What brings you here?
My friend has some questions to ask, said Owen diplomatically.
They are not my questions but the laws questions, said Asif. When a man dies in the way that our friend did, they cannot be left unasked.
True, said the old man. Ask on.
The first question, said Asif, is why, after the evening meal, when all was dark, did he rise from his place and go out into the night?
I do not know.
Was it to meet someone?
I do not know.
Did he not say?
The two men looked at each other.
All he said was that he had to go out.
Did he often do thus in the evening?
Not often.
Were you not surprised?
We thought he was going to sit with Jaaffar.
Did he often sit with Jaaffar?
The old man hesitated.
Sometimes.
But when he did not return, did you not wonder what had befallen him?
Why should we wonder?
What, a man goes out into the night and does not return, and you do not wonder?
What a man does at night is his own business.
Owen caught Asifs eye and knew what he was thinking: a woman.
And when the morning came and he still had not returned, you still did not wonder?
We thought he had gone straight to work.
After spending the night with Jaaffar?
Yes.
A strange village, this! said Asif caustically. Where the men spend the night with the men!
The younger man flashed up.
Why do you ask these questions? he said belligerently.
Because I want to know why Ibrahim was killed.
That is our business, said the brother. Not yours!
It is the laws business.
Whose law? The citys?
There is but one law, said Asif sternly, for the city and for the village.
It is the city that speaks, retorted the villager.
These are backward people! fumed Asif, much vexed with himself, as they walked away.
The ways of the village are not the ways of the town, said Owen.
I know, I know! I am from Assiut myself. That is not a village, I know, but compared with Cairo-
You did all right, said Owen reassuringly.
I should have-
Well, Jaaffar, you work late! said Asif.
I know, I know! I am from Assiut myself. That is not a village, I know, but compared with Cairo-
You did all right, said Owen reassuringly.
I should have-
Well, Jaaffar, you work late! said Asif.
I do! said Jaaffar, his face still streaked with sweat.
It is not every man who works so long in the fields!
Ah, Ive not been in the fields. I work at the ostrich farm.
Ostrich farm? said Owen.
Yes, its over by the station. You would have seen it if youd gone out the other side.
And what do you do at the ostrich farm that keeps you so late? asked Asif.
I feed the birds. Youd think they could feed themselves, wouldnt you, only if you dont give them something late in the afternoon they make such a hell of a noise that the Khedive doesnt like it.
The Khedive can hear them all the way from Kubba?
So he says.
Jaaffar removed his skull cap and splashed water over his face. A woman came and took the bowl away.
So what is it? he said. Ibrahim?
Thats right.
He was a mate of mine. We used to work at the farm together.
The ostrich farm?
Yes. Only then the chance of a job on the railway came along and he took one look at the money and said: Thats for me! I warned him. I said: They dont give you that for nothing, you know. Theyll make you sweat for it. And, by God, they did. He used to come back home in the afternoon dead beat. Too tired even to lift a finger!
Too tired to go out? said Asif. In the evenings?
Jaaffar was amused.
Theres not a lot to go out to in Matariya, he said drily.
We heard he liked to go out and chat with his friends.
Ah, well-
You, for instance.
He used to occasionally. Hes not done it so much lately. Not since I got married and he-
He stopped.
Found someone more interesting?
Well-
Just tell me her name, said Asif.
A man came to the door.
Yes, he used to come here, he said defiantly. Everyone knows that. And, no, he didnt come here just to taste the figs from the fig tree. Theres no secret about that, either. What do you expect? A mans a man, and if his wife-
Did he come here on the night he was killed?
How do I know?
You live here, dont you?
No, I live on the other side of the mosque.
He was, it transpired, the womans brother, not her husband.
Shes lived here alone ever since her husband died.
Asif asked to speak with her in her brothers presence. This was normal. It was considered improper to speak to a woman alone. Indeed, it was considered to be on the verge of raciness to speak to a woman at all. Questions to women, during a police investigation, for instance, were normally put through her nearest male relative.
The woman appeared, unveiled. This at once threw Asif into a tizzy. He had probably never seen a womans face before, not the face of a woman outside his family. This woman had a broad, not unattractive, sunburned face. Things were less strict in the village than they were in the city and when the women were working in the fields they often left their faces unveiled. Even in the village, Owen had noticed, they did not always bother to veil. Sheikh Isa, no doubt, had his views about that.
She was as defiant as her brother.
Yes, she said, he used to come here. Why not? It suited him and it suited me.
Asif could hardly bring himself to look her in the face. Although she obviously intended to answer his questions herself, he continued to direct them to her brother, as he would have done in the city.
Did he come on the night he was killed?
Yes.
And-he wavered-stayed the night?
He never stayed long. She laughed. Just long enough!
Jalila! muttered her brother reprovingly.
Asif was now all over the place.
How-how long? he managed to stutter.
How long do you think? she said, looking at him coolly.
Owen decided to lend a hand.
The man is dead, he said sternly.
The woman seemed to catch herself.
Yes, she said.
He died after leaving you.
Yes, she said quietly.
He left you early. Did he say where he was going?
He said he was meeting someone.
Ah! Did he say who?
No. And, said the woman, bold again, I did not ask. I knew it wasnt a woman and that was all I needed to know.
How did you know it wasnt a woman?
Because it wouldnt have been any good, she said defiantly. Not after what hed done with me. I always took good care to see there wasnt much left. For Leila.
Leila?
That so-called wife of his.
Why so-called?
She was silent.
Then she said vehemently: He should have married me. Right at the start. Then all this wouldnt have happened.
The tabernacle was now empty. The pile of shoes had gone. The square was almost empty. The heat rose up off the sand as if making one last effort to keep the advancing shadows at bay. The smell of woodsmoke was suddenly in the air. The women were about to cook the evening meal.
Owen wondered how late the trains back to the city would continue to run. Asif, too, was evidently reckoning that the days work was done, for he said:
Tomorrow I shall question the wifes family.
They turned aside for a moment to refresh themselves at the village well before committing themselves to the long walk back across the hot fields to the station.
It could be a question of honour, you see, said Asif, still preoccupied with the case. The wife has been dishonoured and so her family has been dishonoured.
You think one of them could have taken revenge?
Revenge was the bane of the policemans life in Egypt. Over half the killings, and there were a lot of killings in Egypt, were for purposes of revenge. It was most common among the Arabs of the desert, where revenge feuds were a part of every tribesmans life. But it was far from uncommon among the fellahin of the settled villages too.
Well, said Asif, he was killed by a blow on the back of the neck from a heavy, blunt, club-like instrument. A cudgel is the villagers weapon. And, besides-
He hesitated.
Yes?
It looks as if it was someone who knew his ways. Knew where to find him, for instance. Knew he would not be staying. Knew him well enough, possibly, to arrange a meeting. That would seem to me to locate him in the village.
Owen nodded.
And if thats the case, he said, youre going to have to move quickly. Otherwise the other side will be taking the law into their own hands.
The trouble with revenge killings was that they had two sides. One killing bred another.
Tomorrow, promised Asif.
A man came round the corner of the mosque and made towards them. He was, like Asif, an Egyptian and an effendi and wore the tarboosh of the government servant. Unlike him, however, and unusually for the time, he wore a light suit not a dark suit and was dressed overall with a certain sharpness. Everything about him was sharp.
He recognized Owen and gave him a smile.
Let me guess, he said; the railway?
He turned to Asif.
Asif, he said softly. I am sorry.
Asif looked at him in surprise.
They have asked me to take over. Why? I do not know. But it is certainly no reflection on you.
Asif was taken aback.
But, Mahmoud, I have only just-
I know. Perhaps they have something more important in mind for you.
Asif swallowed.
I doubt it, he said bitterly.
He got up from the well.
I will put the papers on your desk, he said, and walked off.
Owen made a movement after him but Mahmoud put a hand on his arm.
Let him go, he said. Its better like that.
He was doing all right, said Owen.
I think hes promising, said Mahmoud. He sighed. I wish they wouldnt do things like this. It hurts peoples pride.
Mahmoud El Zaki was a connoisseur in pride. That was true of most Egyptians, thought Owen, but it was especially true of him. Proud, sensitive, touchy-all of them qualities likely to be rubbed raw by the situation that Egyptians were in: subordination of their country to a foreign power, subordination in government, subordination in social structure.
And the wounds were aggravated by what at times seemed an excessive emotionality. For a people so prickly they were surprisingly tender. Excessively masculine in some respects, they were sometimes surprisingly feminine. They were never in the middle; unlike the solid, stolid, sensible English, thought Owen. He himself was Welsh.
He and Mahmoud knew each other well. They had often worked together and had, a little to their surprise, perhaps, developed a rapport which survived political and other differences.