Sabri’s wife received Owen boldly in the courtyard. That was another difference between Sabri and the other villagers. Women usually kept themselves aloof and if they had to talk to a stranger would talk to him only in the presence of a male relative. Owen had been prepared to wait for the cousin but Sabri’s wife said that was not necessary.
‘I join in your grief,’ Owen said.
The woman inclined her head in acknowledgement.
‘When a good man goes,’ she said, ‘the loss goes wider than the household.’
‘Your husband served me well,’ said Owen, ‘and you will stay under my protection.’
‘That may be useful,’ said the woman, ‘for the Pasha Ismail will want our land.’
‘Is the land yours or is it rented?’ asked Owen.
‘It is rented from Al-Fuli,’ said the woman, ‘but it has been worked by Sabri’s family for generations. His father worked it and his grandfather. And they say his father before that. But when it came to his turn Sabri would have none of it. He said if you worked the land, you worked for the pasha. So he let the land out to his cousin and went with the Bedawin.’
‘The cousin will surely wish to continue. So why should not Al-Fuli continue to let the land to the people of Sabri?’
‘Because the Pasha is greedy for land,’ said the woman bitterly. ‘He presses whenever there is an opportunity.’
‘The money that will come from me,’ said Owen, ‘is little, but it will be enough for you and your children not to have to depend on the land.’
‘The money is welcome,’ said the woman. ‘But what when I die? Money dries up but land never does.’ She turned her head. ‘Salah!’ she called.
Owen had seen the small boy peering round the corner of the door. Now he came out into the courtyard.
‘This is Salah,’ said the woman. ‘Sabri’s son. What will there be for him if the land is taken? Although, God knows, Sabri would never have wanted him to work on the land. “He who works the land is a slave,” he said, “and I do not want my son to grow up to be a slave.”’
‘What, then, did Sabri want for his son?’ asked Owen.
The woman was silent for a moment. Then she shrugged.
‘He spoke of him riding with him and learning to herd the camels. Or of working for the Government.’ She looked at Owen. ‘He thought you might help.’
‘And so I will. Bring the lad to me when he is old enough.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the woman, ‘but I am not sure I myself would have it so. Those who work for you do not always die in their beds.’
‘There is other work for the Government besides mine. And some of those who work for the Government grow fat and sleek.’
The woman laughed.
‘That is true,’ she agreed.
‘Mother, I would wish to do as my father did,’ said the boy.
‘And not all who serve me die as your husband did,’ said Owen. ‘But did your husband die as he did because of his work for me? If he did, then that grieves me and concerns me deeply. But is that so? Did he not die because of some other reason? A quarrel, perhaps?’
‘Sabri did not quarrel,’ said the woman definitely. ‘He would stand up for himself and his own but would let the rest pass. “There is enough foolishness in the world,” he said, “without adding to it.”’
‘But, you see,’ said Owen, ‘a quarrel might have been put upon him, not of his seeking but one that he could not refuse.’
‘If it had,’ said the woman bitterly, ‘he would not have been found as he was, stuffed like a sheep in the corner of the fiki’s booth. He would have borne it out in the open where all could see and bear testimony to the kind of man he was.’
‘Well, we shall see,’ said Owen. ‘The thing must be looked into. For if his death came as the result of a private quarrel, then as a man I grieve for Sabri as a man, but that is an end of it. But if he died because of his work for me, then it is not his quarrel but mine, and by no means at an end.’
A shadow passed over the woman’s face.
‘These things never have an end,’ she said quietly, looking at her son.
‘There was word of a message for me,’ said Owen.
‘As to that,’ said the woman, ‘you must ask the men. That is men’s stuff; and very foolish stuff it seems to be, too.’
***
Owen went first, as a matter of courtesy, to the cousin, although Sabri’s wife had said it would be useless. He was working in the fields.
Close to, the fields were more like allotments than fields, narrow strips, planted with durra, the maize-like crop which was the staple food of the ordinary Egyptian, or else with clover. The strip the cousin was working on was bare and he was ploughing it for the second crop, pulling the plough himself with a harness strapped to his shoulders.
‘That is a buffalo’s work, not a man’s,’ said Owen.
‘If there is no buffalo, then the man must do it,’ said the cousin, not stopping.
Owen fell in beside him.
‘You are Sabri’s cousin?’
‘That is so.’
‘I grieve for Sabri.’
The man grunted but did not raise his eyes from the line he was following.
Owen waited a little and then said:
‘When a man has to pull the plough himself, there can be little money in the house. And a funeral can be a heavy burden.’
‘We have had to go to Al-Fuli again,’ said the man bitterly.
‘You can repay him. Sabri did work for me from time to time and I will pay for the funeral.’
The cousin turned at the end of the strip and began to walk back. He gave no sign of having heard. When he reached the other end, he said:
‘It is a pity Sabri worked for you.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I have a wife and children of my own.’
‘You will not have to support Sabri’s family as well. I will give money for them.’
‘Money!’ said the man, and laughed bitterly.
Owen continued to walk beside him.
‘Our family has always worked this land. My father and his. And theirs. It takes two to work it. Now I will have to work it alone.’
‘Has that not been so for some time?’
For the first time, the man looked at him: a quick, surprised look.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it has!’ He gave a little, angry laugh. ‘Even when he was alive, he did little!’
‘On the land, perhaps. But did he not bring in money from elsewhere?’
‘Little enough. What is camel herding?’
‘I gave him money too.’
‘Would you had not!’ said the man angrily. ‘Then Sabri might have been alive today.’
He had not once paused in his ploughing. The sweat was running down his face and over his shoulders.
‘What is it you want?’ he said.
‘Sabri had a message for me.’
‘I know nothing of Sabri’s messages,’ the cousin said, and walked on, his face bent to the ground.
***
Sabri’s wife had given Owen the name of one of his friends and when Owen got to his house he found him sitting in the courtyard with a group of men drinking tea. One of the men gave a surprised exclamation and jumped up.
‘Effendi! You are most welcome here. Do you not know me? It is I, Ibrahim. You spoke for me in the Camel Market.’
‘I remember you.’
It was the man on whose behalf he had intervened.
‘But I did not know you lived here.’
‘This is my village, Effendi, and these my friends.’
‘Will you not join us, Effendi?’ said one of the men courteously, an older man, whom Owen guessed to be Sabri’s friend.
They made room for him and he joined them squatting on
the ground. The host went into the house and shortly afterwards a woman came out with a cup, which she placed, eyes lowered, in front of Owen. One of the men poured him tea, the bitter, black tea of the fellahin.
‘Do you not remember me, too, Effendi?’ asked another of the men.
‘I do.’
It was the donkey-barber.
‘But what brings you here?’ asked Owen. ‘Surely not Ibrahim’s donkey?’
‘If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain,’ said the barber, smiling. ‘But it is not just for Ibrahim’s sake that I come. The fact is, donkeys are getting hard to find these days, now that the Army is taking them all.’
‘You’ll just have to follow the Army, Anji,’ said someone. ‘If you are Mohammed, then you’ve come to the wrong place. The mountain has moved over towards the Canal.’
‘Maybe that’s what I shall have to do. The trouble is, I’m afraid that when the Turks burst across—’ ‘when,’ Owen noticed—‘they may seize me!’
‘I am not sure, Anji,’ said someone drily, ‘that you will be the first that they will seize.’
They all laughed.
‘It is true, though, that it is becoming a world without donkeys,’ said Owen. ‘And without buffalo, too. I saw a man pulling the plough himself.’
‘Ah, yes, Ahmed.’
‘Sabri’s cousin.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘I spoke to him. Sabri did some work for me once. I said I would pay towards his funeral. But I am not sure that he heard me.’
The men looked at the ground. He sensed a certain awkwardness.
‘Ahmed is not himself, Effendi,’ said someone.
‘Grief is understandable.’
‘It is not just that, Effendi,’ said someone quietly.
‘No?’
‘He is ashamed, Effendi,’ said someone, after a moment.
‘Why so?’
The man hesitated.
‘He has not resented the injury,’ he said reluctantly.
‘How could he? The killer is not known.’
‘I do not know, Effendi. But—but he should have done more. He is the man of the household. He should have gone to the Bedawin and said: “You owe our family a blood debt.”’
‘But he would not, Effendi,’ said another man. ‘He is not…not that kind of man.’
‘He has a wife and family,’ said Owen.
‘Yes.’
‘And then there are Sabri’s wife and children, too, to be looked after.’
‘Yes. But—’
‘It wasn’t the Bedawin, anyway,’ said the donkey-barber. ‘They would not have denied it.’
‘It must have been someone. He should have asked. He should have taken it upon himself, not left it to the boy.’
And now Owen understood the shadow that had passed over the face of Sabri’s wife. The honour code was still a force to be reckoned with in Egypt, especially outside the towns. It was the duty of the male member of a family to avenge any affront or injury to the family. Not to do so was to expose oneself and one’s family to disgrace.
‘It bites deep into Ahmed, Effendi,’ said someone, in explanation, not extenuation.
And if no one else took on the duty of revenge, it passed to the dead man’s son. When the boy grew up he would kill and probably be killed. These things, as Sabri’s wife had said, never had an end.
‘This concerns me,’ said Owen. He had been wondering how he could broach the matter and now he thought he could see a way. ‘It concerns me deeply. I do not know how Sabri died or why he died. But from time to time he did work for me. Suppose a quarrel were put upon him on my behalf? Arising out of the work he did for me. Then it is I who must avenge it. Not Sabri’s cousin, nor Sabri’s son.’
‘That is true, Effendi.’
There were general nods of agreement.
‘But is it so? Did Sabri die in some way because of me? I ask, not knowing the answer. The matter is dark to me. I ask your counsel.’
He could see that they were thinking it over.
‘I would not wish to evade my responsibilities.’
‘No, no!’
‘Of course not!’
‘We can see that.’
‘On the other hand, these are not duties that should be taken on lightly.’
‘Quite right.’
‘I need to be sure that they are mine. And so I come to you, as men who knew Sabri: there was not some other quarrel that he was party to? Perhaps in the village?’
‘Oh no. Nothing like that.’
‘No, no.’
‘Sabri was not a quarrelling man.’
‘He bore himself easily.’
‘Nothing in the village, then? No one?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘In the city, perhaps?’
‘How could it be? He was hardly ever there.’
‘That’s why I think it was something to do with the Bedawin.’
That seemed to be the general feeling.
‘That could well be,’ said Owen. ‘But I just wanted to be sure before going among them. For they are hot-tempered and rash, and quick to fancy an insult where there is none.’
‘Well, that is true.’
‘It’s best to be careful, with that lot.’
‘I just wanted to be sure. You see, there was something that made me wonder a bit.’
‘Yes?’
‘There was word that Sabri had a message for me. I wondered if that could be anything to do with it. You know, if perhaps he’d got into a fight on my behalf, and wanted to warn me, lest I be come upon unexpectedly—’
‘No, no,’ said Sabri’s friend, ‘that wasn’t anything to do with it.’
‘You know about the message?’
‘Yes. He told me about it. It came about thus.
‘After he had returned with the Bedawin and delivered the camels to the Camel Market, he came home to his wife. And she was glad to see him after so long. But on the next day she said to him: “Your return is timely, for Al-Fuli has been round here asking for the rent.”
‘But Sabri said: “It is not so timely, for I have already spent half my earnings.” And his wife upbraided him and said: “How can this be? Surely you know of the need for the rent? Now Al-Fuli will take our land from us.” But Sabri said: “Some things are more important than land.” But she continued to upbraid him and cried: “What things are more important than a living for your family, you foolish man?” For she thought he had misspent the money.’
Sabri’s friend paused and looked at Owen.
‘But he had not, Effendi. I know what he had done with it. For he came round to see me and told me. He had put aside money for his son to go to the madrissa.’
‘Surely it is not necessary to do that?’ said Owen. Schools were free in Egypt.
‘He wanted him to go to the best madrissa. And for that, extra is necessary. He had spoken of it to me often. “My boy shall not be a slave of the land,” he said. “He is clever, and should not be cut off from the things that should be his.” So every time he returned, he went to one of the great banks in the City and put aside part of his earnings.’
He broke off and looked at Owen again, with sharp, intelligent eyes.
‘Normally, Effendi, I would agree with him, for it is good to think ahead for one’s children. But this time I said, “Is it wise, Sabri, to have money in the bank and yet be thrown off one’s land because one cannot pay the rent?”
‘But Sabri said: “We will not be thrown off our land, for I will be able to pay the rent,” It was then, Effendi, that he told me. “I have something to tell the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “I go to the Camel Market this evening, and when I tell him tomorrow, he will reward me richly. Let Al-Fuli wait but a little and there will be n
o question of his not being paid.” So you see, Effendi, it was not as you supposed. He wished to see you not because of some quarrel that had come upon you both but because of some mighty thing that he wished to tell you.’
‘You have no idea what that thing was?’
‘Alas, no, Effendi. I know only that it was something for which he thought you would reward him richly, and that it was something for your ear alone.’
***
When Owen left the house he found two men waiting outside. One was a short, stocky, middle-aged man, not an Arab, Turkish-Egyptian, probably, dressed in European clothes. The other was an elderly fellah, grey-haired and dressed in a galabeah.
The one in European clothes came forward, hand outstretched.
‘Osman Huq,’ he said. ‘I am the Pasha Ismail’s agent.’
‘Owen. Police.’
‘Police?’
‘A man has been killed. He came, I understand, from this village.’
‘Ah, yes. Sabri.’ He seemed puzzled, however. ‘Police?’ he said again.
In Egypt responsibility for investigating a crime lay not with the Police but with the Parquet, the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice.
‘I am assisting the Parquet in this case.’
‘Ah, yes. There is something…special about it?’
‘Only that Sabri was helping to supply camels to the Army at the time. We wouldn’t want anything to go wrong with the supplying.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Nor with the supplying of donkeys. You have been having difficulties, I gather?’ he said to the other man, guessing that he was the village omda, or headman.
They shook hands.
‘Not really, Effendi. Some have murmured, it is true, but the price was a fair one.’
‘There are always people who murmur,’ said the agent.
‘It affects their ability to work the land, of course.’
‘Only a little. There are still donkeys in the village and they can be shared. Besides, there are still buffalo. No, Effendi, it is just that there are always people who are difficult.’
‘And that is true,’ said the omda.
Osman Huq hesitated.
‘Effendi, I am surprised that you should bother yourself with one such as Sabri.’
‘Well, I am not bothering myself very much.’
The Point in the Market Page 4
