaced the lid crossly and stumped away. Owen would have liked to have asked him more questions but this was clearly not the occasion. He would have to ask someone else. His own snake catcher, for instance. Or perhaps that girl.
He had been thinking about the snakes as he had been walking along. Because that was the bit that needed explanation. He could understand what had happened at the Zzarr. They hadn’t wanted McPhee to see the ceremony so they had drugged him. But why put him in the cistern with the snakes? Were snakes something to do with the Zzarr? Had some religious significance, perhaps?
There was only one way to find out. He wasn’t a McPhee, interested in ceremony for its own sake, nor did he wish to do a McPhee, poke his nose in where he wasn’t wanted. But he was beginning to feel that a lot of the questions he was asking could only be answered by knowing more about what went on at a Zzarr and the best way of finding out was to go to one.
He could treat it as a reconstruction of the crime, perhaps. Mahmoud, with his background in French law, would like that. The Parquet, steeped in the French judicial system and trained to apply French criminal procedures, were keen on reconstructions. He was not sure, though, that simply going to a Zzarr would come into that category.
And ought he to be wasting his time on that sort of thing, anyway? Oughtn’t he to be concentrating on the Mahmoud investigation? But the pace in that was set by Mahmoud and he was having to juggle the time he spent on that against the demands of the other things on his plate. Owen reminded himself that he was just an observer; if that.
No, he had to leave the initiative to Mahmoud. The McPhee business on the other hand was clearly his responsibility and he ought to get on with it. Not because of McPhee himself-they might all be having a peaceful time if it had not been for that blockhead-but because of the danger of it spilling over into communal violence. And was there someone behind it all? It did look a bit like it.
He decided to go and see the witch.
Chapter 6
She was not exactly pleased to see him.
He had left it, deliberately, as late as he could so that she would not have time to cancel the Zzarr or rearrange it in another place. The outer courtyard was already full of people and there were lamps inside the house. Musicians were tuning up.
The house was not the one she had used before but very like it. There was both an outer courtyard and an inner one. The men were congregated in the outer courtyard and stopped him when he tried to pass through to the inner one. “Can’t do that,” they said. “Women only.”
“I wish to speak to the Aalima.”
“She won’t see you.”
“I think she will. Tell her it’s the Mamur Zapt.”
There was a sudden hush.
“All right,” said someone at last, “but she won’t like it. There could be trouble.”
“There’ll be trouble all right,” said Selim, big and bulky behind Owen, “if you don’t do what the Mamur Zapt says.”
“I come in peace,” said Owen.
One of the men called through into the inner courtyard and spoke to a woman there.
While he was waiting for the Aalima, Owen glanced around him. There were lighted braziers both in the outer courtyard and the inner one and he could smell coffee in both. The men were standing around chatting animatedly. There was something of a party atmosphere.
“Your wife in there?” said Owen conversationally to a man near him.
“Daughter. My wife can’t go tonight-her sister’s having a baby-but she said Khadiya had to go. Don’t believe in this sort of thing myself.”
“Can’t do any harm,” said another man.
“Can’t it? My wife comes home half-crazed.”
“She gets over it, though, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but what’s been going on while she has been out of her mind? That’s what I’d like to know. You don’t know what they get up to.”
“There aren’t any men there, though, are there?” said Selim wistfully.
“You don’t always need men.”
“No?”
Through the arch Owen could see white forms approaching. He moved to meet them.
“Who is it who wishes to speak with me?” said the Aalima.
“Greetings, Mother,” said Owen politely. “May we step aside for a moment?”
Just beyond the arch a little room gave off the courtyard. He had time only to see that the inner yard was full of women and children in white gowns. The smell of incense hung in the air and on the other side of the ring of firelight cast by a brazier he thought he saw animals stirring restlessly.
The Aalima led Owen into the room and then turned towards him. She had a large white cowl over her head but was unveiled and there was just enough light from the single oil lamp for him to see her face.
“Ya salaam!” he said in surprise. He had expected to see an old crone. This woman was at the most in her thirties and had a handsome, classical face.
“What is it you want?” she said impatiently. “I do nothing wrong.”
“I’m sure not. Nevertheless, at the last Zzarr you held, wrong things were done.”
“The Bimbashi? That was nothing to do with me.”
“I wasn’t thinking just of the Bimbashi. I was thinking of the Copts.”
“That was nothing to do with me, either. Or with the Zzarr.”
“You may be right,” said Owen. “Nevertheless, it was at the Zzarr that something happened to the Bimbashi.”
“If you have questions to ask,” said the Aalima, “you must put them another time. The Zzarr is about to begin.”
“You carry on,” said Owen. “I’ll wait.”
“You can’t wait here,” said the Aalima. “This is for women only.”
“I won’t interfere.”
“You cannot stay,” said the woman angrily. “Please go!”
“I’ll wait.”
A mastaba, a long stone bench, ran along one side of the room. He sat down.
The woman bit her lip.
“I’ll answer your questions tomorrow,” she said.
“Ah,” said Owen, “but will you be here tomorrow?”
“I will tell you where I live.”
“Tell me,” said Owen, “and I will send a man to make sure that that is indeed where you live.”
“I live on the other side of the Gamaliya,” she protested.
“We can wait. Or you could begin.”
She stood there for a moment. Then her foot began to tap angrily.
“Why are you here?” she burst out furiously. “Why was the Bimbashi here?”
“The Bimbashi was lured here,” said Owen. “I want to find out why.”
“That was nothing to do with me! You cannot stay here!”