It was true, however, that a number of people in Egypt, and most certainly the Khedive, had come to feel that the help was no longer necessary. But then, as Nationalist newspapers frequently observed, a growing number of Egyptians felt that the Khedive was no longer necessary either.
The situation was indeed not straightforward. Egypt had in effect two governments, the formal one of the Khedive and the shadow one of the British administration. In these circumstances a certain dexterity was required of administrators.
It was particularly required of the Mamur Zapt, a post traditional to, and peculiar to, Cairo. Broadly, Owen was responsible for what was coming to be known as security. In England the nearest equivalent was Head of the Political Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department. In Egypt the Mamur Zapt was traditionally thought of as Head of the Sultans Secret Police. There was now no Sultan and, as a matter of fact, no Secret Police either; but views were slow to change.
Owen was, then, answerable for security. But answerable to whom? It was a question asked frequently by the Khedive and occasionally by the Consul-General and Owen never quite found the right answer. Khedive and Consul both agreed, however, that his duties should be carried out so discreetly as not to cause trouble. Owen was in favour of this, too, very much so, only it was not always easy to achieve in this city of sixty nationalities, most of whom were always at each others throats, one hundred and twelve different ethnic groups, ditto, two hundred plus sects of a variety of religions, even more ditto, and growing Egyptian nationalism. Not to mention the fact that there was not one but three legal systems, each with its own courts, among which agile criminals could slip with eternal impunity.
No, indeed, policing in Egypt was not straightforward, thought Owen, as he sat benignly in a cafe at that corner of the Ataba-el-Khadra where the Musky debouches into the square. That stupid meeting with the Army had taken up so much of the morning that he had been obliged to go back to his office in the afternoon, which, at this time of the year, very few people did. Throughout the morning the heat built up so that, despite the closed shutters and the whirling fans, by noon everybody was wilting. They clung nobly on till about one oclock, or, in the case of the British, eager to demonstrate both the heaviness of their workload and their superiority to the elements, two oclock, and then thankfully packed it in for the day and went home for their siesta. Owen could never sleep during the day and usually went to the baths at this time to have a swim while the pool was empty. Not infrequently he then went back to the office and stayed there until the twilit hour when the day suddenly cooled and all the cafes came alive. Then he headed for a nearby one, along with half the population of Cairo.
There were, he had long ago decided, two stages. In the first, people woke up from their siesta, stretched themselves and thought that a little air would do them good. They went out into the street and found by some strange coincidence that everyone else was doing the same. They strolled along together, every few steps stopping to greet acquaintances, until the sun dropped below the minarets and suddenly the thought struck them how pleasant it would be to step aside for a moment and take a little coffee in one of those tiny cafes that, conveniently, cropped up every few yards in Cairo. Indeed, Cairo seemed at times one continuous cafe. They would sit there chatting and watching the world go by- since most of the tables were outside-until the time came for dinner, when they would rise, shake hands with the entire cafe, and depart.
The second stage followed immediately afterwards, when people would arise from their evening meal, feel the need for a breath of air, go outside and in no time at all finish up in a cafe, where they would remain for the rest of the evening. Life in the hot season was best lived out of doors, Cairenes were naturally sociable people, and the cafe world took over.
There, if you sat long enough, you would meet everyone you wanted to see. Take that fat Greek, for instance, about to drop into a chair a few tables away; Owen had been wanting to talk to him for days.
He waved a hand. The Greek came over and joined him.
Where have you been?
Checking out possible places.
Its a bit hit-and-miss.
You get a feel.
Any particular feels?
Well- said Georgiades, looking round evasively for the waiter.
Ive been thinking. Maybe the best chance weve got is catching them at the start of the process. You know, after the first visit.
After theyve left their visiting card? Its a bit late then, isnt it? People might be even less inclined to talk.
At least wed have something to go on. Now, in fact, there was a place yesterday-
Jesus! said Georgiades, scrambling up. Its Rosa!
A very young, thin slip of a girl was standing beside them, arms akimbo, eyes blazing.
I thought you were supposed to be meeting me?
She gestured towards a pile of packages on the pavement.
On my way! I was on my way!
You were sitting here. He spends all his time these days, she said to Owen, sitting in cafes.
I was working! protested Georgiades.
In a cafe? Since when is sitting in a cafe work?
Its what all the bosses do, said Georgiades. As soon as they get anywhere, thats what they do. Sit down in a cafe all day.
Yes, but you havent got anywhere yet.
Im anticipating, said Georgiades.
Owen felt the need to intervene on his behalf.
Its my fault, really, he said. I caught his eye-
He was going to sit down anyway, said Rosa. Before he saw you. I was watching.
You were watching? said Georgiades. He turned to Owen. Hey, she ought to be in this business, not me!
Why dont you join us? suggested Owen. You must be tired after carrying all that lot. Tell you what, you sit down and have a cup of coffee, and Ill pay for an arabeah to take you home.
Well- said Rosa, weakening.
But only for a moment.
Take us both home, she stipulated. I dont want to carry all these damned packages up the stairs. Besides, she said generously, hell be tired after all this work hes been doing.
Owen held a chair for her. Rosa sat down, pleased. She had a soft spot for Owen. In fact, she told herself, she might well have decided to marry him, not Georgiades, at the time of the wretched business of her fathers kidnapping, had she not known about him and Zeinab. Rosa stood rather in awe of Zeinab, not because she was a great lady, the daughter of a Pasha, no less, but because she had somehow solved, or seemed to have solved, the problem of being an independent woman in a mans world. She took Zeinab secretly as her model. Zeinab, for instance, would have made no bones about sitting down in this cafe, populated as it was entirely by men. Rosa sat and lifted her chin.
She could only, Owen thought, be about sixteen even now. She had married Georgiades (and this was exactly the way to put it, since he had not had much say in the matter) when she was only fourteen. Rosa had sworn blind that she was fifteen, although her parents had been equally convinced that she was fourteen. Fourteen was, in any case, quite allowable in Cairo and Rosa had received unexpected support from her grandmother, who was a little vague about when she herself had married but thought it was young and thoroughly approved Rosas following tradition. This was exactly what Rosa had no intention of following. Her grandmother would certainly not have approved of her sitting here; which made it, of course, all the more enjoyable.
He really is working, you know, when hes in these cafes, said Owen, determined to do his best for Georgiades.
Rosa nodded, and then thought. She was as sharp as a knife, an implement which she had threatened to use on Georgiades if she caught him straying, and it didnt take her long to work out that two and two make four.
Its protection, is it? she said. The cafes?
Rosa knew all about the protection racket. Her family had a business. They dealt in such things as lacquered boxes, old jewellery, Assiut shawls and ancient Persian amulets. One day the gangs had called.
Youre going about it the wrong way, she said. Sending him round the cafes. Theyll be too frightened to talk. Youve got to be able to offer them something.
We are offering them something: defence.
Rosa shook her head.
Its too risky, she said. You might catch the gang, you might not. If you dont, and theyve talked to you, then theyre in trouble. Why take a chance?
Because otherwise they have to pay. And go on paying.
You ought to go about it in a different way. Dont let them think theyre talking to you. Why dont you have him go round pretending to sell insurance? Insurance against loss? Theyll all be interested in that. Theyll want to know what it covers. It would at least get them talking. And then he might be able to lead them on. Hes good, said Rosa, looking unforgivingly at the pile of packages beside her, at leading people on.
Owen sent them off in an arabeah, the universal one-horse cab of Cairo, and settled down to wait for the bill. You could wait a long time for that and meanwhile his eyes wandered relaxedly over the scene in front of him. The Ataba-el-Khadra was the meeting place of two worlds. The Musky led straight up from the Old City and you went down it if you were a European wanting to visit the bazaars, or came up it if you were a native intending to visit the shops in the European quarter or, more likely, catch a tram. The Ataba was the terminus for most of Cairos tram routes and at any hour of the day or night the square was full of trams, native horse-drawn buses, arabeahs and camels bringing forage for the horses. It was also full of street hawkers selling brushes (why?), ice-cream, lemonade, water, sponges, loofahs, canes (no young effendi from one of the big offices was properly dressed unless he carried a cane), hats (the pot-like tarboosh of the Egyptian) and sugar for instant consumption. The two biggest industries, however, were selling pastries and selling Nationalist newspapers. Cairenes, lacking confidence, perhaps, in their public-transport system, believed in stocking up before embarking on a journey. But they also believed in not making a journey at all but just sitting around, and when they sat around, they liked to sit in a cafe and read scurrilous Nationalist newspapers. Just behind the Ataba were the big offices of Credit Lyonnais and the Mixed Tribunals and beyond them the headquarters of the Anglo-Egyptian Bank, and the countless young men who worked in them were all avid Nationalists.