Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet

‘Beautiful!’ he whispered.

Owen thought at first that he was referring to the freesia or the stocks, or perhaps to the bougainvillaea in bloom along the wall which surrounded the garden, but as he followed the direction of Nuri’s gaze he saw that the Pasha was looking at a young peasant girl who was walking along a raised path just beyond the wall with a tall jar on her head.

‘Beautiful,’ breathed Nuri again.

‘If I was younger,’ he said regretfully, ‘I’d send someone to fetch her. Those girls, when they are washed, are very good in bed. They regard an orgasm as a visitation from Allah. When I was young—’

He went into graphic detail.

The story came to an end and Nuri sat for a moment sunk in the memory of past pleasures.

Owen stretched out a hand towards the cucumber sandwiches. The shadow of a kite hawk fell on the table and he looked up hurriedly, but the hawk was wheeling far above. He helped himself to the sandwich. Sometimes, at the Sporting Club, the hawks would snatch the food out of your very hand.

Mahmoud ventured a little cough.

‘The Place de l’Opéra,’ he murmured.

Nuri affected a start.

‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘Monsieur le Parquet does right to recall us to our business.’ He looked at Mahmoud with a glint of amusement in his eyes. ‘I hope my reminiscences did not bore you?’

‘Oh no,’ protested Mahmoud. ‘Not at all.’

‘Ah? Well, in that case perhaps you would like to hear about the peasant girl on one of my estates. She—’

He stopped with a grin.

‘Or perhaps not. You are busy men. And it is not every day that one receives a visit from the Mamur Zapt.’

‘I shall enjoy reading your memoirs,’ said Owen.

‘I am afraid,’ said Nuri, with real regret, ‘that the best bits have to be left out. Even in Egypt.’

‘The Place de l’Opéra,’ murmured Mahmoud doggedly.

‘The Place de l’Opéra,’ said Nuri. ‘Just so.’

Even then he shot off at a tangent.

‘The case,’ he said. ‘How is it going?’

‘All right,’ said Mahmoud, caught off guard. ‘We are making progress.’

‘Ah? What have you found out?’

‘We are only at the beginning,’ said Mahmoud reluctantly.

‘Nothing, then?’

‘We are holding a man.’

‘The fellah?’

‘Yes.’

Nuri waved a dismissive hand.

‘A tool,’ he said.

Mahmoud rallied determinedly.

‘A number of points have emerged from my inquiries,’ he said, ‘some of which are interesting and which I would like to check. Against your account.’

‘Oh?’ said Nuri. ‘What interesting points?’

‘That, I shall not be altogether certain of until I have heard your account,’ said Mahmoud blandly.

Nuri threw up his hands with a laugh.

‘You have beaten me!’ he conceded. It was evidently his way to play games.

He signalled to one of the servants, who came up and rearranged the rug round the old man’s shoulders.

‘I will tell you what happened,’ said Nuri, ‘although I am afraid it will be a very sketchy account.’

‘Even that may help,’ said Mahmoud.’

‘Yes,’ said Nuri sceptically. ‘It may.’

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

‘I had been meeting colleagues—former colleagues, I should say—in the Hotel Continental. When the meeting was over I went to find my arabeah. It was not there, so I went out into the Place to look for it. Suddenly—’ his eyes opened—‘I saw a man in front of me raising a gun.’

‘How close?’

‘From me to you. Perhaps a little more.’

Mahmoud waited for Nuri to think back.

‘And then?’

Nuri frowned.

‘And then I don’t know what happened.’

‘Were you conscious of the gun going off?’

‘I heard a shot. Yes, I certainly heard a shot. And I fell down. Though whether before or after or at the same time I really cannot remember. Everything is very hazy.’