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

Owen stepped in after them. A man was lying by the door dazed and holding his head. Two of the Sudanis were grappling with a huge Berberine. As Owen entered he saw the Berberine subside.

Georgiades had pushed on ahead. They were in a small, dark hall at the end of which was a door. He flung the door open. Beyond it was a large sunken room with couches and divans on which people were lying in various states of undress. There were glasses and bottles on the floor and one or two of the men were smoking from nargilehs.

A woman sprang up. She was wearing a long purple dress and her face was heavily made up. She called something and two men came out of an inner room holding thick sticks with spikes on them. Georgiades showed them his gun and they stopped. A Sudani hit one of the men across the arm with his truncheon. Then there was a crack and the spiked stick fell to the floor. The man doubled up, holding his arm. The other man ran off. The Sudani followed him.

Some of the people on the couches started getting up.

“Stay where you are!” Georgiades commanded.

He looked round the room. The sergeant wasn’t there.

“Upstairs!” he said, and nodded to the Sudanis.

The madam advanced on him, her eyes blazing.

“What is this?” she said. “Who are you?”

Georgiades ignored her.

She caught one of the Sudanis as he went by.

“Who is this?” she hissed.

“The Mamur Zapt,” said the man, and went out through the door.

The woman saw Owen.

“Vous etes le Mamur Zapt?”

“Oui, madame. ”

“Qu ’ est ce que vous faites ici?” she demanded, and launched on a bitter tirade. Owen pushed her away.

The people on the couches sat frozen. One of the girls began to cry.

Georgiades came in.

“He’s upstairs,” he said.

Owen followed him. There was a small landing at the top of the stairs which gave on to a series of rooms. Georgiades went into one of these.

There was a large bed with no covers. On it were two women, one black, one white, both naked, and the sergeant, dressed only in a shirt. He was trying to sit up.

“What the hell’s this?” he said thickly.

Georgiades looked at Owen. Owen nodded.

“Get the cuffs on him,” he said.

A big Sudani yanked the sergeant off the bed in a single movement. The sergeant swore and stood swaying. Georgiades snapped the cuffs on. The sergeant looked at them, bewildered. He had difficulty in focusing his eyes.

One of the girls gestured at his trousers, which had been flung over a chair.

“Take too long,” said Georgiades.

The girl shrugged, curled herself up and lay there watching.

The Sudanis started hustling the sergeant out. As they got him to the door he suddenly bent over and vomited.

They had to wait while he leaned against the door post groaning and retching.

The madam came up the stairs.

“I will complain,” she said. “You have no right.”

Her eyes took in the sergeant.

“Pig!” she said. “Cochon.”

In one of the rooms off the landing a woman cried out.

The sergeant brought himself upright. His eyes suddenly focused on Owen.

“Seen you before,” he muttered.

One of the Sudanis pulled at him. The sergeant shook him off.

“Who the hell are you?” he said. “Seen you before.”

Two Sudanis got a grip on him and began to drag him down the stairs.

“Mon dieu!” said the madam. “C’est affreux!” She tried to intercept Owen. “I will tell the consul,” she said. “You cannot do this.”

The sergeant collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, white-faced and groaning.

“Take him out!” said Georgiades.

One of the Sudanis caught hold of the sergeant by the collar and tried to haul him upright. The collar tore and the sergeant fell back. Another Sudani picked him up by the armpits and propped him against the stairs. The sergeant looked about him, confused.

“Seen you before,” he said.

The Sudanis pulled him towards the door. Half way across the room he was sick again.

“Cochon! Cochon!” the madam cried.

A grey-haired man came in through the door. He was wearing a silk dressing-gown and had plainly just got out of bed.

“I protest!” he said. “These are Syrian citizens!”

“This one?” asked Georgiades, pointing to the sergeant.

“That one, too,” said the grey-haired man.

"He’s a British soldier,” said Georgiades.

The sergeant lifted his head. “I fucking am,” he said.

He wrenched himself free from the Sudanis, put his head down and charged at the grey-haired man. Georgiades tripped him up and the Sudanis fell on top of him.

“Get him out, for Christ’s sake,” said Owen.

The Sudanis picked themselves up. The sergeant lay motionless on the floor. Another Sudani came across and helped them to carry him out.

The madam caught the grey-haired man by the sleeve and whispered to him. He came up to Owen.

“I protest!” he said. “This is a gross infringement of our nation’s rights under the Capitulations.”

“Who are you?” asked Owen.

The man drew himself up. “I am a member of the Syrian consular staff.”

He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing-gown and produced a printed slip.

“Here is my card,” he said with dignity.

Owen ignored it.

“I am the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “I have right of entry into all premises.”

“Under protest,” said the man. “My country does not accept that interpretation.”

“Too bad,” said Owen, and turned away.

The sergeant was out of the house now.

“I shall complain to the Agent,” said the grey-haired man. “This is Syrian territory and these are Syrian subjects.”

He had to earn his money. Half the brothels in Cairo, and all the gambling saloons, retained a tame consular official to use in case of emergencies. Under the Capitulations, privileges granted to European powers by successive Ottoman rulers, foreigners were granted immunity from Egyptian law. They could not even be charged unless it could be proved that they had committed an offence not under Egyptian law but in terms of the law of their own native countries. Since nationality was elastic at the best of times in the Levant, it was very hard to convict anyone at all; except, of course, for the poorer Egyptians.

It was a system which commercially inclined Cairenes knew exactly how to turn to advantage, and which drove Garvin and McPhee to despair.

“One of them is a British subject,” said Owen, “and he has been robbed.”

He followed Georgiades out of the house. They had given the Sudanis enough time now to be well on their way.

Beneath the Mamur Zapt’s office was a whole row of cells, but Owen did not want the sergeant put in one of them. He was taken instead to a public prison in the Hosh Sharkawiyeh. Owen had chosen it because it was a caracol, a traditional native lock-up. It consisted of a single long room. There were no windows, just two narrow slits high up for ventilation. Most air and what light there was came in through the heavy wooden bars of the grille-like door, through which prisoners could look up at the busy street outside. The prison stood at the corner of an old square and had either been deliberately built to be below ground level or else, like some of the other buildings in the square, had been constructed at a time when the level was generally lower.

There were fifteen prisoners in the cell, not many by Egyptian standards, but crowded enough. Foetid air reached up to Owen as the keeper unbolted the door. Some of the inmates had been confined for the same reason as the sergeant, and, mixed with the stale air, there was a strong smell of excrement and vomit.

The Sudanis threw the sergeant in and helped the keeper to slide back the heavy bolts.