The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (3 page)

“How
can that be,” asked Mahmoud softly, “
when
you have
none?”

“Others
will provide.”

“What
others?
Your family?”

“Others.”

Both
sides seemed to consent to a natural pause, which lasted for several minutes.
Owen was impressed. He knew that if he had been conducting the interrogation,
in the distant English way, he would never have reached the man as Mahmoud had
done.

Mahmoud
leaned forward now and touched Mustafa on the sleeve. “Tell me, brother,” he
said, “about your visit to the city yesterday.” “I went to the city,” said the
man, almost as if he was reciting, “and there were many people. I was one of a
crowd. And I saw that bad one and I fired my gun at him. And he fell over, and
I gave thanks to Allah.”

“How
did you know where to find the bad one?” asked Mahmoud. The man frowned.

“I
do not know,” he admitted. “He was suddenly there before me.” “Someone told
you, I expect,” said Mahmoud.

The
man did not pick this up.

“Have
you been to the Place before?”

Mustafa
shook his head.

“Never.”

“And
yet you knew where to find him,” Mahmoud observed.

He
waited, but again the man did not pick it up.

Mahmoud
switched.

“Where
did you get the gun?”

The
man did not reply.

“Did
the one who told you where to find the bad one also give you the revolver?”

Again
there was no reply.

“If
the rich have their weapons,” said Mahmoud, “and I am one of them, you, too,
are a weapon. Who is wielding you?”

“Not
the rich!”

“When
the tool is broken it is thrown away.”

“I
am not broken,” said the man defiantly.

“As
a tool you are broken.
As a weapon.”

“My
task is done,” said the man. “I am satisfied.”

“Nuri
is still alive.”

The
man looked at him, startled.

“Didn’t
you know? The shot missed.”

“Is
that the truth?”

“On the Book.”

The
man buried his face in his hands.

“I
am a poor weapon.”

“You
have fed too much on the drug,” said Mahmoud.

“It
gave me the power,” said the man from behind his hands.

“It
took away your power.”

The
man shook his head.

“Who
gave it to you?”

“A man.”

“The same who gave you the gun?”

Again the shake of the head.

“The one who showed you where to find Nuri
Pasha?”

The
shaking had become continuous. Owen doubted now if it meant negation.

“The one who will provide for your family
when you are gone?”
Mahmoud went on inexorably.

The
shaking stopped and the man raised his head.

“Inshallah,”
he said.
“If God wills.”

He
would say no more and after several further attempts to resume the conversation
Mahmoud ordered him to be returned to the cells.

That
afternoon they went to el Deyna. Mahmoud decided, on the spur of the moment,
that he would like to talk to Mustafa’s family. Then, equally on the spur of
the moment, he decided he would ask Owen to go with him.

Owen
accepted at once. He liked Mahmoud and, besides, he had grown sensitive enough
to Arab style by now to know that if he did not respond with equal warmth it
would immediately chill the relationship that was developing between them.

He
was, however, a little surprised. Relations between the ministries were not
normally as close as this. He wondered whether the invitation was solely the
product of an impulse of friendliness. Mahmoud was no fool. Perhaps, operating
alone in what might turn out to be politically sensitive areas, he felt the
need to guard his back. If so, Owen could certainly sympathize with him.

They
met after lunch at the Ataba el Khadra, the terminus for most of the Cairo
tramways, and took a tram to the Citadel.

Although
it was still relatively early in the afternoon, and extremely hot, the Ataba
was, as always, full of people. The ordinary population of Cairo was still
impressed by trams and treated them very seriously. To board a tram at the
terminus meant forcing one’s way through a mass of street-sellers, all
concerned that the passengers might perish en route for lack of sustenance.
Water-sellers, peanut-sellers, lemon-ade-sellers, Turkish-delight-sellers,
sellers of tartlets, sweets and sherbet competed for custom.

The
tram itself was, of course, crowded. Passengers hung over the driver in his cab
and shared his agitation at the continual excesses of arabeah drivers. They
bulged out of the tram itself and clung on to the steps. One or two hardy
spirits climbed up on to the roof, from which they were dislodged with
difficulty by a determined constable, only to be replaced by equally tenacious
clamberers at the next stop.

Owen
enjoyed all this, but even he had had enough, in the heat, by the time they got
to the Citadel. They changed with relief into the small bus which would take
them out into the country.

Here,
too, there was difficulty in finding a seat. A large fellahin woman with a load
of water-melons occupied the whole rear of the bus.

“Come,
mother,” said Mahmoud. “Move your fruit. They take up more space than people.”

The
woman started to move the melons and then looked up at Mahmoud.

“Why
is the Englishman here?” she asked in Arabic, not thinking that Owen
understood.

“He
is with me,” said Mahmoud.

“He
should be in a motor-car,” said the woman, “or in an arabeah.”

The
bus had fallen quiet.

Conscious
that she held the stage, the woman reached over and picked up two large melons.

She
showed them to the passengers.

“Two
fine ones,” she said.

She
cast a sidelong glance at Owen.

“As
big as your balls, Englishman,” she added, giving the other passengers a wink.

“As
big as they would need to be, woman,” said Owen, “were I your husband.”

The
bus exploded with delighted laughter.

The
woman moved her melons, with good grace now, having enjoyed the exchange as
much as anyone else, and Owen and Mahmoud sat down.

In
a way, it was nothing, but Owen had sensed a current of feeling in the bus that
had surprised him. Most Englishmen in Egypt would have said that the
country-dwelling fellahin were all right, that it was only in the city that
there was trouble. He had defused the current so far as he was concerned and
the atmosphere was now quite relaxed. But that it should exist at all was
significant.

Mahmoud
must have sensed the current, too, for throughout the rest of the journey he
kept the conversation at the level of general chit-chat, in Arabic.

The
village omda, or headman, showed them to Mustafa’s house.

It
was a mud brick house with three rooms and a ladder going up to the roof. The
floor was beaten earth. In the first room, at night, a donkey and a
water-buffalo lay down together. In the inner rooms the family lived, ate and
slept. On the roof were the household stores and the rabbits.

There
seemed to be at least eight or nine people in the inner rooms, two old people
and six or seven children. When the omda explained the purpose of the visit,
they all retreated into the furthest room, leaving Mustafa’s wife alone with
Mahmoud, Owen and the omda. She held her veil up in front of her face the whole
time they were there.

They
sat down cross-legged on the floor. After a moment Mahmoud began.

“Tell
me about your husband,” he said. “Is he a good man?”

There
seemed to be a shy nod of assent.

“Does
he beat you?”

Owen
could not detect any response, but the omda said: “He is a good man. He beats
her only when she deserves it.”

“Your
children: does he beat them?”

This
time there was no mistaking the denial.

“Those
old ones: are they your family or his?”

“One
is hers. One is his,” said the omda.

“Tell
me about your sister,” said Mahmoud.

The
woman put the veil completely over her face and bowed her head down almost to
her knees.

Mahmoud
waited, but she said nothing.

“I
am not here to judge,” he said
,
“merely to know.”

The
woman bent her body to the left and right in agitation but could not bring
herself to reply in speech.

“She
is ashamed,” said the omda. “Her family is dishonoured.” “And Mustafa felt this
shame greatly?” asked Mahmoud.

The
woman seemed to signify assent.

“He
took it into his heart?”

More definite this time.

Mahmoud
turned to the omda.

“He
spoke about it? Some nurse a hurt in silence, others speak it out.”

“He
spoke it out,” said the omda.

Mahmoud
considered for a moment or two.

“It
is hard to bear dishonour,” he said at last, “but sometimes it is better to
bear dishonour than to lift your hand against the great.” “True,” said the omda
neutrally, “but sometimes
a dishonour
is too great to
be borne.”

“Was
that so with Mustafa?”

“I do not
know,” said the omda. “Mustafa is a good man.” Mahmoud turned back to the woman
and shifted tack.

“Where
is your sister staying?” he asked.

“With
friends,” said the omda.

“In her village or in this?”

“She
will not show her face,” said the omda, “either in her village or in this.”

“What
will happen when her child comes?” asked Mahmoud. “It is a lot to ask of
friends.”

The
omda was silent. “I do not know,” he said at last.

The
woman broke in unexpectedly.

“She
will stay with me,” she said determinedly.

The
omda looked troubled but said nothing.

“How
will you manage?” asked Mahmoud.

“The
way we have always managed,” said the woman bitterly.

“It
is hard for a woman to manage alone,” said Mahmoud.
“Even if
she is used to it.”

The
eyes above the veil seemed to flash.

“When
did your husband begin taking hashish?”

The
omda made to answer but the woman cut across him.

“He
has always taken hashish,” she said, “a little.”

“But
recently,” said Mahmoud, “he has started taking more.”

Again
the eyes seemed to register the remark, but otherwise there was no response.

“Where did he get it?’’

“There
are always those willing to sell,” said the omda.

“Whom you know?”

The
omda spread his hands. “Alas, no,” he said.

“There
are always those willing to sell,” said Mahmoud.
“At a
price.”

He
leaned forward and addressed the woman directly.

“Money
for hashish,” he said, “comes at the cost of money for food. His family was
hungry. Why did he buy hashish?”

“It
made him strong,” the woman said.

“Strong in the fields?
Or
strong in the bed?”

“In
the bed,” said the woman.
“In the fields, too.”

“He
feared he was losing his strength in the bed?”

“Yes,”
said the woman.

Mahmoud
looked across at Owen.

Owen
knew what he was thinking. In villages of this sort bilharzia was rife. Among
the symptoms of the disease in males was a kind of overall sensual lassitude
which the fellahin often took for loss of sexual potency.

“Your
husband has the worm?”

“Yes.”

It
was common for fellahin to take hashish to counter the lassitude. Ironically,
it aggravated the very condition they feared.

In
the room behind a small child began to cry. It was hushed by the grandmother
but then began to cry again more determinedly. Another joined it.

The
woman stirred.

Mahmoud
put up his hand.

“One
question more: in this last week your husband has come upon a great supply of
the drug. Where did he get it from?”