Owen settled himself on the mastaba. The Aalima then rushed from the room. Out in the courtyard, women’s voices began to chatter urgently.
“Are you all right, effendi?” called Selim’s voice.
Owen got up from the mastaba and went to the door.
“Yes, thanks,” he called back. Then, seeing Selim standing in the arch, he walked over to him.
“I’m just waiting to see if she bites,” he said.
“Bites?” said Selim, intrigued. “Oh, bites. There’ll be plenty of that later.”
Owen thought Selim might be misunderstanding him. However, the constable pointed beyond the brazier to where the animals were stirring. He could see now that one of them was a large ram.
“Sacrifice?” he said. “Or a feast?”
“Both,” said Selim. “The Aalima does pretty well out of it. She gets half of it, you know.”
“She doesn’t eat half, surely?”
“No, no. She sells it. Makes a pretty piastre. What with that and the fee everyone pays.”
“She wouldn’t want to miss out on it, would she?” said Owen thoughtfully.
“Hello, my lovely!” said Selim to one of the white forms. A group of gowns rushed up and pushed him indignantly into the arch.
Owen returned to the mastaba.
After about a quarter of an hour the Aalima appeared.
“The Zzarr is off!” she said fiercely. “I have asked my women. They say they cannot begin if a man is present.”
She folded her arms firmly. Owen knew suddenly whom she reminded him of. Not for her beauty but for her manner; the Scottish Matron at the Cairo Hospital.
“I do not wish to interfere,” he said mildly. “I will stay in this room if you like. That hardly counts as being present, surely?”
“The Zzarr is off!” said the Aalima, with a triumphant smile.
Owen shrugged.
“Very well, then,” he said, rising to his feet. “Tell them to return the animals.”
The Aalima’s smile faded.
“What happens to the animals is no business of yours!” she snapped.
“I’ll tell them,” said Owen, as he went out. “Selim!”
“Wait! Wait!”
“I could sit here,” Owen offered. “It wouldn’t really count.”
The Aalima hesitated.
“You must not look,” she said, weakening.
Owen pointed to the wall.
“If I looked,” he said, “could I see?”
The Aalima made up her mind.
“Very well. You can stay. But if you set one foot outside this room,” she said coldly, “the Zzarr stops.”
As soon as she had gone, Owen extinguished the lamp. It took a short while for his eyes to get used to the darkness but when they did, he found he could see quite well.
Moonlight came in through the open door and lit up the white wall opposite him. He took care to stay in the shadow.
After a moment or two, he heard people outside.
“He has put the light out,” someone said.
There was a muttered consultation.
“Are you still there?” a woman’s voice called out.
“Of course,” said Owen.
“Why have you put the light out?”
“Out of respect.”
More consultation.
“There’s no need to do that,” someone said.
“That’s all right,” said Owen.
The consultation became agitated.
“We are going to shut the door,” a voice called out.
“Please don’t do that. It’s so hot in here.”
He heard the discussion.
“It’s a trick!”
“Yes, but it is hot in there.”
“We must ask the Aalima,” said someone after a while.
“It’s too late,” said someone. “It’s beginning.”
Across the courtyard, in the main building, a timbrel was starting uncertainly.
“I promise I won’t come out.”
Dubertas began to catch the rhythm.
“Very well, then. But mind you don’t! We are putting people to watch!”
“That is not necessary. But if you wish to-”
There was a mighty clash of cymbals and then all the instruments were playing together. A voice joined in, wavering, hanging, posing a question or an invitation. Another voice answered.
The people outside lingered irresolutely, then went away. Someone else came up and sat down just outside the door. The guard had been posted. It was, however, a very small one. About twelve years old, Owen judged.
There were a lot of children in the courtyard, many of them dressed in white gowns like the Aalima’s companions. As the music caught hold, they began to dance.
Owen watched for a little while and then moved round the room until he could see out of the doorway. The main activity was going on in a room opposite. It was a long room, probably the mandar’ah, or reception room, which ran the whole length of one side of the inner courtyard. The music was coming from one end, where there was a dais, on which the performers sat. If they were men there would be a screen between them and the rest of the hall.
The music deepened and other voices joined in, passing the question or invitation from one to another until suddenly they all began to sing together. Owen could still not tell whether they were men or women. Nor could he quite make out the words although some of them seemed familiar. But what language?
There was movement on the other end of the mandar’ah. He could see the Aalima standing beside what looked like a little table. Round her a ring of white-gowned women was forming. They were holding hands, or holding on to something; a rope, perhaps. The ring began to spin.
Outside in the courtyard little rings of children began to spin also. It was like ‘Ring-a-ring of roses’ only speeded up.
He suddenly caught something move just outside the door and hastily slid back on to the mastaba. A figure entered.
“No light?” said a voice he thought he had heard before.
“Out of respect,” said Owen.
“Oh yes!” said the voice ironically. He was sure now he had heard it before.
The figure stooped. It was holding something out to him.
“Take and drink,” said the voice.
“Thank you,” said Owen. He tipped the bowl towards him and let the liquid touch his lips. It was hot and spicy. As far as he could tell, there was no drug in it. This time.
That other time, McPhee had been sitting out in the courtyard. They had put a chair just beneath the windows. He had been so close, he had told Owen, that he had been intoxicated by the music.
The music continued, the circles, both inside the house and out in the courtyard, continued to spin. The next time the woman came with the bowl, Owen could see her more clearly.
“You!” he said in surprise.
“Why not?” said the snake-catcher’s daughter.
He held the bowl back for a moment after drinking.
“Do you always do this?” he asked. “Take the bowl round at the Zzarr?”
“We all have our parts to play,” she said ambiguously.
He relinquished the bowl.
“You are a woman of many parts,” he said.
He saw the smile in the moonlight. When he had seen her before, beside the snake cistern, he had been too busy to notice her face. It was a rather pretty one. He realized suddenly that none of the women this evening were wearing veils. Some of the more modest ones had pulled their hoods forward over their faces. The Aalima and her acolytes, however, were having none of such half measures. The hoods were thrown back well behind the neck. Girls among girls, Owen supposed.
The snake-catcher’s daughter seemed disposed to linger.
“I take the bowl round,” she said, “because I can’t be one of those inside.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“I’m not clean.”
He did not understand. Then he remembered what Selim’s wife had said.
“You haven’t been purified?”
“I can’t be.”
“How’s that?”
“I haven’t been cut.” Seeing that Owen was at a loss, she explained: “When you’re a girl, they cut you. They pare it back. Afterwards, they sew you.”
“Oh,” said Owen, understanding at last. “Circumcision?”
“That’s right. Only my father wouldn’t let them do it to me. He said the snakes would notice.”