Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

“A Copt?”

“It’s all these people wanting increases in their allocations,” said Ramses. “You need someone who is both competent at finance and honest. In Egypt the two don’t usually go together. Especially in politicians.”

“Just in Patros.”

“He’s come up through the ministry. The Consul-General knows he can trust him.”

“He’s one of the blokes that stops me viring?”

“That’s right. Only he left the ministry some time ago to go into politics.”

“Is he in favour of the levy or against it?”

“A good question, the answer to which the Coptic community would dearly like to know. The point is, however, that whether he’s actually in favour of the levy or not, he can’t accept the Prime Ministership while the issue is still on the agenda. He would lose all credibility with the Coptic community. So, if you don’t want him to become Prime Minister you keep the issue on the agenda.”

“Which the Khedive is doing.”

“Which the Khedive is doing for different reasons. He just wants money to go to France. The politicians around him are encouraging him in his insistence on the levy because they want to stop Patros.”

“And when is all this likely to be resolved?”

“It’s coming up to the boil, I would say,” said Ramses, “coming up to the boil.”

“I went to a funeral yesterday,” said Georgiades.

“I’m sorry. It-” Owen began.

Georgiades cut him off.

“On business.”

“What business?”

“Zoser’s. At least, it was his funeral. It was in the Mar Girgis. I thought I’d go and see who attended.”

“And who did attend?”

“Pretty well the whole congregation. Top to bottom.”

“Ramses?”

“And Sesostris.”

“Andrus?”

“Certainly. And did a lot of talking afterwards.”

“What did he say?”

“Couldn’t get close enough. I didn’t want to make myself too obvious. In view of my last visit.”

“A lot of people there?”

“Yes.”

“That worries me,” said Owen, “a bit.”

“It surprised me,” said Georgiades. “I’d thought he was a loner.”

“It looks as though, on this occasion at least, a lot of Copts identify with him.”

“It might be just that he’s one of their flock.”

“Wife there?”

“A woman smelling of perfumes.”

“Anyone talk to her?”

“I couldn’t see what went on behind the screen. But she didn’t come with anyone. And afterwards she left on her own.”

“You don’t know where she went?”

“As it happens,” said Georgiades, “I do.”

“You followed her?”

“No,” said Georgiades. “I wanted to hear what the others were saying. I got someone else to follow her. A small boy. For a large reward.”

“Not Ali? That boy in the cemetery.”

“That little bugger,” said Georgiades, “may be most places in Casiro but he’s not everywhere. No, another urchin. Equally unscrupulous.”

“Anyway, he followed her home?”

“That’s right. She’s moved, but not far. Still within a stone’s throw of the Scentmakers’ Bazaar.”

“She could still be important.”

“Yes. So I’ve set this boy up with a regular income. He’s keeping an eye on her. Debit the Curbash Compensation Fund with a few more milliemes.”

The Mamur Zapt winced.

Eventually Owen had to summon Yussuf.

“Yussuf,” he said, “things can’t go on like this. You’ll have to sort things out between you and your wife.”

“I have no wife,” said Yussuf obstinately.

“Yes, I know all about that,” said Owen, “but it won’t do. We haven’t had any decent coffee for days. Besides, it’s depressing everybody.”

That was true. Yussuf’s unhappiness had spread a cloud over the whole orderly room. Normally it buzzed with cheerful conversation. The orderlies didn’t do a lot of work but they did do a lot of talking, and their general cheerfulness had a lifting effect on the corridor as a whole. Owen would hear them as he sat at his desk; and if by some incredible chance all the bearers at once were sent out with messages and the orderly room fell empty he was at once conscious of a gap. Since Yussuf had fallen out with his wife, however, the sounds from the other end of the corridor had become more subdued. At first the other orderlies had merely seized upon it as an excuse for extra banter. Gradually, however, they had all been infected by Yussuf’s low spirits and now the orderly room was an oasis of gloom.

Even McPhee, the Assistant Commandant, had noticed it and that morning he had come along to see Owen.

“We can’t have this,” he said. “It’s depressing everybody. You’d better have a word with him. I’d do it myself but he’s your bearer.”

Although, strictly speaking, the bearers were not assigned to individuals and worked as a pool, carrying messages for anybody in the building, in practice they identified themselves with particular people. When Owen had first arrived in the building Yussuf had decided, unilaterally, to be his bearer and now it was a source of great pride to him that he was the one who carried the Mamur Zapt’s messages. Owen did not in fact have many messages-he preferred to use the telephone-and Yussuf had time on his hands. It had seemed to him a natural extension of his duties, and somehow consistent with Islamic notions of hospitality, to assume responsibility for seeing that Owen was properly supplied with coffee. The same generous spirit had seen him extend his service to the rest of the corridor, and now the whole floor depended on it. When the service faltered, therefore, everyone along the corridor was afflicted; and Owen, as the person responsible in custom for Yussuf, was seen as the man to put it right.

What precisely he could do about it was not immediately clear since even the Mamur Zapt’s writ did not normally extend to the domestic relationship between man and wife. The consensus along the corridor was that Yussuf’s wife was all right really apart from her inability to produce any children and that this was the root of the trouble. The other bearers took the traditional view that the right thing to do was for Yussuf to get rid of her and find another one; but for reasons known only to himself Yussuf was reluctant to do this. A refinement was therefore suggested, namely that he should keep his first wife and merely add a second. Here too, though, there were difficulties. Yussuf couldn’t afford it and his first wife wouldn’t allow it. She had marched indignantly out when the proposal had been put to her and the matter had remained unresolved ever since.

“I have no wife,” Yussuf repeated obstinately.

“Then it’s time you did,” said Owen. “Either take Fatima back or find yourself another woman.”

Yussuf was silent.

“Fatima has faults,” Owen pursued. “No woman is without faults. Nor no man either. You yourself, Yussuf, are not without blame. Fatima has been a good wife to you. For the sake of that, take her back.”

Yussuf stared straight in front of him. He gave no sign of having heard.

“You have shown her you are a strong man, one who must be obeyed. If she didn’t know that before, she will know it now. She has learned her lesson. Be just as well as strong, O Yussuf.”

Owen had fallen into the familiar rhetorical style of the Arab. It was partly the language itself that suggested it. When he had first come to Egypt Garvin had insisted that he stay with an Arab family perfecting his Arabic. Owen had a facility for languages and had learned his lessons well. He spoke Arabic now without strain and from the inside, not needing to translate, thinking in the Arabic mode.

Yussuf stirred, responding, possibly, to the familiar patterns.