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

A servant showed them through the house and out into the garden, where Nuri Pasha was waiting for them.

He was sitting in the shade of a large eucalyptus tree, a gold-topped cane between his knees and a rug about his shoulders. His head was resting on the back of the chair and from a distance it looked as if he was asleep, but as they drew nearer Owen saw that the apparently closed eyes were watching them carefully.

“Monsieur le Parquet! And-” the watchful eyes lingered a little on Owen-“le Mamur Zapt!”

Servants brought up wickerwork chairs.

“I was,” said Nuri Pasha, “about to have a late tea. Would you care to join me? Or something stronger perhaps?”

“Thank you,” said Owen. “Tea would be very welcome.”

He did not know how strict a Muslim Mahmoud was.

Nuri, it was clear, was a very Europeanized Egyptian. He spoke English perfectly, though with a suggestion that he would rather be speaking French. He was dressed in a dark jacket and light, pin-striped trousers. His shirt was impeccably white and he wore a grey silk tie fastened with a large gold pin.

“Tea, then.”

Already, across the lawn servants were bringing a table and tea-things. The table was spread with an immaculate white cloth. The teapot was silver, the cups of bone china. One of the servants poured the tea and then retired into the background.

“Good,” said Nuri, sipping his tea.

He put the cup back in the saucer.

“And now, what can I do for you two gentlemen?”

“If it would not distress you,” said Mahmoud, “I would like to hear your account of what happened in the Place de l’Opera.”

“Of course, dear boy,” said Nuri. “I am only too glad to be able to assist the Parquet. Especially,” he smiled, “in the circumstances.”

He seemed, however, to be in no hurry to begin. His eyes wandered across the flowerbeds to the other side of the lawn. “Beautiful!” he whispered.

Owen thought at first that he was referring to the freesia or the stocks, or perhaps to the bougainvillaea in bloom along the wall which surrounded the garden, but as he followed the direction of Nuri’s gaze he saw that the Pasha was looking at a young peasant girl who was walking along a raised path just beyond the wall with a tall jar on her head.

“Beautiful,” breathed Nuri again.

“If I was younger,” he said regretfully, “I’d send someone to fetch her. Those girls, when they are washed, are very good in bed. They regard an orgasm as a visitation from Allah. When I was young-” He went into graphic detail.

The story came to an end and Nuri sat for a moment sunk in the memory of past pleasures.

Owen stretched out a hand towards the cucumber sandwiches. The shadow of a kite hawk fell on the table and he looked up hurriedly, but the hawk was wheeling far above. He helped himself to the sandwich. Sometimes, at the Sporting Club, the hawks would snatch the food out of your very hand.

Mahmoud ventured a little cough.

“The Place de l’Opera,” he murmured.

Nuri affected a start.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “Monsieur le Parquet does right to recall us to our business.” He looked at Mahmoud with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I hope my reminiscences did not bore you?”

“Oh no,” protested Mahmoud. “Not at all.”

“Ah? Well, in that case perhaps you would like to hear about the peasant girl on one of my estates. She-”

He stopped with a grin.

“Or perhaps not. You are busy men. And it is not every day that one receives a visit from the Mamur Zapt.”

“I shall enjoy reading your memoirs,” said Owen.

“I am afraid,” said Nuri, with real regret, “that the best bits have to be left out. Even in Egypt.”

“The Place de l’Opera,” murmured Mahmoud doggedly.

"The Place de l’Opera,” said Nuri. “Just so.”

Even then he shot off at a tangent.

“The case,” he said. “How is it going?”

“All right,” said Mahmoud, caught off guard. “We are making progress.”

“Ah? What have you found out?”

“We are only at the beginning,” said Mahmoud reluctantly. “Nothing, then?”

“We are holding a man.”

“The fellah?”

“Yes.”

Nuri waved a dismissive hand.

“A tool,” he said.

Mahmoud rallied determinedly.

“A number of points have emerged from my inquiries,” he said, "some of which are interesting and which I would like to check. Against your account.”

“Oh?” said Nuri. “What interesting points?”

“That, I shall not be altogether certain of until I have heard your account,” said Mahmoud blandly.

Nuri threw up his hands with a laugh.

“You have beaten me!” he conceded. It was evidently his way to play games.

He signalled to one of the servants, who came up and rearranged the rug round the old man’s shoulders.

“I will tell you what happened,” said Nuri, “although I am afraid it will be a very sketchy account.”

“Even that may help,” said Mahmoud “Yes,” said Nuri sceptically. “It may.”

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

“I had been meeting colleagues-former colleagues, I should say- in the Hotel Continental. When the meeting was over I went to find my arabeah. It was not there, so I went out into the Place to look for it. Suddenly-” his eyes opened-“I saw a man in front of me raising a gun.”

“How close?”

“From me to you. Perhaps a little more.”

Mahmoud waited for Nuri to think back.

“And then?”

Nuri frowned.

“And then I don’t know what happened.” “Were you conscious of the gun going off?”

“I heard a shot. Yes, I certainly heard a shot. And I fell down. Though whether before or after or at the same time I really cannot remember. Everything is very hazy.”

“You may have dazed yourself in falling,” said Mahmoud.

“The doctor thinks so,” said Nuri. “He claims to detect a bruise on the back of my head. I must say, I am not conscious of it myself, but then, my livelihood does not depend on finding bumps on other people.”

“You did see the man with the gun, though. Could you describe him?”

“Not very well. I saw him only fleetingly.”

“Was he dressed in European clothes?”

Nuri looked at him. “I have heard the accounts of my would-be assassin,” he said drily, “and you yourself confirmed that he was a fellah.”

Mahmoud apologized.

“I was merely trying to prompt you to recall exactly what you saw,” he said. “Was he young or old, for instance, what kind of galabeah was he wearing?”

“I do not,” said Nuri Pasha, “bother to distinguish one fellah from another.”

There was a little silence.

“In any case,” said Nuri, “the fellah is not the one that matters. He is merely a tool.”

“Have you any idea,” asked Owen, “who might be using him as a tool?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Can you think of anyone who would wish to kill you?”

Nuri looked at Owen with surprise.

“Mon cher, ” he said, “Everybody wants to kill me. Tout le monde. ” “Come,” said Owen, “you have enemies enough, I am sure, anyone in your position is bound to, but there is a difference between having an enemy and having an enemy who wants to kill you.”

“You are right,” said Nuri Pasha, “if a trifle literal. I am plainly guilty of exaggeration. Let me try to be more accurate. Only half the population of Egypt wants to kill me. The other half would just be happy to see it happen.” He laughed, and then put his hand on Owen’s arm. “I joke, mon cher,” he said, “but it is no joke really.” Owen nodded.

The word “Denshawai” did not need to be spoken.