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

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 treated 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.