The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (11 page)

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 imbécile, celui-là
, ”
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
al 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.

“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.