The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet Read Online Free Page B

away.”
    “I
am not broken,” said the man defiantly.
    “As
a tool you are broken. As a weapon.”
    “My
task is done,” said the man. “I am satisfied.”
    “Nuri
is still alive.”
    The
man looked at him, startled.
    “Didn’t
you know? The shot missed.”
    “Is
that the truth?”
    “On the Book.”
    The
man buried his face in his hands.
    “I
am a poor weapon.”
    “You
have fed too much on the drug,” said Mahmoud.
    “It
gave me the power,” said the man from behind his hands.
    “It
took away your power.”
    The
man shook his head.
    “Who
gave it to you?”
    “A man.”
    “The same who gave you the gun?”
    Again the shake of the head.
    “The one who showed you where to find Nuri
Pasha?”
    The
shaking had become continuous. Owen doubted now if it meant negation.
    “The one who will provide for your family
when you are gone?” Mahmoud went on inexorably.
    The
shaking stopped and the man raised his head.
    “Inshallah,”
he said. “If God wills.”
    He
would say no more and after several further attempts to resume the conversation
Mahmoud ordered him to be returned to the cells.
    That
afternoon they went to el Deyna. Mahmoud decided, on the spur of the moment,
that he would like to talk to Mustafa’s family. Then, equally on the spur of
the moment, he decided he would ask Owen to go with him.
    Owen
accepted at once. He liked Mahmoud and, besides, he had grown sensitive enough
to Arab style by now to know that if he did not respond with equal warmth it
would immediately chill the relationship that was developing between them.
    He
was, however, a little surprised. Relations between the ministries were not
normally as close as this. He wondered whether the invitation was solely the
product of an impulse of friendliness. Mahmoud was no fool. Perhaps, operating
alone in what might turn out to be politically sensitive areas, he felt the
need to guard his back. If so, Owen could certainly sympathize with him.
    They
met after lunch at the Ataba el Khadra, the terminus for most of the Cairo
tramways, and took a tram to the Citadel.
    Although
it was still relatively early in the afternoon, and extremely hot, the Ataba
was, as always, full of people. The ordinary population of Cairo was still
impressed by trams and treated them very seriously. To board a tram at the
terminus meant forcing one’s way through a mass of street-sellers, all
concerned that the passengers might perish en route for lack of sustenance.
Water-sellers, peanut-sellers, lemon-ade-sellers, Turkish-delight-sellers,
sellers of tartlets, sweets and sherbet competed for custom.
    The
tram itself was, of course, crowded. Passengers hung over the driver in his cab
and shared his agitation at the continual excesses of arabeah drivers. They
bulged out of the tram itself and clung on to the steps. One or two hardy
spirits climbed up on to the roof, from which they were dislodged with
difficulty by a determined constable, only to be replaced by equally tenacious
clamberers at the next stop.
    Owen
enjoyed all this, but even he had had enough, in the heat, by the time they got
to the Citadel. They changed with relief into the small bus which would take
them out into the country.
    Here,
too, there was difficulty in finding a seat. A large fellahin woman with a load
of water-melons occupied the whole rear of the bus.
    “Come,
mother,” said Mahmoud. “Move your fruit. They take up more space than people.”
    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