The Mamur Zapt and the Camel of Destruction

‘Oh heavens, no; I wasn’t dreaming of involving you to that extent. In fact, I wasn’t really thinking of involving the Widow Shawquat if I didn’t have to. I was wondering if I could appeal myself.’

‘As Mamur Zapt?’ Mahmoud frowned. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The Ministry is nationalist, not in my way but in a different way. They would be prejudiced from the start.’

‘What do I do, then? Someone’s got to formally appeal, presumably?’

‘Yes. But it ought to be someone who would impress the Ministry of Religious Endowments. Someone preferably of religious weight. And that, cher ami,’ said Mahmoud drily, ‘is not you.’

The Agricultural Bank occupied the first and second floors of a large modern building in the Ismailiya Quarter. The ground floor was occupied by a furrier’s, which in the climate of Egypt might appear to err on the optimistic side. The Ismailiya, however, was the fashionable European quarter and its purchasers were thinking more of France than they were of Egypt.

Owen asked about access to the Bank.

‘We don’t deal directly with the public,’ said the clerk to the Board loftily.

He was another Copt, like Nikos. The original inhabitants of the city, before even the Arabs, the Copts seemed to take to administration naturally and settled in the Ministries like water finding its own level.

The Arabs couldn’t understand it at all. They thought they had defeated them and now here they were being governed by them! It was another of the little things that didn’t help the popular attitude towards the Civil Service.

‘How do you deal with them, then?’ asked Owen.

‘We lay down policy.’

I thought you made grants to fellahin?’

‘We do that through the omda.’ The village headman.

‘And you don’t go out to the villages yourselves?’

‘I believe some people do.’

He brought Owen minutes of the Board’s meetings and papers recently considered.

‘Self-explanatory, I think.’

Owen detained him.

‘The thing I’m trying to establish is Mr Fingari’s exact role.’

‘He represented the Ministry.’

‘I know. What did he do?’

‘He expressed the Ministry’s viewpoint.’

‘Which was?’

The clerk gestured towards the papers.

‘It’s all in the minutes,’ he said.

A Greek, expensively dressed and with an air of seniority, came through the door. Owen recognized him. It was Zokosis, one of the businessmen who had invited him to meet them at the Hotel Continentale. He shook hands.

‘I hope Petros has been helping you?’

‘We have some way to go.’

‘Ah!’ He sat down. ‘Try me.’

‘Thank you. I’m trying to establish what Fingari actually did.’

The Greek laughed. ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘At least, I think so. I wonder what any of them do. Well, look, all I can do is tell you what he did for us. He attended Board meetings once a month. Meetings usually occupy the whole morning.’

‘And in between?’

‘Well, of course, there would be papers to read. Possibly he even drafted one or two papers. Although off-hand I can’t … I’ll get Petros to check.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I really can’t recall …’

‘You know, Mr Zokosis, you surprise me. You gave me the impression at the Continentale that his work was important.’

‘Did I? A businessman’s way of talking, perhaps.’

‘You wanted me to change the date of his death.’

‘Not quite as crudely as that, I hope. But certainly his death was inconvenient to us. You see, we were just negotiating – we thought we had negotiated, in fact – an important arrangement with the Ministry and we didn’t want to go through all that again.’