‘Soft,’ said Karim, ‘so soft.’
‘You touched her?’
‘She let me touch her. She let me hold her hand. It was very nice. And when she touched me — she touched my face — her hand was so soft. So gentle! No one had ever touched me like that before. I said that. I told her that. And … and she cried! I don’t know why she cried! Do you know why she cried?’
‘I can guess,’ said Owen.
‘It was a little square,’ Karim said. ‘She had sewn it herself. There were little beads on it. They were made of glass and they sparkled in the sun. It was lovely. I asked her to make me one, and she said she would. I wonder what has happened to it. They have taken all her things away, you know. When she left. With the box.’
‘Did you see her go?’
‘No. It happened one night. After I had gone to bed. She left, and she took her box with her. And that little thing — I don’t know what you call it — must have been inside. And I don’t think she ever made one for me. Or perhaps she did? And it’s lying around somewhere. I’ll ask my mother if she’s seen it.’
‘Pity me, Mahmoud!’
It was his old friend from student days.
‘Willingly; but why should I pity you, Idris?’
‘I told you a lie yesterday, Mahmoud.’
‘One of many, I am sure; but which one specifically?’
‘I told you I was a trader in trocchee shells.’
‘And are you not?’
‘Oh, I am. But also I am not.’
‘But that is not a lie, Idris. That is merely a half-truth.’
‘Put it another way, Mahmoud: I have not one job, but two.’
‘But, Idris, this is astonishing. Two jobs! And are both of them paid? You must be on your way to riches!’
‘I should be so lucky! I am barely paid enough for one.’
‘It will build up, Idris, I am sure.’
‘But slowly. And the trouble is, Mahmoud, that there is no gain without pain.’
‘You have to work for it?’
‘Worse. A consignment has just arrived. And when it arrives, it has to be split.’
‘That is not an insurmountable problem, Idris.’
‘And I have to split it.’
‘It is still not insurmountable, Idris. Challenging, possibly, but not impossible.’
‘One part has to go to Cairo. The other to the Sudan.’
‘Difficult, but not-’
‘And I have to go with it.’
‘To the Sudan?’
‘If it was to Cairo, there would be no problem.’
‘Still …’
‘The Sudan, Mahmoud, the Sudan! Where giant scorpions lie in waiting. And lizards as large as crocodiles. And flies, Mahmoud, flies in abundance!’
‘But are you not used to flies?’
‘Not flies like these. They are cannibal flies, Mahmoud. They consume you.’
‘Not flies, Idris, not flies!’
‘Mosquitoes, then. Truly malignant ones. The sort that give you malaria by a stab. And the sand, Mahmoud, and the heat. Where the water, if there is any, runs already hot from the taps! I shall die, Mahmoud, I shall die!’
‘Again, Idris, I wonder if you have completely understood. Are you sure you have to send part of the consignment to the Sudan? Is not the Sudan where trocchee shells come from, not go to?’
‘I am not talking about trocchee shells.’
‘No? What are you talking about, then?’
‘That, I cannot reveal to you.’
‘All right, be like that, then!’
‘I told you I have two jobs. The trocchee shells are one. This is another.’
‘So it is not trocchee shells that you are dividing?’
‘No. Mahmoud, it does not matter what I am dividing. I don’t want to go to the Sudan!’
‘Why go, then?
‘Duty.’
‘Oh, come, Idris!’
‘You and I both serve a great ideal, Mahmoud. Duty calls. In a hell-hole like the Sudan, the call is muted, I will allow: but it is still there. I wish it weren’t. Oh, how I wish it weren’t!’
‘Have courage, man; you may return alive.’
‘Or I may not.’
‘Whereabouts in the Sudan are you bound for?’
‘I don’t know, exactly. Somewhere between the Red Sea Hills and Port Sudan. Between the Devil and the deep sea, Mahmoud. Both are equally undesirable.’
‘Well, Idris, when you get there, will you send me a postcard, so that I will know where to come to collect your body?’
‘Mahmoud, is it even possible to send postcards in the Sudan?’
‘Of course it is. There is a very good postal service there.’
‘I will send you one, then. In fact, I will send you more than one. So that you will know that my life still flickers.’
As Mahmoud walked away, he felt slightly uncomfortable. If Idris did send him a postcard, he would know where Idris had gone — and, presumably, where his part of the consignment had gone, too.
Did that matter? Mahmoud rather feared that it did. Because what was this mysterious consignment? It couldn’t be ordinary goods, or Idris would have said. It was something he had to be guarded about. So what could it be?
Mahmoud had an uneasy suspicion that it might be arms. Idris appeared to have been sent on some sort of political mission. He had always been a bit of a hot-head. At university he had always taken up extreme positions. Well, was that so bad? reflected Mahmoud. So had he himself. So had most students.
But Idris had always carried them further than most of their friends, had talked more wildly, had always been in the forefront of demonstration against the government. But that was just Idris. Except that Idris had gone on for longer, had gone on after he had left university, when most others had let themselves be swallowed up by work. They had sunk into respectable, responsible jobs — as Mahmoud had himself. True, he had kept the ideal burning bright, had constantly worked for it in his off-duty moments. But that was not quite the same as devoting your life to it full-time. Idris had committed himself totally to the cause and gone on committing himself. You shouldn’t let yourself be fooled by his flippant manner. Idris wasn’t the fool he sometimes pretended to be.
This business that he was presently engaged in, whatever it was, was serious. There could be no doubt about that. And it was, of course, political.
Nothing wrong with that, in Mahmoud’s eyes. Except … except that a lot depended on how it was political. If it was violent, Mahmoud didn’t like it. He had a distaste for any form of terrorist or quasi-terrorist activity. Well, he would, wouldn’t he, as a member of the Parquet. He wanted change but he wanted it to come by peaceful means. He was used, of course, to being accused of siding with the Pashas and the British. And there was, he had to recognize, some truth in the change. But, committed as he was to change, he was also committed to the law. That, after all, was why he had chosen to become a lawyer. He believed that through the law his vision of a better Egypt could be accomplished. Through politics, yes, but above all through the law. Politics in the end had to be subject to the law. And he knew that too often in Egypt it wasn’t.
He had thought it through over and over and had arrived at a position which satisfied him. But every now and then something cropped up which jarred it. As now. Should he follow up what Idris had let slip and see if there really was something questionable, illegal, in what he was doing? And did it matter if there was? There were lots of things that for an Egyptian official it was convenient not to know. Was he making too much of this? Should he not just forget about it?
He knew what the worldly wise Owen would say: at least wait for the postcard!
NINE
There were still camel trains coming in, although less frequently, and smaller ones now. When they reached the midan they came to a halt while their drivers tried to find a space for them. When this failed they sometimes tried to force their way in among the camels already there. Often the camels resisted and bit and lashed out with their hind legs at the newcomers. Then the camel herds would rush in with their whips and try to restore order. There were bitter arguments.