Free The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet by Michael Pearce Page B

to be spelt out, and he had
felt that Mahmoud was reading him in the same way. This evening, though, there
was none of that. Mahmoud was unfailingly courteous, but something was missing.
The outgoing friendliness that had characterized him previously seemed to have
gone.
    In the time that he had been in Egypt Owen
had got used to the way in which Arab relationships varied in intensity. Arabs
seemed to blow hot and blow cold. They invested their relationships with more
emotion than did the stolid English and so their relationships were more
volatile. Owen could understand this; perhaps, he told himself wryly, because
the Welsh were not altogether dissimilar. Perhaps, more particularly, his own
intuitive nature made him especially sensitive to such things.
    In an effort to put Mahmoud more at ease, he
switched into Arabic. Mahmoud switched back into English.
    The conversation was at the level of
exchanging commonplaces. Owen knew that when Mahmoud had finished his coffee he
would go.
    Some shoe-boys were larking about near
their table. One of them threw a brush at another. The brush missed and fell under
the table. The boy scurried to retrieve it and almost upset their coffee. They grabbed at the table together and cursed simultaneously. The boy fled laughing, chased by a furious waiter. Owen smiled, and thought he saw an answering flicker on Mahmoud’s face.
    Deliberately
he moved his chair round so that he sat beside Mahmoud, closer to him. Arab
conventions of personal territory were different from European ones. What to an
Englishman seemed keeping a proper distance, to an Arab seemed cold and unfriendly.
    “Your
day has been hard?” he asked sympathetically.
    At
last he got a real response.
    Mahmoud
looked round at him.
    “Not
as hard as yours yesterday,” he said bitterly. “Although
perhaps you did not find it so.”
    Owen
knew that Mahmoud was referring to the students.
    The
remark surprised him. He knew, of course, that this kind of political policing
was resented by Egyptians, but had thought that as a member of the Parquet
Mahmoud must have come to terms with it. He wondered suddenly what Mahmoud’s
own political position was. A bright young Parquet lawyer on the rise might
well have political ambitions; and if he did, they might well be on the
Nationalist side.
    “I
was not involved directly,” he said slowly, “although of course I knew of it.”
    “Perhaps
I should not have spoken,” said Mahmoud.
    “No,
that’s all right,” said Owen. He smiled. “It’s just that I am trying to think
of an answer.”
    He
pondered for a moment and then decided to go for honesty.
    “The
answer is,” he said, “that I did not find it hard. It was regrettable,
certainly, but a necessity. Given the situation in Egypt. Of course, you may not want to grant the situation. I would understand that.”
    A
little to his surprise, Mahmoud seemed to find the answer satisfactory. He
relaxed visibly and waved to the waiter for more coffee.
    “I
appreciate your answer,” he said. “And in case you’re wondering, let me tell
you I personally am not a revolutionary. Nationalist, yes,
reforming, even radical, yes; but not a revolutionary. I would like the
British out. But meanwhile …” He sighed. “Meanwhile, for you and for me,
there are necessities.”
    He
paused while the waiter filled their cups.
    “However,”
he said, “I must tell you I would not want to grant the situation.”
    “That,”
said Owen, “I can quite understand.”
    He
brooded a little.
    “I can
understand,” he said presently, ‘‘a bit at any rate, because I myself am not
English.”
    “Not
English?” said Mahmoud, astonished.
    “Welsh.”
    “Welsh? Pays
Galles?”
    Owen
nodded.
    “I have
never met anyone from Wales before,” said Mahmoud. “You probably wouldn’t know
if you had. They’re very like Englishmen. Smaller, darker. Not enough to stand out. But there is a difference. In the part of Wales I come
from,” said Owen, “most