O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [60]
The story, like most Arab camp-fire stories, went on forever and depended on an intimate knowledge of the people and customs and a peculiarly brutal sense of humour. Rather like the tales one overhears in a beery working-class pub, come to think of it, only more picturesque when told in the sober poetry of guttural Arabic beneath a black goat’s-hair tent.
At any rate, this story, with the one Ali told afterwards (about a she-camel which was stolen and disguised, with another camel dyed to look like her, which second camel was then stolen back by the first camel’s original owner—who, to crown the story, did not discover his mistake until the dye wore off), took the better part of an hour. Mahmoud then mentioned a mare Mikhail had owned, that possessed a strange ability to—
We were off again. Twenty minutes later that mare was put to rest, and a dainty feeler went out from Mahmoud. Did Mr Bashir perhaps know where Mikhail had gone this last week? Perhaps Mr Bashir had even seen Mikhail? Because there was a horse—not the mare with the strange trick, but another one—that Mahmoud was interested in, and Mikhail had been going to see the owner to make enquiries—
Mr Bashir was not fooled. Mr Bashir had been waiting ever since he had dropped from the saddle of his demure little mare onto the salty shore to hear what it was we truly wanted; furthermore, Mahmoud knew full well that the salt smuggler was not fooled, but it was all part of the way of doing business in the East, and neither of the adversaries was disappointed. Mahmoud nattered on about the miraculous if non-existent horse, and Mr Bashir smiled widely and drank coffee and laughed at the correct places and shook his head in amazement and distress, while my knees went numb and Ali picked a design with his vicious knife down the back of a thumb-sized wooden snake and Holmes watched it all under lowered eyelids, looking half-asleep.
After a long, long time, the normally taciturn Mahmoud paused to draw breath, and Holmes spoke up for the first time.
“There is another horse,” he said. Mr Bashir looked at him politely, and Mahmoud subsided. “It is a family matter, you understand?” Mr Bashir began to look distinctly interested. “There is a man, not from this area, but he comes to this place from time to time. There was a horse, a stallion, that once belonged to my father, and it was stolen, and the thief sold it to this man. This man then sold the horse himself, up into the north.” This put rather a different slant on the matter, I saw. Horse stealing was one thing, an honest sport, but theft for mere profit, without allowing the owner a chance to steal it back—this was not cricket. Mr Bashir might be a trader, but he knew honour. Holmes continued. “Mikhail was the brother of a brother. I heard he knew this man, that he could find where the horse is now. If I found that place, my brothers and I could go there and bring back the horse of my father. You understand?”
Mr Bashir’s eyes shone at the thought, both of the chance to earn a profit at little effort, and moreover at being given a rôle in the sort of story that might be told over fires from here to Aleppo. Holmes, holding the drama, reached into his robe and pulled out a small leather purse. He jiggled it on the palm of his hand a couple of times. It clinked heavily.
“I might be interested in buying salt, as well,” he said.
“I have much salt,” said Mr Bashir. “I also may know the man you seek.” Holmes pulled open the top of the money purse and took out three silver