Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet

The village omda, or headman, showed them to Mustafa’s 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 Mustafa’s 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?’