Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet

In an effort to put Mahmoud more at ease, he switched into Arabic. Mahmoud switched back into English.

The conversation was at the level of exchanging commonplaces. Owen knew that when Mahmoud had finished his coffee he would go.

Some shoe-boys were larking about near their table. One of them threw a brush at another. The brush missed and fell under the table. The boy scurried to retrieve it and almost upset their coffee. They grabbed at the table together and cursed simultaneously. The boy fled laughing, chased by a furious waiter. Owen smiled, and thought he saw an answering flicker on Mahmoud’s face.

Deliberately he moved his chair round so that he sat beside Mahmoud, closer to him. Arab conventions of personal territory were different from European ones. What to an Englishman seemed keeping a proper distance, to an Arab seemed cold and unfriendly.

“Your day has been hard?” he asked sympathetically.

At last he got a real response.

Mahmoud looked round at him.

“Not as hard as yours yesterday,” he said bitterly. “Although perhaps you did not find it so.”

Owen knew that Mahmoud was referring to the students.

The remark surprised him. He knew, of course, that this kind of political policing was resented by Egyptians, but had thought that as a member of the Parquet Mahmoud must have come to terms with it. He wondered suddenly what Mahmoud’s own political position was. A bright young Parquet lawyer on the rise might well have political ambitions; and if he did, they might well be on the Nationalist side.

“I was not involved directly,” he said slowly, “although of course I knew of it.”

“Perhaps I should not have spoken,” said Mahmoud.

“No, that’s all right,” said Owen. He smiled. “It’s just that I am trying to think of an answer.”

He pondered for a moment and then decided to go for honesty.

“The answer is,” he said, “that I did not find it hard. It was regrettable, certainly, but a necessity. Given the situation in Egypt. Of course, you may not want to grant the situation. I would understand that.”

A little to his surprise, Mahmoud seemed to find the answer satisfactory. He relaxed visibly and waved to the waiter for more coffee.

“I appreciate your answer,” he said. “And in case you’re wondering, let me tell you I personally am not a revolutionary. Nationalist, yes, reforming, even radical, yes; but not a revolutionary. I would like the British out. But meanwhile…” He sighed. “Meanwhile, for you and for me, there are necessities.”

He paused while the waiter filled their cups.

“However,” he said, “I must tell you I would not want to grant the situation.”

“That,” said Owen, “I can quite understand.”

He brooded a little.

“I can understand,” he said presently, ‘‘a bit at any rate, because I myself am not English.”

“Not English?” said Mahmoud, astonished.

“Welsh.”

“Welsh? Pays Galles?”

Owen nodded.

“I have never met anyone from Wales before,” said Mahmoud. “You probably wouldn’t know if you had. They’re very like Englishmen. Smaller, darker. Not enough to stand out. But there is a difference. In the part of Wales I come from,” said Owen, “most people do not speak English.”

“Vraiment?”

Mahmoud hesitated.

“But-you speak English very well. How-?”

“We spoke both Welsh and English at home,” said Owen. “My father normally spoke English. He wanted me to grow up to be an Englishman. My mother spoke Welsh.”

“And she wanted you to grow up to be a Welshman?” asked Mahmoud.

“Probably,” said Owen, laughing. “She was hopelessly romantic. She wanted Wales to be an independent country again.”

“And that seems romantic to you?”

“In the case of Wales, yes.”

Mahmoud considered.

“In the case of Egypt, too,” he said at length. “Romantic. Definitely romantic.”

Their rapport quite restored, they continued happily drinking coffee.

At the other end of the cafe a party broke up with the usual prolonged Arabic farewells. Most of the party went off together across the square, but one of them made his way along the pavement in their direction, skirting the gambling and waving aside the shoe-boys. As he passed their table his eye caught Owen’s. It was Fakhri.

He stopped in his tracks.

“The Mamur Zapt?” he cried. “And-” taking in Mahmoud-“the Parquet? Together? There must have been a revolution! And no one has told me!”

“Come and join us,” Owen invited, “and we’ll tell you.”

Fakhri dropped into a chair.

“I don’t want to interrupt you,” he said, “unless you’re talking business.”

“Business and pleasure. Mostly pleasure.”

“Ah,” said Fakhri, waving a hand back at the dispersed party. “Like me. Pleasure and business. Mostly business.”

“What is your business?” asked Owen curiously.

“He has not heard,” said Fakhri sorrowfully.

“Fakhri Bey is a distinguished editor,” said Mahmoud.

“Oh, that Fakhri!” said Owen, whose own business was to know the political press. “My apologies. I read your editorials with pleasure. Sometimes.”

“I am afraid you may not read tomorrow’s with pleasure,” said Fakhri.

“The students?” Owen shrugged.

“Quite so,” said Fakhri. “Let us forget about them.”

He and Owen both waved for more coffee simultaneously.

“At least what you say,” said Owen, “will be less predictable than what I read in al Liwa. ”

Fakhri made a face.

“They say everything at the top of their voice,” he said. “There is no light and shade.”

“What’s happening at al Liwa,” asked Owen, “now that Mustafa Kamil has died?”

Mustafa Kamil, the brilliant young politician who had built up the National Party virtually from scratch, had died a month or two previously, from a heart attack.

“They have not sorted themselves out yet. All the top posts keep changing, the editorship among them.”

“The complexion of the paper doesn’t, though,” said Owen.

“It could. It depends on who wins control of the party. If it’s el Gazzari it will become very religious. Crazily so. If it’s Jemal it will go in for heavy doses of revolutionary theory.”

Owen sighed. “Neither will make it more readable,” he said. “They lack your touch.”

Fakhri tried not to look pleased.

“See how expertly he works,” he said to Mahmoud. “This is how the Mamur Zapt gets the press eating out of his hand.”

“The Egyptian press,” said Owen, “is the most independent in the world. Unfortunately.”

They all laughed.

A boy went past sprinkling water to keep down the dust. Fakhri pulled his legs back hurriedly. For a little while there was the lovely, distinctive smell of wet sand.

“How is Nuri Pasha?” asked Fakhri. “I called on him two days ago to express my sympathy but his Berberine told me that he was talking to you.”

“He is well,” said Mahmoud.

“Praise be to God!” said Fakhri automatically.

He hesitated.

“And how are you getting on-?” He broke off. “Perhaps I shouldn’t ask!”

His laugh allowed the brush-off; but he cocked his head attentively, inviting information.

Owen decided to play.

“We hold the man, of course,” he said.

“Ah, yes, but-”

“Those behind?”

Fakhri nodded.

“Not yet.”

Fakhri affected, or showed, disappointment.

Owen decided to try a move of his own.

"The attempt did not come as a surprise to you,” he said, more as a statement than a question.

“No,” said Fakhri. “It did not.”

“Denshawai?”

“Of course.”