The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (10 page)

Then another thought struck him. Perhaps it
wasn’t so trivial to Mahmoud, after all. Owen remembered his earlier
speculations about Mahmoud’s politics. He had admitted he was a Nationalist
himself. Whose side was he on?

And then a faint warning bell began to
tinkle. It manifested itself as a growing unease which started just at the time
that he said to himself, “Just like a bloody Egyptian.” As soon as you started
saying things like that you were talking like an Old Hand. Owen had not got on
with the Old Hands in India and when he had transferred to Egypt he had sworn
to himself that he would never become like them. And here he was! “Bloody
native” would be next.

In this case, too, natural antagonism was
reinforced by family upbringing. Owen was unusual among Army officers in having
been brought up as a Welsh Liberal; and he could hear his mother’s soft voice
in the background saying firmly: “Not a native, dear; an Eastern gentleman.”
His Welsh Liberalism had been somewhat tempered by the Army but, having lost
his parents early, he adhered all the more strongly to his mother’s teaching,
especially when it came to personal relations.
Every man,
from the highest to the lowest, of whatever race or colour or creed, was to be
treated as a gentleman; every woman as a lady.

Except bloody Brooker, he told himself.

He began to simmer down. Perhaps he was
overreacting. Mahmoud had made perfectly clear what his political position was,
and it was a completely respectable one. And it was not unreasonable that he
should be worried about putting a list of Nationalist sympathizers into the
hands of the Mamur Zapt. He might even have used it.

That thought quite shocked him. Would he
really have used it?
he
asked himself. Well, yes, he
might, he was forced to admit. It was his job, after all. In that case Mahmoud
was not being so unreasonable. In fact, he was not being unreasonable at all.
Just properly cautious.

He stole a glance at Mahmoud. His face was
stiff and unyielding. This was an issue of principle for him and he was not
going to give way.

Owen could see the bridge ahead of them.
That was where the promenade came to an end, and unless something happened that
was where the walk would come to an end.

Owen knew that he was the one who would have
to do something. The trouble was that he couldn’t think what.

Just before they got to the bridge he
stopped and turned, forcing Mahmoud to look at him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Yes?” Mahmoud was wary but not completely
distant.

“I’ve been trying to think of a way
forward,” Owen said, “one acceptable to both of us.”

Mahmoud was interested, and because he was
interested his face lost some of its woodenness.

“Let me try this on you: my people make a
list and your people make a list. You check everyone whether they are on my
list or on your list. If they’re on your list and
not on mine you don’t have to tell me—unless you want to.”

Mahmoud’s
face cleared at once.

“I
would be happy with that,” he said. “I would be very happy with that.”

“Of
course,” said Mahmoud, “it may not be political anyway.”

They
were sitting in a café, one of the few Arab ones in this European part of the
city.

“What
else could it be?”

“Well,
let me try something on you,” Mahmoud said. “Someone besides Mustafa has got a
personal grudge. Perhaps even for the same reason—Nuri can’t leave women
alone.”

“And
set Mustafa up?”

“Yes.
That way they would get their revenge and not get caught.
If
it worked.”

“No
real evidence,” said Owen.

“No
real evidence for it being political,” Mahmoud pointed out. “Yes, but—”

“You’ve
got a feel?” Mahmoud laughed. “So have I. I’m just being a good boy and
checking out all the possibilities.
Like they taught me in
college.”

Owen
laughed, too, more comfortable now.

“There
you are!” he said. “That’s where you have the advantage!” Mahmoud looked at him
curiously.

“You
didn’t go to college? They didn’t train you?”

“Not
for this,” said Owen.

“The
English prefer amateurs,” said Mahmoud.

He
meant it consolingly, Owen knew, but the remark jarred. That was how many
Egyptians saw it, he knew. Most of them, if they were in the professions, had
received a formal training, either in Cairo or in France.

Mahmoud,
quite at ease now, took a sip of coffee and then sat thinking.

“There’s
no real evidence for either,” he said, going back to his original line of
thought. “Like you, I incline to the political. But there’s one thing that
bothers me.
If it’s political.
Ordinary politicians
are not going to be involved. It’s got to be extremists. But if it’s them
there’s something funny about it. Why are they using Mustafa?”

“If
it’s a ‘club’ they’ll have people of their own, you mean.”

“Yes.
People who know what they’re doing.”
“Not all the
‘clubs’ are as professional as you imagine,” Owen pointed out. He was something
of an expert on such matters. “The ones based in the universities, for
instance. That,” he said, “is why they usually don’t last very long.”

He
wondered immediately whether this would upset Mahmoud again and looked at him a
trifle anxiously.

Mahmoud
caught the look and burst out laughing.

“We’re
going to have a job, aren’t we?” he said. “Almost any ground is dangerous!
However—” he leaned forward and gently touched Owen on the sleeve in a gesture
that was very Arab—“I’m not always so unreasonable!”

He
thought again.

“It’s
the gun,” he said. “That’s what makes me think it must be a ‘club.’
And one of the more professional ones.
Ordinary fellahin
like Mustafa don’t get near such things. If they bought a gun—if they could
afford to—it would be of the pigeon-shooting sort.
A shotgun
for scaring the birds.
A rifle that came with
Napoleon.
Not the latest issue to the British Army.”

“Could
you buy one?
If you had plenty of money?
If you were that other-man-with-a-grudge, for instance?”

Mahmoud
shook his head. “Not unless you knew somebody.” “You can’t rule that out as a
possibility.”

“You can
for Mustafa. He’s never been out of the village.” Mahmoud brooded a little.

“And
that’s the problem,” he said presently. “You
see,
if
you can get hold of a gun like that and you want someone killed, why go to
Mustafa? There’s a gap. Between the professionals behind the scenes and the
very far from professional man who’s supposed to do the actual work.”

Two
shoe-shine boys came round the corner and launched themselves immediately at
their feet. They both tucked their feet under their chairs and Mahmoud waved
the boys away.

“And
there’s another thing,” he said.
“The hashish.”

“They
gave him too much.”

“Yes.”

Mahmoud
looked at Owen.

“You
know what I think?”

“Tell
me.”

“It
all sounds terribly amateur.”

“Yes,”
said Owen. “Like me.”

Although
Owen had told Mahmoud about the article in
al Liwa
he had kept back one
piece of information. Now, as they walked back towards the centre of the city,
he said:

“I know someone who was at the meeting, in
the village. This person hates Nuri, is a Nationalist, is, I would say, a bit
incompetent and from what I have heard would be quite likely to sympathize with
Mustafa.”

“You should join the Parquet,” said Mahmoud,
surprised. “Who is he?”

“The person who wrote the article in
al
Liwa
. ”

“Whose identity you
have already checked.”

“Yes,” said Owen. “Ahmed.”

One
of the Mamur Zapt’s privileges was a box at the Opera. At first Owen had been a
little surprised. But no, it was not an imaginative bribe. It was a perfectly
genuine prerequisite of office and Owen soon began to make regular use of it.
Although he came from a musical family and a Welsh village with a deep-rooted
musical culture, he had never been to the opera before he came to Egypt. Soon
after taking up his position, however, he went to a performance of
Aida,
which had been written, of course,
specially
for the
Opera House at Cairo, and was hooked. He went to every new performance during
the season. Indeed, he went several times and had recently made a resolution to
cut down his attendances at the Opera House to twice a week.

Coming back from the Opera House that
evening he passed an Arab café in which some young men were sitting. They were
in high spirits and had probably been drinking. As Owen approached, one of them
said something to the others and there was a burst of derisive laughter, almost
certainly at Owen’s expense. Then, as he continued past, one of the others, in
an obvious attempt to outdo, leaned out into the street and shouted something
abusive almost directly up into Owen’s face, cursing, as is the Arab custom,
not Owen himself but his father.

Without stopping and, indeed, without
thinking, Owen at once replied that he would certainly have returned the
compliment had his addresser only been in the position to inform him which of
his mother’s two-and-ninety admirers his father had been.

There was an instant of shocked silence
behind him and then, almost immediately, the rush of feet.

Owen cursed his over-ready tongue. One thing
the Agent would not tolerate was brawling in the street with Egyptians.

The
footsteps came up to him and he braced himself.

And
then a hand was placed gently on his arm and a voice said politely: “Please,
please. I am so sorry. I did not think for one moment that you knew Arabic,
still less the correct Arabic abuse. We are all very sorry. Please come and
join us for some coffee and let us try and convince you that we are not as
boorish as we appear.”

Two
contrite young men looked at him pleadingly. Owen could not resist and went
back with them to the table where a space was quickly made for him.

The
rest of the café looked on with approval, having enjoyed, in typical Arab
fashion, both the abuse and the courtesy.

The
men apologized. They were, they explained, filling in time before going to a
party. They had been talking politics and one of their
number
had been carried away. It was not said, but Owen guessed, that the topics had
included the British in Egypt. The conversation turned tactfully in another
direction.

They
inquired how Owen came by his Arabic and when he mentioned his teacher it
turned out that two of them knew him. This reassured Owen, for the Aalim was
not one to waste his time with fools.

Indeed,
they were far from fools. They were all
journalists,
it appeared, working for the most part on arts pages. One of them was
introduced as a playwright.

Owen
said he had been to the Arab theatre but found the plays excessively
melodramatic.

“That’s
us,” said one of the men. “All Arabs are melodramatic.”

“No,
it’s not,” said the playwright. “We’re dramatic. It’s the plays that are
melodramatic. They’re just bad.”

“Perhaps
you will improve the standard,” said Owen.

“Gamal’s
latest play is good,” one of the men said.

“Is
it on somewhere? Can I see it?”

They
all roared with laughter.

“Alas,
no!” said Gamal. “But when it is put on I shall send you a special invitation.”

Owen
said he had just been to the opera. They asked him how it compared with opera
in Europe. He was obliged to admit that the only opera he had seen had been in
Egypt. Two of the journalists had seen opera in Paris. They thought Cairo opera
provincial.

The
conversation ran on merrily. Some time later Owen glanced at his watch. It was
well past two. Opera finished late in Cairo; parties started even later,
evidently.

The thought occurred to one or two of the
others and they rose to go. Owen got up, too, and began to say his farewells.
His acquaintances were aghast that he should be leaving them so early. They
insisted that he came to the party with them.

Owen was taking this to be mere Arab
politeness when the playwright linked his arm in Owen’s and began to urge him
determinedly along the street.

“A little while,” he coaxed, “just a little,
little while.”

“We want you to meet our friends,” they
said.

The house was a traditional Mameluke house.
It went up in tiers. The first tier was just a high blank wall with a decorated
archway entrance. Above this a row of corbels allowed the first floor to
project a couple of feet over the street, in the manner of sixteenth-century
houses in England.
And above this again a triple row of
oriels carried out into the street a further two feet.
There was no
glass, of course, but all the windows were heavily screened with fine
traditional woodwork.