Free The Camel of Destruction by Michael Pearce

house, he was having second thoughts. If he went to the door and asked to see Miss Fingari, he would certainly be refused. The uncle, Istaq, would probably not be there, and he had had enough difficulty with him last time. Aisha wouldn’t see him on her own, not publicly, that was; and he was loath to involve the parents.
    He walked on past the house, turned and walked round the square, thinking. And then, seeing a convenient table, he sat down in a little Arab café and ordered coffee.
    An irrelevant thought struck him. Should he pay for this coffee himself or should he charge it to expenses? Normally, he would pay for it himself, thinking that drinking coffee was strictly in the course of the day’s duties and disliking filling in forms over piffling details. But should he be taking this relaxed view?
    He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for his duties and thinking was work, wasn’t it? If he didn’t claim for it, he was, in fact, giving money to the Government. Did he want to give money to the Government? He did not.
    Besides, it was all very well for a bachelor to take a relaxed view about money. But if he was thinking of getting married, especially to Zeinab, relaxing about money was the last thing he could afford.
    Unfortunately, if he was getting married to Zeinab, cutting down on the coffee bills wouldn’t help much, either.
    He moved his chair as a water-cart went past spraying out water behind to damp down the dust in the streets. The main thoroughfares were done first thing in the morning; they only got to little squares like this much later.
    As always, the cart was followed by a crowd of urchins dancing in and out of the spray. The sight of them gave him an idea.
    He beckoned them over to him.
    ‘Do you know a boy named Ali?’
    ‘We know lots of boys named Ali.’
    ‘He lives around here somewhere.’
    ‘You were here the other day, weren’t you, effendi?’
    ‘Yes, he saw Aisha.’
    ‘Do you want to see Aisha again, effendi? I could fix that up. You don’t need Ali.’
    ‘Yes, you do.’
    It was the original, authentic Ali, materializing from nowhere. ‘Don’t listen to him, effendi. He is a lying, cheating scoundrel. Besides, Aisha doesn’t like him.’
    ‘She doesn’t like you much either, Ali.’
    ‘I am useful to her,’ declared Ali in a lordly fashion. ‘She trusts me. The Effendi does too.’
    Owen distributed some milliemes and Ali drove his rivals away.
    ‘Now, effendi, what can I do for you?’
    ‘I’d like to see Aisha.’
    ‘Difficult, difficult. She is guarded as by the beast of a hundred eyes.’
    ‘Who’s guarding her?’
    Ali disregarded this question.
    ‘It could be managed; though at a price.’
    He named a figure.
    ‘But, Ali,’ said Owen, astounded, ‘I could have all the women in the quarter for that sum!’
    ‘That, too, later,’ said Ali.
     
    ‘Let us now turn to the boll weevil,’ said the speaker on the platform.
    Owen looked along the row of chairs for a means of escape. All the seats were taken, however, and to extricate himself would cause such a disruption that he thought better and resigned himself to the rest of the lecture.
    ‘The rise of Egypt from bankruptcy to prosperity,’ declared the speaker, ‘can fairly be attributed to two causes: Cromer and cotton!’
    ‘Hear, hear!’
    ‘Modern irrigation, investment from overseas and the freeing of the fellahin, these were the things which provided a sound basis for the expansion of cotton production—’
    ‘The freeing of the fellahin?’ interrupted an incredulous voice from the back.
    The speaker put down his notes.
    ‘Yes, sir, the freeing of the fellahin. By giving fellahin the right to possess their own land, Lord Cromer transformed them from poverty-stricken serfs owing allegiance to feudal Turkish pashas to—’
    ‘Poverty-stricken peasants owing everything to the bank! That’s not freedom!’
    There were cries of protest.
    ‘Mr. Chairman,’ someone called out, ‘isn’t this a