The Snake Catcher's Daughter by Michael Pearce

Author:Michael Pearce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press, Inc.
Published: 2017-01-23T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

It was only half past ten and the city was already like an oven. Inside the offices it was even worse and Owen, eager as always to keep things in perspective, headed for the café. Just as he was about to sit down, he saw Mahmoud and waved to him to join him. Mahmoud, however, did not notice and went hurrying on past. Owen waved again and then went across to intercept him. Reluctantly, Mahmoud came to a stop.

His face had none of its usual alertness and vigour. It was pinched and withdrawn.

“Hello!” said Owen, recognizing the signs. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” said Mahmoud. “Nothing.”

He tried to smile and failed, then began to edge away.

“Got something on,” he muttered.

“No you haven’t,” said Owen, putting his arm around him. Arabs were always putting their arms round each other. If you didn’t, you struck them as cold and unfriendly.

“Coffee,” said Owen. “Come on!”

He shepherded Mahmoud back to his table. Mahmoud allowed himself to be persuaded but looked at Owen without any light in his eyes. Indeed, he seemed almost hostile.

“What’s the trouble?” said Owen.

“Nothing,” said Mahmoud coldly.

“I know you too well to believe that,” said Owen.

The waiter, unusually, came quickly with the coffee. Mahmoud took a sip which was almost like a spit.

“Do you?” he said. “Do you?”

Owen laid his hand on Mahmoud’s arm.

“Come on,” he said, “what’s the matter?”

Mahmoud sat huddled and silent. When he was like this he was peculiarly exasperating. Normally he was so full of bounce that a chair could hardly contain him. On occasion, though, he swung to the other extreme, crumpling into apathy and lifelessness. You might have thought he suffered from some polarizing or cyclical illness; but the Arabs were all like this. They either burned with exhilaration or collapsed into the dumps; not like the stable British, who remained puddingy throughout.

They had been talking in French. Now Owen switched to the more intimate Arabic.

“If my brother is troubled,” he said, “then I am troubled. And if he does not tell me his trouble, so that I can share it, then I am doubly troubled.”

Mahmoud said nothing for some time. When he replied, however, it was in Arabic, which was a kind of response.

“You cannot share,” he said, “because you cannot feel.”

“That is unjust,” said Owen quietly.

Mahmoud shifted uncomfortably.

“It is not your fault,” he said. “It is because you are an Englishman.”

Oh no, thought Owen, so that’s what it is.

“Have you forgotten so soon?” he said reproachfully. “I am not an Englishman.”

Something stirred down in the dumps. Arab, Mahmoud might be, and liable to plunge into the trough of depression; but Arab, he still was, and unable to forgive himself for anything that seemed a breach of courtesy. He raised a hand apologetically.

“I am not always clear,” he said, “about the difference between an Englishman and a Welshman.”

“This is fighting talk,” said Owen.

Mahmoud managed something that was a little like a smile. He took a sip of coffee, looked at it with surprise and took another sip.

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