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

However, evade and evade as he might, in the end he had to come to it: did he love Jane Postlethwaite? Enough to marry her? No, not enough to marry her, that was not it. Love her, full stop. Well, “love” was a strong word, etc., etc. Christ, he was going round in circles.

He needed some coffee.

That was another problem. He had to do something about Yussuf. Yussuf had been put in the cells to cool off and Owen had not long before been down to see him. Yussuf had been quite inconsolable.

“I have shamed the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “Release me from your service! I am not worthy.”

As Owen had not appointed Yussuf to his service in the first place but Yussuf had appointed himself, this seemed beside the point. However, he seemed suitably penitent, so Owen left him there while he tried to work out what to do with him.

On his way back from the cells one of the bearers had intercepted him. Yussuf’s ex-wife had come to the police station and would not go away. When Owen went out to see her she was squatting in the dust of the yard, her head covered, rocking to and fro in grief.

“My man is in prison, aiee-e,” she wailed.

“Be quiet, woman!” said one of the bearers. “You have caused enough trouble.”

“Aiee-e,” wailed the woman. “My husband has wronged the Mamur Zapt. He was bearer to the Mamur Zapt and forgot his place because of his foolish wife.”

Well, that’s something, at any rate, thought Owen. If Fatima was prepared to admit her foolishness something might yet be saved from the wreckage.

“Have mercy, effendi!” cried the woman, rocking to and fro.

“Have mercy and free this foolish man because of his foolish wife.”

The bearers looked embarrassed and tried to get her to go. The woman shrugged off their hands and remained sitting where she was.

“Have mercy, effendi.”

“I might have mercy,” said Owen, “if I thought there was any point in it.”

The woman stopped wailing.

“Why should there be no point in it, effendi?” she asked quietly, in a perfectly normal voice.

“Because his heart would still be troubled.”

“He loves me,” said the woman, slightly with surprise, slightly with satisfaction.

“He loves you and wants you back. Will you not return to him?”

The woman dropped the fold from her face and looked up at him seriously.

“I would, effendi,” she said, troubled. “Suleiman is a pig. All he wants is harem business. He keeps on all the time. A little, I don’t mind. It’s good for a woman. But this pig thinks of nothing else.”

“Yussuf is a good man,” said Owen. “He has his faults, but he is a good man.”

“A woman could do worse,” Fatima conceded, “as I have found, unfortunately.”

“Besides,” said Owen, “he might have learnt his lesson.”

The woman looked up at him. There was a glint in her eye.

“I think he might, effendi,” she said.

“Then what is to be done?”

“Suleiman will not agree to a divorce,” Fatima said, “unless you give him money. A lot of money. He thinks that because you are a good master you will want Yussuf to be happy and so will pay a lot.”

“She isn’t worth it,” said one of the bearers firmly.

“Do not let yourself be beguiled, effendi,” said another of the bearers. “Yussuf will be better off without her.”

“Suleiman will tire of her,” said another, “when he has had his fill.”

“The Mamur Zapt has more wisdom than you,” the woman retorted with spirit.

“I will think about this,” Owen had said.

And thinking was what he was doing, without success.

The trouble at the bottom was money. That was another thing he had to think about. The Curbash Compensation Fund was completely exhausted. He couldn’t pay for Yussuf. He couldn’t pay his agents. And he certainly couldn’t manage any of the substantial bribes on which the Mamur Zapt’s day-to-day management of the city depended. What was he to do? Even if he survived the present crisis with its unusually heavy demands on resources, there were still a few weeks to go before he received his allocation for the next year. He would have to cut back just when spending might be most needed. There was, after all, the Moulid coming up. He would have to pay for the policing of that out of this year’s money. With what?

If only John Postlethwaite would go away things could return to normal and he might be able to get some money as a special case in view of the emergency and the delicate state of politics. But what with Postlethwaite and the political situation there was absolutely no hope.

But if John Postlethwaite went he would take Jane Postlethwaite with him. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? He was going to be leaving soon anyway so Owen would have to make up his mind about Jane. Oh Christ, there he was going round in a circle again.

Lastly, he thought about Andrus. He thought he understood now about Zoser. There had been no plot. Andrus had gone to Zoser and poured out his heart. Zoser, as rigid as Andrus and far less intelligent, had taken it upon himself to put right the wrong which had been done to his friend and his church. He could have learned who had perpetrated the deed either from Andrus or through the ordinary gossip of the bazaars. And once he had learned, for the uncomplicated Zoser there would have been no gap between decision and action.

Zoser, poor man, had seen to his own punishment. Andrus’s was still to come.

Over the killing of the Zikr, Andrus, though not blameless, was probably not very guilty. On the other matter, however, inciting unrest in the city which had already led to trouble between Moslem and Copt and might still lead to massacre, Andrus was, if not the prime mover, then definitely a prime mover, and for that he must be made to pay.

But that was not what Owen was thinking about. Nor was he thinking about who really was the prime mover, for he thought he knew that already. All he was waiting for was confirmation.

No, the problem which really preoccupied him, which he kept returning to from one direction after another, and one in which he never seemed to make headway, was how to use the information he had to bring the conflict between Copt and Moslem to an end. It had to be soon, it had to be quick, and so far he had seen no way of achieving it.

Not that he had made much progress on anything else. Even Yussuf, the simplest of the problems. He wished he could speak to Zeinab about it. Zeinab was quite good at that sort of thing. Zeinab-oh God, there he went again.

Yussuf. Well, at least he had learned his lesson. He would never do that again. He was absolutely ashamed of himself. And as Owen reflected on Yussuf, and on the effects of shame, the glimmerings of an idea began to come to him.

He became aware of someone in the room. It was Nikos.

“He has come back,” he said.

“Did he see where Andrus went?”

“Yes.”

After the interview Andrus, much to his surprise, had been released; but when he left Mahmoud’s office one of Owen’s agents had followed on behind him.

“Who did he go to?”

“Sesostris,” said Nikos. “As you expected.”

“What do you want?” said Andrus.

“I want you to withdraw all your people from the streets, to send them home and to tell them to stay at home, until at least after the Moulid. You are to instruct them not to respond to Moslem provocation. There won’t be any after tomorrow, but if there is they are not to respond to it. They are to take special pains not to offend Moslem susceptibilities. Above all, they are not to use any violence. If they do, I expect you to tell me their names and I will deal with them.”

Andrus laughed incredulously.

“Is that all you want?” he demanded. “You must be mad.”