“Others will tell us if you do not,” he said.
The man just sat stubbornly there.
“Come, man,” said Mahmoud, not unkindly. “We are only trying to get at the truth that lies behind this business.”
“There is one truth for the rich,” the villager said bitterly, “and another for the poor.”
“The truth we seek,” said Mahmoud, “is not necessarily that for the rich.”
“The rich have all the weapons,” the man said, “and you are one of the weapons.”
Unexpectedly, Mahmoud seemed to flinch.
“I would not have it so,” he said mildly.
The man had noticed Mahmoud’s reaction. It seemed to mollify him.
“Nor I,” he said, mildly, too. “I would not have it so.”
He rubbed his unshaven chin.
“Others will tell you,” he said. “My wife’s family works in the fields for Nuri Pasha. One day Nuri went by. He saw my wife’s sister. He said: “Tell her to bring some melons to the house.” She brought the melons and a man took her in. He took her to a dark room and Nuri came to her.”
“That was wrong,” said Mahmoud, “but it was wrong also to try to kill for that.”
“What was I to do?” the man said passionately. “I am a poor man and it is a big family. Now she is with child. Before, there was one mouth and she could work in the fields. A man wanted her and would have taken her at a low price. Now there are two mouths and she has been dishonoured. No one will take her now except at a large price. And how can I find a large price for her?”
Unconsciously he had laid his hand on the table palm uppermost as if he was pleading with Mahmoud.
“How?” he repeated vehemently. “How? I have children of my own.”
Mahmoud leaned across the table and touched him sympathetically on the arm.
“There is worse, friend,” he said. “How will they manage without you when you when you are gone?”
The passion went out of the man’s face.
“There will be money,” he said, and bowed his head, “without me.”
“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, lemonade-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 mot
or-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?”
“I do not know,” said the woman.
“Have strangers been to the village?”
“No,” said the omda.
Mahmoud ignored him.
“Has a stranger been to your house?”
“No.”
“Has your husband talked to strangers?”
“I do not know.”
“Has he spoken to you of the drug?”
“He never speaks to me of the drug,” said the woman bitterly.
Mahmoud sat back and regarded the woman for a moment or two without speaking. Then he suddenly leaned forward.
“Listen to me,” he said to the woman, speaking slowly and emphatically. “I believe your husband to be a foolish man and not a bad one. He is a tool in the hands of others. I promise you I will try to see that his punishment fits foolishness and not badness. But I need to know whose are the hands that hold the tool. Think about it. Think long and hard.”
He turned to the omda.
“And you,” he said, “think, too. Think doubly long and hard. Or else you will find yourself in trouble.”
<
br /> ***
A servant showed them through the house and out into the garden, where Nuri Pasha was waiting for them.
He was sitting in the shade of a large eucalyptus tree, a gold-topped cane between his knees and a rug about his shoulders. His head was resting on the back of the chair and from a distance it looked as if he was asleep, but as they drew nearer Owen saw that the apparently closed eyes were watching them carefully.
“Monsieur le Parquet! And—” the watchful eyes lingered a little on Owen—“le Mamur Zapt!”
Servants brought up wickerwork chairs.
“I was,” said Nuri Pasha, “about to have a late tea. Would you care to join me? Or something stronger perhaps?”
“Thank you,” said Owen. “Tea would be very welcome.”
He did not know how strict a Muslim Mahmoud was.
Nuri, it was clear, was a very Europeanized Egyptian. He spoke English perfectly, though with a suggestion that he would rather be speaking French. He was dressed in a dark jacket and light, pin-striped trousers. His shirt was impeccably white and he wore a grey silk tie fastened with a large gold pin.
“Tea, then.”
Already, across the lawn servants were bringing a table and teathings. The table was spread with an immaculate white cloth. The teapot was silver, the cups of bone china. One of the servants poured the tea and then retired into the background.
“Good,” said Nuri, sipping his tea.
He put the cup back in the saucer.
“And now, what can I do for you two gentlemen?”
“If it would not distress you,” said Mahmoud, “I would like to hear your account of what happened in the Place de l’Opéra.”
“Of course, dear boy,” said Nuri. “I am only too glad to be able to assist the Parquet. Especially,” he smiled, “in the circumstances.”
He seemed, however, to be in no hurry to begin. His eyes wandered across the flowerbeds to the other side of the lawn.
“Beautiful!” he whispered.
Owen thought at first that he was referring to the freesia or the stocks, or perhaps to the bougainvillaea in bloom along the wall which surrounded the garden, but as he followed the direction of Nuri’s gaze he saw that the Pasha was looking at a young peasant girl who was walking along a raised path just beyond the wall with a tall jar on her head.
“Beautiful,” breathed Nuri again.
“If I was younger,” he said regretfully, “I’d send someone to fetch her. Those girls, when they are washed, are very good in bed. They regard an orgasm as a visitation from Allah. When I was young—”
The Mamur Zapt & the Return of the Carpet Page 3
