The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet mz-1

by Michael Pearce

  He read, therefore, Fakhri’s own paper with particular care. It was an intellectual weekly with a fairly limited circulation, and in itself hardly likely to stir a man’s adrenalin. However, it was well known. Other journalists and, indeed, other editors might well read it; and if they read it they might take things from it.

  Like most Cairo editors, however, Fakhri knew exactly where to draw the line. In the present number he had drawn it with a finesse that earned Owen’s professional admiration. The connection between Nuri and the Denshawai Incident was made, but circumspectly and in the most general of terms. Even the account of the student demonstration, which occupied most of the front page, was handled in a way to which it was difficult to take exception. Legal exception, that was. Exception might well be taken on other grounds. The account itself was sharp to the point of viciousness and the editorial, which commented on it, provocative to the limits of admissibility. The writing did not, however, actually step over the line which divided it from the inflammatory and defamatory.

  Not so al Liwa, which, like Fakhri’s paper, covered the demonstration at considerable length. Most of the length in al Liwa’s case was due to passages of extended vituperation which were saved-if they were saved-from being defamatory only by their generalness and imprecision. Owen skipped through the bloodsucking imperialists bit, noted with pleasure that the Sirdar was being blamed for the whole thing-incorrectly, since the Army had nothing to do with it-and was amused to find that the original target of the demonstration was quite lost sight of: the article ended by inviting the Khedive to march with the demonstrators.

  Owen wondered how much Ahmed had contributed or whether, indeed, he had written it entirely.

  However, that was not the only interesting article the paper contained. Buried on an inside page was another article which, Owen began to suspect, was the article which Fakhri had really wanted him to see.

  It was about Mustafa, Nuri’s would-be assassin, and was called Mustafa’s Mistake. The mistake, according to the article, lay in Mustafa’s thinking that his was a personal wrong which could be remedied by private action. In fact, it was an instance of a general problem, that of landlord-fellahin relations, and the only way to put that right was through political action. Baldly-and the article was anything but bald — that meant joining the Nationalist Party. This, the paper assured its readers, Mustafa had been on the brink of doing when, alas, he had been carried away by the sight of his enemy. Only the day before he had spoken at a public meeting organized by the Nationalist Party in his village. He had been one of many willing to stand up and testify to the wrongs the fellahin were suffering. Although he had not-yet- formally joined the Nationalist Party, it would stand by him. His hand, the article concluded with a flourish, may have held the gun but it was the landlords themselves who had pulled the trigger.

  Owen read it through again, thought for a moment and then reached for the telephone.

  “It’s true,” said Mahmoud. “He was there. He did speak. I checked.” Mahmoud had been in court all day. Like Owen, he could not give all his time to the Nuri affair, important though it might be. A hearing had been scheduled for that day in connection with another case, and as he had been responsible for drawing up the proces-verbal he had had to attend. Unusually, the Parquet’s analysis had been challenged and Mahmoud had had to spend the morning defending it and the afternoon-while, he pointed out to the clerk of the court, the judges were having their siesta-revising his submission. He was in a jaundiced frame of mind by the time he got back to his office, late in the afternoon, to find Owen’s message waiting for him. They had arranged to meet that evening, which gave him an opportunity to get his men to do a quick, independent check. First reports had come back to him before he set out.

  “Someone must have heard him speak,” said Owen, “and thought they could use him.”

  Mahmoud nodded. “It’s a possibility. I’ll get my man to check if anyone talked to him afterwards.”

  “He would have been angry. He might have spoken with a lot of force. Enough to attract attention.”

  “I’ll get it checked.”

  Owen, who had had a long, hot day too, had proposed a walk along the river bank before finding a cafe. It was dark by this time and the street-lamps were on. It ought to be getting cool. They turned along a promenade beneath the palms.

  “If someone heard him,” said Owen presently, “they were there, too. Who else was at the meeting?”

  “The whole village. It was one of a series of meetings the Nationalists have been holding in that area.”

  “Not just the village,” said Owen.

  “No? Who are you thinking of?”

  “The Nationalists must have sent some people.”

  There was a little pause.

  “Yes,” said Mahmoud, rather distantly, “yes, they must have.” “We ought to find out who they were.”

  Then, as Mahmoud did not reply at all, Owen looked round at him. Mahmoud’s face had gone wooden.

  Something had upset him. Owen wondered if it was anything he had done. Perhaps Mahmoud was fed up with Owen telling him his business.

  “Just a thought,” he said apologetically. “I dare say you’ve got it all in hand.”

  Mahmoud did not respond. Owen racked his brains to see what he’d done wrong.

  “Not my business, perhaps,” he said. “Sorry!”

  In the poor light of the street-lamps he could not see whether Mahmoud acknowledged his apology. He began to grow a little irritated. Mahmoud had been all right when they met. A little hot and bothered after his day in court, perhaps. Why had he suddenly become all huffy?

  A thought struck him. Surely Mahmoud did not think he was trying to use him? That Owen wanted him to compile a list of active Nationalists which the Mamur Zapt might then make use of for other purposes?

  “I hope you don’t think I’m trying to get some names out of you,” he said angrily.

  Mahmoud grimaced. It was clear that was exactly what he did think.

  Owen was furious. How could Mahmoud suppose that! After the friendship that had sprung up between them! It was unjust and unfair. He had taken Mahmoud to be a reasonable man. But this was so unreasonable…

  Just like a bloody Egyptian. He had met this sort of thing before. You would be getting on all right with them one minute and then the next minute something would happen and they would be quite different. They would go all wooden, just as Mahmoud had done, and you wouldn’t be able to get any sense out of them. He hadn’t thought Mahmoud was like that, though. He had seemed all right. Why was he getting himself in a stew over something as trivial as this? It wasn’t as if it was going to make any difference. If Owen wanted the names he would bloody well get them. His own men would get the lot within twenty-four hours. Why was Mahmoud being so absurdly stuffy?

  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 tre
ated 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 cafe, 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 cafe 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 in
stant 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 cafe 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.”