Free The Snake Catcher's Daughter by Michael Pearce Page B

sea when it came to talking to Zeinab. This was, however, only partly because she was the daughter of a Pasha. Like most educated young Egyptians, Mahmoud had hardly ever met a respectable young woman and did not know exactly how one should behave. Besides, he wasn’t completely sure that Zeinab
was
respectable and when they met usually finished up looking down between her feet with embarrassment.
    He and Owen were sufficiently close for Owen to be able to ring him up and say: “Hey, about this Garvin business; can we have a talk?”
    “Yes, yes!” cried Mahmoud at once. “Come right over!” Then he thought again. “Um, well, perhaps you’d better not. Not here, at any rate.”
    “Lunch? Marsalis?”
    “Yes, yes!” said Mahmoud, eager to make amends. “Today! This afternoon!”
    “Right, then. One o’clock.”
    One o’clock found him in a little street just off the Mouski, far enough down to be away from the clangs of the trams in the Ataba-el-Khadra, not so far down as to be completely within the purview of the old part of the city where the cafés tended to be pavement ones and you squatted on your haunches around a large tray on the ground and dipped your bread in; all very well, but not good for weighty conversation.
    Mahmoud jumped up at his approach and threw his arms around him, Arab style.
    “It’s been so long!” he said enthusiastically (about a week). “What have you been doing?”
    “As little as possible,” said Owen.
    “I know! The heat! It’s been impossible in the courts. Two witnesses collapsed yesterday. Mustapha Kamil”—one of the senior judges—“said he’d have to bring the sessions to an end early if things didn’t improve. I’d be against that, though,” added Mahmoud seriously. “It would merely add to the backlog. We’re six months behind as it is.”
    Mahmoud was a strong believer in hard work and efficiency. He and Garvin were birds of a feather.
    “It can’t be long before the sessions end anyway, can it?”
    “Two weeks. But really, there’s so much still to get through, we ought to extend it.”
    “That would be popular!”
    He sometimes thought Mahmoud was a bit unyielding. A broad smile spread over Mahmoud’s face, relaxing the intensity.
    “It doesn’t stand a chance!” he said.
    The waiter took their orders.
    “At any rate,” said Mahmoud, “it will give us plenty of time to settle the Garvin
affaire
.”
    “Is it the Garvin affair?” asked Owen. “Or is it the Philipides affair?”
    Mahmoud shrugged.
    “It’s the corruption affair. That’s the only way to look at it. We don’t make any judgements until we’ve had another look at the evidence.”
    “Where are you going to start?”
    “With the original sub-inspector. That’s ultimately where the charges came from. His name’s Bakri.”
    “Mind if I sit in?”
    “Not at all.” Mahmoud hesitated. “But as a friend,” he said, “a colleague. Not as an official observer.”
    “I thought that had been agreed?”
    “It has and it hasn’t. What’s been agreed is that your status must be informal. But the people making the agreement were not—well, they were politicians, not lawyers. ‘Observer’ expressed what they thought they meant. But there is no provision under the legal system for an observer. In a case like this I think it’s important to keep to the letter of the law. So, no observers. But as a friend and colleague you are most welcome.”
    “Doesn’t it amount to the same thing?”
    “In practice, with you, yes. But the judicial system must be free, and be seen to be free, from political interference. It’s a question,” said Mahmoud firmly but, looking at Owen, a little anxiously, “of principle.”
    Mahmoud was strong on principles.
    “There must be no British finger in the scales,” he said determinedly.
     
    Abdul Bakri was still a sub-inspector.
    “No, it didn’t go through,” he said. “Then or later. When you’re involved in something like this, you