The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet

CHAPTER 5

When Nikos arrived in the office the next morning he found Owen already there, finishing a memo. It read:

The Mamur Zapt has received unconfirmed reports of a disturbing increase in the number of thefts from military installations in recent months. These include thefts of guns, ammunition and other equipment which could be used for offensive purposes. Clearly there could be serious implications for civil security if these got into the wrong hands. Unfortunately, such thefts are treated purely as an internal matter by Military Security and not reported to the Mamur Zapt, with the result that he has been unable to investigate the possibility of links with known terrorist organizations or establish whether a pattern is emerging. No analysis has been made by Military Security. In view of the possible threat to civil order and the likelihood that senior civil and military personnel could be at risk, it is recommended that:

1. an independent investigation be carried out as a matter of urgency into current security at military installations.

2. the Mamur Zapt be informed within twenty-four hours whenever a theft of arms occurs and given a full account of the circumstances in which the theft occurred.

3. Military Security be instructed to supply the Mamur Zapt with a complete list of thefts which had occurred over the past year.

“What’s all this?” said Nikos, reading it through. “ ‘Unconfirmed Reports?’ Where did you get all this stuff from? It’s not come through the office.”

“No,” Owen agreed.

“Of course, you’ve a right to use alternative channels,” said Nikos huffily.

“I haven’t been using alternative channels,” said Owen. “I made it up.”

“You what?”

“Made it up. To fix that bastard, Brooker,” Owen explained.

“It isn’t true?”

“Now look what you’ve done!” said Georgiades, who had come into the room at the same time as Nikos. “You’ve shocked him! Poor, innocent soul!” he said to Nikos, resting a fatherly hand on him.

“Never mind my innocent soul!” snapped Nikos. “What the hell is going on?”

Nikos rarely swore.

“I’ve told you,” said Owen reasonably.

“You’re doing this just to get even with Brooker?”

Owen nodded. Since coming to Egypt he had discovered that he had something of a bent for administrative politics.

Nikos took a moment to gather himself together.

“All right, then,” he said, dumping the day’s newspapers on Owen’s desk.

“I hope you know what you are doing,” he said, as he went out.

“So this is how one gets to be Mamur Zapt!” said Georgiades. He shook his head, marvelling. “Ah, what a thing it is to lack scruple! I’ve often wondered what it is that’s been holding me back.”

He followed Nikos off down the corridor chuckling.

Owen turned his attention to the newspapers. Every morning when he got in he read them all: all the Arabic ones, all the French ones and all the English ones, that is. Georgiades read the Greek ones and Nikos the Coptic, Armenian and Italian ones. Owen’s legal adviser read the Turkish ones, which were especially important. Another experienced man read the Jewish ones.

Nikos also read the London Times, the Morning Post and the Illustrated London News, although Owen assured him they were of no help at all.

Owen read for “feel” only. The papers would be read again, more thoroughly, by the censors, who would pick up cases where action was unavoidable and alert him to anything he had missed. Owen himself seldom remembered detail. His concern was rather to take the political temperature of the city.

To do that meant taking several temperatures, not one. Cairo was a polyglot city of many communities. The bulk of its population, as elsewhere in Egypt, spoke Egyptian Arabic. But there were also sizeable communities of Greeks, Italians, French, Syrians, Armenians, English, Jews and Turks. The Turks had an importance out of proportion to their numbers because until recently they had supplied the ruling class and occupied most of the administrative and military positions. The language of administration, and certainly of the law, tended, however to be French, although English was taking over. French, too, was the language of upper-class Cairenes, reflecting their many links with French culture and society. Well-to-do Cairenes sent their children to French schools. Their wives looked naturally to Paris for their fashions. They themselves not only spoke French but thought French.

To move with ease in Cairo society you really needed a command of three languages: Arabic, French and English. The polished young men about the British Agent managed this without difficulty. Many of the other British administrations were fairly at home in Arabic at least. Only the Army, lacking both Arabic and French, was completely isolated linguistically; linguistically, and therefore socially.

Owen’s own Arabic was excellent, his French fair only, though a girl in Alexandria the previous year had improved it considerably.

He read over the Arabic papers, keeping an eye open especially for anything that would support what Fakhri had said the night before. He found nothing to suggest that Fakhri’s foreboding was generally, or even widely shared. However, that did not make him discount Fakhri’s words altogether. The Egyptian might well be reflecting faithfully the views of the part of upper-middle-class Cairene society with which he was familiar. Such people might well see themselves as potential targets for attack and he might well be registering accurately their apprehension. So long as such views were restricted to them Owen did not mind. What would concern him would be if they showed signs of spreading to other people. Put ideas in people’s heads, Garvin might have said, and there’s always a chance that they will act on them.

He read, therefore, Fakhri’s own paper with particular care. It was an intellectual weekly with a fairly limited circulation, and in itself hardly likely to stir a man’s adrenalin. However, it was well known. Other journalists and, indeed, other editors might well read it; and if they read it they might take things from it.

Like most Cairo editors, however, Fakhri knew exactly where to draw the line. In the present number he had drawn it with a finesse that earned Owen’s professional admiration. The connection between Nuri and the Denshawai Incident was made, but circumspectly and in the most general of terms. Even the account of the student demonstration, which occupied most of the front page, was handled in a way to which it was difficult to take exception. Legal exception, that was. Exception might well be taken on other grounds. The account itself was sharp to the point of viciousness and the editorial, which commented on it, provocative to the limits of admissibility. The writing did not, however, actually step over the line which divided it from the inflammatory and defamatory.

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.

He stole a glance at Mahmoud. His face was stiff and unyielding. This was an issue of principle for him and he was not going to give way.

Owen could see the bridge ahead of them. That was where the promenade came to an end, and unless something happened that was where the walk would come to an end.

Owen knew that he was the one who would have to do something. The trouble was that he couldn’t think what.

Just before they got to the bridge he stopped and turned, forcing Mahmoud to look at him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Yes?” Mahmoud was wary but not completely distant.

“I’ve been trying to think of a way forward,” Owen said, “one acceptable to both of us.”

Mahmoud was interested, and because he was interested his face lost some of its woodenness.

“Let me try this on you: my people make a list and your people make a list. You check everyone whether they are on my list or on your list. If they’re on your list and not on mine you don’t have to tell me-unless you want to.”

Mahmoud’s face cleared at once.

“I would be happy with that,” he said. “I would be very happy with that.”

“Of course,” said Mahmoud, “it may not be political anyway.”

They were sitting in a cafe, one of the few Arab ones in this European part of the city.

“What else could it be?”

“Well, let me try something on you,” Mahmoud said. “Someone besides Mustafa has got a personal grudge. Perhaps even for the same reason-Nuri can’t leave women alone.”

“And set Mustafa up?”

“Yes. That way they would get their revenge and not get caught. If it worked.”

“No real evidence,” said Owen.

“No real evidence for it being political,” Mahmoud pointed out. “Yes, but-”

“You’ve got a feel?” Mahmoud laughed. "So have I. I’m just being a good boy and checking out all the possibilities. Like they taught me in college.”

Owen laughed, too, more comfortable now.

“There you are!” he said. “That’s where you have the advantage!” Mahmoud looked at him curiously.

“You didn’t go to college? They didn’t train you?”

“Not for this,” said Owen.

“The English prefer amateurs,” said Mahmoud.

He meant it consolingly, Owen knew, but the remark jarred. That was how many Egyptians saw it, he knew. Most of them, if they were in the professions, had received a formal training, either in Cairo or in France.

Mahmoud, quite at ease now, took a sip of coffee and then sat thinking.

“There’s no real evidence for either,” he said, going back to his original line of thought. “Like you, I incline to the political. But there’s one thing that bothers me. If it's political. Ordinary politicians are not going to be involved. It’s got to be extremists. But if it’s them there’s something funny about it. Why are they using Mustafa?”

“If it’s a ‘club’ they’ll have people of their own, you mean.”

“Yes. People who know what they’re doing.” “Not all the ‘clubs’ are as professional as you imagine,” Owen pointed out. He was something of an expert on such matters. “The ones based in the universities, for instance. That,” he said, “is why they usually don’t last very long.”

He wondered immediately whether this would upset Mahmoud again and looked at him a trifle anxiously.

Mahmoud caught the look and burst out laughing.

“We’re going to have a job, aren’t we?” he said. “Almost any ground is dangerous! However-” he leaned forward and gently touched Owen on the sleeve in a gesture that was very Arab-“I’m not always so unreasonable!”

He thought again.

“It’s the gun,” he said. “That’s what makes me think it must be a ‘club.’ And one of the more professional ones. Ordinary fellahin like Mustafa don’t get near such things. If they bought a gun-if they could afford to-it would be of the pigeon-shooting sort. A shotgun for scaring the birds. A rifle that came with Napoleon. Not the latest issue to the British Army.”

“Could you buy one? If you had plenty of money? If you were that other-man-with-a-grudge, for instance?”

Mahmoud shook his head. “Not unless you knew somebody.” “You can’t rule that out as a possibility.”

“You can for Mustafa. He’s never been out of the village.” Mahmoud brooded a little.

“And that’s the problem,” he said presently. “You see, if you can get hold of a gun like that and you want someone killed, why go to Mustafa? There’s a gap. Between the professionals behind the scenes and the very far from professional man who’s supposed to do the actual work.”

Two shoe-shine boys came round the corner and launched themselves immediately at their feet. They both tucked their feet under their chairs and Mahmoud waved the boys away.

“And there’s another thing,” he said. “The hashish.”

“They gave him too much.”

“Yes.”

Mahmoud looked at Owen.

“You know what I think?”

“Tell me.”

“It all sounds terribly amateur.”

“Yes,” said Owen. “Like me.”

Although Owen had told Mahmoud about the article in al Liwa he had kept back one piece of information. Now, as they walked back towards the centre of the city, he said:

“I know someone who was at the meeting, in the village. This person hates Nuri, is a Nationalist, is, I would say, a bit incompetent and from what I have heard would be quite likely to sympathize with Mustafa.”

“You should join the Parquet,” said Mahmoud, surprised. “Who is he?”

“The person who wrote the article in al Liwa. ”

“Whose identity you have already checked.”

“Yes,” said Owen. “Ahmed.”

One of the Mamur Zapt’s privileges was a box at the Opera. At first Owen had been a little surprised. But no, it was not an imaginative bribe. It was a perfectly genuine prerequisite of office and Owen soon began to make regular use of it. Although he came from a musical family and a Welsh village with a deep-rooted musical culture, he had never been to the opera before he came to Egypt. Soon after taking up his position, however, he went to a performance of Aida, which had been written, of course, specially for the Opera House at Cairo, and was hooked. He went to every new performance during the season. Indeed, he went several times and had recently made a resolution to cut down his attendances at the Opera House to twice a week.

Coming back from the Opera House that evening he passed an Arab cafe in which some young men were sitting. They were in high spirits and had probably been drinking. As Owen approached, one of them said something to the others and there was a burst of derisive laughter, almost certainly at Owen’s expense. Then, as he continued past, one of the others, in an obvious attempt to outdo, leaned out into the street and shouted something abusive almost directly up into Owen’s face, cursing, as is the Arab custom, not Owen himself but his father.

Without stopping and, indeed, without thinking, Owen at once replied that he would certainly have returned the compliment had his addresser only been in the position to inform him which of his mother’s two-and-ninety admirers his father had been.

There was an instant of shocked silence behind him and then, almost immediately, the rush of feet.

Owen cursed his over-ready tongue. One thing the Agent would not tolerate was brawling in the street with Egyptians.

The footsteps came up to him and he braced himself.

And then a hand was placed gently on his arm and a voice said politely: “Please, please. I am so sorry. I did not think for one moment that you knew Arabic, still less the correct Arabic abuse. We are all very sorry. Please come and join us for some coffee and let us try and convince you that we are not as boorish as we appear.”

Two contrite young men looked at him pleadingly. Owen could not resist and went back with them to the table where a space was quickly made for him.

The rest of the cafe looked on with approval, having enjoyed, in typical Arab fashion, both the abuse and the courtesy.

The men apologized. They were, they explained, filling in time before going to a party. They had been talking politics and one of their number had been carried away. It was not said, but Owen guessed, that the topics had included the British in Egypt. The conversation turned tactfully in another direction.

They inquired how Owen came by his Arabic and when he mentioned his teacher it turned out that two of them knew him. This reassured Owen, for the Aalim was not one to waste his time with fools.

Indeed, they were far from fools. They were all journalists, it appeared, working for the most part on arts pages. One of them was introduced as a playwright.

Owen said he had been to the Arab theatre but found the plays excessively melodramatic.

“That’s us,” said one of the men. “All Arabs are melodramatic.”

“No, it’s not,” said the playwright. “We’re dramatic. It’s the plays that are melodramatic. They’re just bad.”

“Perhaps you will improve the standard,” said Owen.

“Gamal’s latest play is good,” one of the men said.

“Is it on somewhere? Can I see it?”

They all roared with laughter.

“Alas, no!” said Gamal. “But when it is put on I shall send you a special invitation.”

Owen said he had just been to the opera. They asked him how it compared with opera in Europe. He was obliged to admit that the only opera he had seen had been in Egypt. Two of the journalists had seen opera in Paris. They thought Cairo opera provincial.

The conversation ran on merrily. Some time later Owen glanced at his watch. It was well past two. Opera finished late in Cairo; parties started even later, evidently.

The thought occurred to one or two of the others and they rose to go. Owen got up, too, and began to say his farewells. His acquaintances were aghast that he should be leaving them so early. They insisted that he came to the party with them.

Owen was taking this to be mere Arab politeness when the playwright linked his arm in Owen’s and began to urge him determinedly along the street.

“A little while,” he coaxed, “just a little, little while.”

“We want you to meet our friends,” they said.

The house was a traditional Mameluke house. It went up in tiers. The first tier was just a high blank wall with a decorated archway entrance. Above this a row of corbels allowed the first floor to project a couple of feet over the street, in the manner of sixteenth-century houses in England. And above this again a triple row of oriels carried out into the street a further two feet. There was no glass, of course, but all the windows were heavily screened with fine traditional woodwork.

Through the archway was a courtyard with a fountain and some people sitting round it. They belonged to the party, but most of the guests were inside, in a mandar’ah, or reception room, opening off the courtyard.

The mandar’ah had a sunken marble floor paved with black and white marble and little pieces of fine red tile. In the centre of the floor was a fountain playing into a small shallow pool lined with coloured marbles like the floor.

A number of people stood about the room in groups, talking. Other groups reclined on large, fat, multi-coloured, leather cushions. Some had Western-style drinks in their hand. Quite a few were drinking coffee. All were talking.

At the far end of the room was a dais with large cushions. This was where the host normally sat, along with his most honoured guests. There was a group on it now, sprawled about on the cushions, all talking animatedly.

Two of Owen’s acquaintances went off to find their host. They returned leading him triumphantly.

He was Fakhri.

He recovered at once, grasped Owen’s hand in both his own and embraced him.

“It would take too long to explain,” said Owen.

However, his friends were determined to explain, and Fakhri got the general picture.

“But we have met already!”

“You have?”

Fakhri bore Owen away.

“Whisky?” he said. “Or coffee?”

“I would say coffee but I have had so much already-”

“Whisky, then. For me also. After such surprises-”

“Sorry,” said Owen.

“Such nice surprises. I take it you are not on duty?”

“Far from it,” said Owen, with conviction.

“Then enjoy your evening. Come! I will introduce you-”

But another group of guests arrived, who solicited Fakhri’s attention. Owen went off to find his acquaintances. The playwright was in a little group about the fountain. Owen started across to join him.

The party was Western-style. That is, women were present. There were Syrians, Jews, Armenians, Greeks, Tripolitans and Levantines generally; there were scarcely any Egyptians. None were unattached. That would have been flouting convention too far.

One of them Owen recognized. It was the girl he had noticed at Nuri’s. She looked up and caught his eye.

“Why,” she said, smiling, “le Mamur Zapt. ”

Fakhri appeared, hot and bothered from greeting three lots of guests simultaneously.

“You know each other?” he said. “Captain Carwall-” he mumbled the word “-Owen.”

“What?” said the girl.

“Owen.”

“I know,” said the girl. “Le Mamur Zapt. ”

Fakhri looked at Owen a little anxiously.

“Pas ce soir, ” said Owen.

“Ah!” said the girl. “You are Mamur Zapt only sometimes. That is imaginative.” She turned to Fakhri. “Don’t you think,” she asked, “that it is one of the weaknesses of the British that they can usually be only themselves?”

“It is one of their strengths,” said Fakhri. “They never doubt that they are right.”

“While we doubt all the time. Perhaps. But it is a weakness, too. The world is not so simple.”

“Cairo is not so simple, either,” said Fakhri, with a sidelong glance at Owen.

He slipped off to greet some new arrivals.

“I saw you the other day at Nuri’s,” said Owen.

“My father,” said the girl.

“Nuri is your father?”

“Oui. ’’

He considered her. Something in the face, perhaps? A strong face, not a pretty one. But the figure was willowy, unlike Nuri’s barrel-like one.

“You must take after your mother.”

“In more ways than one.”

“How is she?” asked Owen. “The attack on your father must have been a great shock.”

“She is dead.”

“I am sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

The girl looked out into the courtyard where the fountain caught the moonlight.

“I think they loved each other,” she said suddenly. “They never married, of course. She wouldn’t go in his harem.”

Seeing that Owen was trying to work it out, she said: “My mother was Firdus.”

She saw he was still puzzled.

“The courtesan. You wouldn’t know, but she was famous.”

“And obviously beautiful.”

The girl regarded him sceptically.

“She was, as a matter of fact. But that is not one of the things I have inherited from her.”

“I don’t know,” said Owen. “Is Ahmed your brother?” he asked. “Half-brother. His mother was a woman in the harem.”

“We met him at your father’s that day.”

“C’est un vrai imbecile, celui-la, ” said the girl dismissively.

“He doesn’t like the British.”

“You can’t expect originality from him.”

Owen laughed.

“He doesn’t seem to care greatly for your father, either,” he said. “Naturally,” said the girl. “None of us do. We are angry for our mothers.”

“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.

“We want to know where al Liwa gets its money from.”

“Why ask me?”

“We thought Raoul might know.”

“Then ask him,” she said, and walked off.

A tall, distinguished-looking Syrian with silvery-grey hair came over.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“We thought you could help us,” they said. “We want to know where al Liwa gets its money from.”

The Syrian looked annoyed. “Why should I know?”

“You’re so friendly with al Liwa. ”

“I’m friendly with everybody,” the Syrian said.

“I wish you were friendly with Fakhri,” one of the young men said. “Then I could have a bigger column.”

“There’s no money in newspapers,” the Syrian said.

“Except what people put into them,” one of the young men said. The Syrian looked at him steadily. “I don’t put money into papers,” he said. “I stick to business.”

He rejoined the people he had been talking to previously. A little later, Owen saw him leaving, with the girl.