The woman started to move the melons and then looked up at Mahmoud.
Why is the Englishman here? she asked in Arabic, not thinking that Owen understood.
He is with me, said Mahmoud.
He should be in a motor-car, said the woman, or in an arabeah.
The bus had fallen quiet.
Conscious that she held the stage, the woman reached over and picked up two large melons.
She showed them to the passengers.
Two fine ones, she said.
She cast a sidelong glance at Owen.
As big as your balls, Englishman, she added, giving the other passengers a wink.
As big as they would need to be, woman, said Owen, were I your husband.
The bus exploded with delighted laughter.
The woman moved her melons, with good grace now, having enjoyed the exchange as much as anyone else, and Owen and Mahmoud sat down.
In a way, it was nothing, but Owen had sensed a current of feeling in the bus that had surprised him. Most Englishmen in Egypt would have said that the country-dwelling fellahin were all right, that it was only in the city that there was trouble. He had defused the current so far as he was concerned and the atmosphere was now quite relaxed. But that it should exist at all was significant.
Mahmoud must have sensed the current, too, for throughout the rest of the journey he kept the conversation at the level of general chit-chat; in Arabic.
The village omda, or headman, showed them to Mustafas house.
It was a mud brick house with three rooms and a ladder going up to the roof. The floor was beaten earth. In the first room, at night, a donkey and a water-buffalo lay down together. In the inner rooms the family lived, ate and slept. On the roof were the household stores and the rabbits.
There seemed to be at least eight or nine people in the inner rooms, two old people and six or seven children. When the omda explained the purpose of the visit, they all retreated into the furthest room, leaving Mustafas wife alone with Mahmoud, Owen and the omda. She held her veil up in front of her face the whole time they were there.
They sat down cross-legged on the floor. After a moment Mahmoud began.
Tell me about your husband, he said. Is he a good man?
There seemed to be a shy nod of assent.
Does he beat you?
Owen could not detect any response, but the omda said: He is a good man. He beats her only when she deserves it.
Your children: does he beat them?
This time there was no mistaking the denial.
Those old ones: are they your family or his?
One is hers. One is his, said the omda.
Tell me about your sister, said Mahmoud.
The woman put the veil completely over her face and bowed her head down almost to her knees.
Mahmoud waited, but she said nothing.
I am not here to judge, he said, merely to know.
The woman bent her body to the left and right in agitation but could not bring herself to reply in speech.
She is ashamed, said the omda. Her family is dishonoured.
And Mustafa felt this shame greatly? asked Mahmoud.
The woman seemed to signify assent.
He took it into his heart?
More definite this time.
Mahmoud turned to the omda.
He spoke about it? Some nurse a hurt in silence, others speak it out.
He spoke it out, said the omda.
Mahmoud considered for a moment or two.
It is hard to bear dishonour, he said at last, but sometimes it is better to bear dishonour than to lift your hand against the great.
True, said the omda neutrally, but sometimes a dishonour is too great to be borne.
Was that so with Mustafa?
I do not know, said the omda. Mustafa is a good man.
Mahmoud turned back to the woman and shifted tack.
Where is your sister staying? he asked.
With friends, said the omda.
In her village or in this?
She will not show her face, said the omda, either in her village or in this.
What will happen when her child comes? asked Mahmoud. It is a lot to ask of friends.
The omda was silent. I do not know, he said at last.
The woman broke in unexpectedly.
She will stay with me, she said determinedly.
The omda looked troubled but said nothing.
How will you manage? asked Mahmoud.
The way we have always managed, said the woman bitterly.
It is hard for a woman to manage alone, said Mahmoud. Even if she is used to it.
The eyes above the veil seemed to flash.
When did your husband begin taking hashish?
The omda made to answer but the woman cut across him.
He has always taken hashish, she said, a little.
But recently, said Mahmoud, he has started taking more.
Again the eyes seemed to register the remark, but otherwise there was no response.
Where did he get it?
There are always those willing to sell, said the omda.
Whom you know?
The omda spread his hands. Alas, no, he said.
There are always those willing to sell, said Mahmoud. At a price.
He leaned forward and addressed the woman directly,
Money for hashish, he said, comes at the cost of money for food. His family was hungry. Why did he buy hashish?
It made him strong, the woman said.
Strong in the fields? Or strong in the bed?
In the bed, said the woman. In the fields too.
He feared he was losing his strength in the bed?
Yes, said the woman.
Mahmoud looked across at Owen.
Owen knew what he was thinking. In villages of this sort bilharzia was rife. Among the symptoms of the disease in males was a kind of overall sensual lassitude which the fellahin often took for loss of sexual potency.
Your husband has the worm?
Yes.
It was common for fellahin to take hashish to counter the lassitude. Ironically, it aggravated the very condition they feared.
In the room behind a small child began to cry. It was hushed by the grandmother but then began to cry again more determinedly. Another joined it.
The woman stirred.
Mahmoud put up his hand.
One question more: in this last week your husband has come upon a great supply of the drug. Where did he get it from?
I do not know, said the woman.
Have strangers been to the village?
No, said the omda.
Mahmoud ignored him.
Has a stranger been to your house?
No.
Has your husband talked to strangers?
I do not know.
Has he spoken to you of the drug?
He never speaks to me of the drug, said the woman bitterly.
Mahmoud sat back and regarded the woman for a moment or two without speaking. Then he suddenly leaned forward.
Listen to me, he said to the woman, speaking slowly and emphatically. I believe your husband to be a foolish man and not a bad one. He is a tool in the hands of others. I promise you I will try to see that his punishment fits foolishness and not badness. But I need to know whose are the hands that hold the tool. Think about it. Think long and hard.
He turned to the omda.
And you, he said, think, too. Think doubly long and hard. Or else you will find yourself in trouble.
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 Owenle 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 tea-pot 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 lOpéra.
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 Nuris 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, Id 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 lOpéra, 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 lOpéra, murmured Mahmoud doggedly.
The Place de lOpéra, 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 mans 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 colleaguesformer colleagues, I should sayin 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 openedI 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 dont 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.