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

“You are,” said Owen. “Is Ahmed?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Ahmed is just angry,” she said. Then she looked hard at him.

“Why do you ask?”

“Interested,” said Owen.

“Surely you don’t think-” She began to laugh. “It’s too ridiculous,” she said.

“Is it?”

“If you knew Ahmed-” She broke off. “Why,” she said, “you sound just like the Mamur Zapt.”

And turned on her heel and walked away.

Owen rejoined the group around the playwright. They were talking now about the way in which old parts of Cairo were being torn down to make way for new buildings in the European style. Was this progress or was it deterioration? The debate continued happily and vehemently.

A little later in the evening, or morning, Fakhri detached him.

“I would like you to meet one of my colleagues,” he said, and led Owen over to a little group in one corner. Two earnest young men were addressing a somewhat gloomy middle-aged man, who looked up with relief when he saw Fakhri approaching.

“Mon cher!” he said.

They shook hands and embraced.

“I have been here all night and not had a word with you!”

“It was good of you to come,” said Fakhri. “Have you put it to bed?”

The man glanced at his watch.

“The first copies will be coming off in an hour,” he said. “I shall have to go soon.”

“Not before you have had some more coffee,” said Fakhri, and clapped his hands.

A splendid suffragi, or waiter, in a spotless white gown and a red sash around his middle appeared at once with a coffee-pot.

“You need it to keep awake,” said Fakhri. “Anyway, why do you have to be there? Can’t they manage without you?”

“No,” said the man gloomily. “It will all be wrongly set, the columns won’t be straight and some of it is bound to be transposed.” “They used to be all right," said Fakhri. “Well, fairly all right.” “They were always hopeless,” said the man, “and now they’re worse.”

“Daouad always sees the gloomy side of things,” Fakhri said to Owen. “However, it is true that things are not easy for him.”

“Not easy,” said Daouad, roused. “I’ll say they’re not easy! You don’t know what problems are!” he said to Fakhri.

He turned to Owen.

“There’s no direction! Not since Kamil died. They’re all at each other’s throats, el Gazzari, Jemal, Yussuf, Abdul Murr. And I’m in the middle! If I print something that Jemal likes, el Gazzari won’t have it. If I put in one of Gazzari’s huge sermons, Jemal comes to me and says it has to go or his people won’t distribute it.”

He gulped his coffee.

“That’s why I have to be there,” he said to Fakhri. “It was all right when I left the office but who knows what they’ve done since? They’ll have pulled articles out, pushed articles in-”

Fakhri patted him on the shoulder. “Only a man like you could cope,” he said,

Owen knew now why Fakhri had introduced him. Daouad was the editor of a! Liwa

‘ Working to so many people is impossible,” he said sympathetically. “It is,” Daouad agreed fervently.

“And they are so extreme! They won’t compromise at all.”

“Not one bit,” agreed Daouad.

“I don’t know how you manage. Is there any sign of someone getting control?”

“That might be worse,” said Daouad gloomily. “If it’s el Gazzari, I couldn’t go on. I can’t even talk to him. And Jemal wouldn’t be much better. They never listen to me!” he complained to Fakhri.

“They couldn’t do without you,” said Fakhri.

“What about Abdul Murr?” he asked.

“He’s got more sense,” Daouad conceded. “I could work with him.”

“I would have thought there was a chance of Abdul Murr,” said Fakhri. “In the end both Jemal and el Gazzari must see that things can’t go on like this. Someone has to be in charge. Abdul Murr is a reasonable man. They can both work with him, even if they can’t work with each other.”

“He’s too moderate for both of them.”

“It may have to come to that,” Fakhri insisted. “There has to be compromise. Even they must see that!”

“They might see it,” said Daouad, “but others won’t.”

“If they see it, the others will have to.”

Daouad pursed his lips. “There are others who are even more difficult,” he said. “Compared with them, el Gazzari and Jemal are reason itself.”

“Then,” said Fakhri, “ you certainly do have problems.”

“Fakhri doesn’t really care if I have problems,” Daouad said to Owen. “He’s on the other side.” “There are lots of other sides,” said Fakhri. His cheeks crinkled with laughter. “Anyway,” he said, “of course I am! I like to hear of your problems. It m^kes me forget mine for a little.”

“How I envy you. Fakhri,” said Daouad. “There’s only one boss in your place and that’s you. In my place there are ten bosses and none of them is me.”

“I can’t believe there’s anyone worse than Jemal and el Gazzari,” said Owen.

“Oh, there is!” said Daouad with great conviction.

“There can’t be!” said Owen. “Who?”

Daouad started to speak, then stopped.

“There just are,” he said.

Owen shook his head, affecting disbelief.

“Some of el Gazzari’s factions are impossible,” Fakhri said to Owen. “And some of Jemal’s,” said Daouad.

Fakhri chuckled. “And Daouad is not going to tell us which of them he’s thinking of!”

“That’s right,” said Daouad. “I’m not.”

“I promise I won’t print what you say,” said Fakhri.

“It’s not that that worries me,” said Daouad darkly.

“What is it that worries you?” asked Owen.

Daouad looked at his watch.

"I’ve got to go,” he said.

“At any rate,” said Fakhri, “there’s one worry that I’ve got and you haven’t.”

“What’s that?” asked Daouad. ' v

“Money,” said Fakhri.

“Oh, money,” said Daouad, shrugging his shoulders.

“Just so,” said Fakhri. “But if you’re independent like me-”

“I am independent,” muttered Daouad touchily.

“-you’ve always got to be thinking about it. One big fine would close me down.”

“They can close you down without doing that,” said Daouad. They talked for a little while longer about the difficulties of the censorship. Owen knew he was being got at, but he did not mind. Fakhri was being very helpful. He had certainly earned something. The question was, what did he want? At one point Owen had thought he was angling for a bribe. That could be arranged. But perhaps Fakhri had in mind something less directly financial: greater tolerance if he stepped over the line, perhaps. That, too, was possible.

Daouad looked at his watch again. He shook hands with Owen and

Fakhri escorted him to the door. Owen wondered whether he could decently leave himself.

A voice behind him said: “No arts pages in al Liwa. ”

It was one of his friends from earlier in the evening.

“A pity,” said Owen, “especially from your point of view.”

“It would be a better paper if it did have them. It’s too one-track at the moment. Boring.”

“That’s because Daouad is boring,” said another of the earlier party, joining them.

“It’s not just that. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.”

“El Gazzari?” hazarded Owen.

The other two exchanged grimaces.

“Not that Jemal’s any better,” one of them said.

“A pity,” said Owen again. “Fakhri says they've got plenty of money.”

“He would. He’s envious.”

“Where do they get it from?” Owen asked. “Party funds?” “Ah-ha.” One of the young men laid a finger along his nose and winked. The other called to a group standing next to them. “Zeinab!” A girl turned round. It was the one Owen had spoken to earlier. “What is it?” she said, coming across to them.