“But I don’t let it interfere with my friendships.”
“No,” Mahmoud admitted. “That’s true. You don’t.”
For a moment he seemed about to soften. Then he suddenly fired up.
“That is because you think it is all just a game. For you, politics is just a game. For me, it is not a game. No.” He beat his hand on his chest theatrically. “For Egyptians politics can never be a game. The English can afford to let politics be a game because they have won. For the Egyptians-”
Owen sighed inwardly. Mahmoud was starting off again. However, he kept his hand commiseratingly on Mahmoud’s arm and stared sympathetically into his eyes.
Mahmoud descended, a little self-consciously, from his high horse.
“It is pride,” he said. “It is pride.”
“The Arabs are a proud people.”
“You forget that!”
“Other people may. I don’t.”
“The English do. The English-” Owen thought he was starting off again. However, Mahmoud suddenly became conscious of himself. “The English don’t understand us,” he concluded somewhat lamely.
“I know,” said Owen soothingly. “I know.”
Mahmoud looked at him. Suddenly he reached forward and took Owen in both arms.
“You understand us!” he said. “You are my friend! My brother!”
He hugged Owen tight. Owen looked surreptitiously up the street. Fortunately no one was watching. At the far end of the street some Arabs were talking animatedly, their arms naturally ’round each other. If anyone did see they wouldn’t think anything of it.
“I am your brother,” he said to Mahmoud.
“You are my brother,” said Mahmoud joyfully.
He released Owen and shouted for more coffee. That was another Arab thing. No friendly exchange, hardly even a conversation, could take place unaccompanied by hospitality. It was what cemented bonds.
“Well,” said Mahmoud, now completely happy. “How are you getting on?”
He had forgotten entirely about his woes, could barely even remember that he had been depressed. He was his old, animated self, interested, passionately interested, of course, for Mahmoud never did anything without passion, once again in the case.
Owen brought him up to date on developments.
“The dragoman is the key. And from what Berthelot says, there are two contenders: Osman and Abdul Hafiz.”
“Of the two, Osman is the more likely,” said Mahmoud.
“He’s more of a rogue.”
“I was thinking of his background. Do you remember? We looked it up. He was at El Azhar. That could be significant.”
The great Islamic university was a hot-bed for nationalist movements, particularly, of course, those with a religious inspiration. Hot-beds, too, Owen frequently thought, produced hot-heads and there were plenty of those at El Azhar. Half the terrorist clubs in the city were based in the university.
“I thought we were going to get an identification,” Owen said. “That strawberry-seller. He and the flower-seller between them.”
“It’s not so much that they know something,” said Mahmoud, “it’s that they’ve seen something. It’s a question of getting it out.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to have another go at them. It’s about all we’ve got to go on. But I wanted to consult you before trying myself because I’m not sure how to set about it. If they’re all over the place like they were last time I’ll never get anywhere. You’re better with them than I am. You know how their minds work.”
Mahmoud was pleased.
“I’m not sure they have any,” he said. “Still, why don’t we try? Why don’t we have another go.”
Owen noticed he had said “we.”
“Yes!” said Mahmoud, firing up with enthusiasm-this was the other side of his slump into depression-and eager to start at once. “Let’s go! Let’s go now!”
The street was brimming. As well as the usual hawkers of stuffed crocodiles, live leopards, Nubian daggers, Abyssinian war-maces, Smyrna figs, strawberries, meshrebiya tables and photograph frames, Japanese fans and postage stamps, sandalwood workboxes and Persian embroideries, hippopotamus-hide whips and tarbooshes, and Sudanese beads made in Manchester and the little scarabs and images of men and gods made for the Tombs of Pharaohs but just three thousand years too late; as well as the sellers of sweets and pastry and lemonade and tea who habitually blocked up the thoroughfare; as well as the acrobats and tumblers, jugglers and performing ape managers; as well as the despairing arabeah-drivers and the theatrical donkey-boys and the long line of privileged vendors stretching the whole length of the terrace-a swarm of Albanians, Serbs, Montenegrins, Georgians, and Circassians had suddenly arrived in front of the hotel to show off their boots.
They were very proud of their boots and had come along, in traditional national dress with a few props such as guns, daggers and swords, to exhibit them to the tourists to be photographed.
The Kodaks had for once deserted the little white donkeys with their red saddles and blue brocade and strayed out into the street in pursuit of the boots. This had, naturally, brought all traffic to a stop. Equally naturally the traffic was the last to find this out. People continued pushing and shoving, arabeah drivers continued to urge their reluctant animals forward, various other animals wandered about in bewildered fashion and the only motion discernible on the Street of the Camel was general swirl.
One consequence of this was that most ordinary trade had come to a halt. The tourists on the terrace were too engrossed by the spectacle in the street to pay any attention to the vendors thrusting their wares through the railings at them. A temporary truce was forced on the vendors; and so when Owen and Mahmoud managed to struggle through the crowd and finally reach the strawberry-seller and flower-seller they found them unoccupied.
“By Allah, it is good to see you!” said the strawberry-seller warmly.
The flower-seller inquired after their fathers. Owen’s was dead but he refrained from mentioning the fact as he did not want to encourage a diversion. The diversion came anyway because when Mahmoud in turn inquired after the fathers of the strawberry-seller and the flower-seller he was answered at great length, the scope of the reply extending, so it seemed, to the health of the entire village.
Midway through Owen lost track. The heat, the noise, the press of people and the avalanche of detail sent him into a daze. At some point they all sat down in the dust, the better to consider-surely Owen could not be hearing correctly? — the flower-seller’s account of the diseased leg of one of the village camels. Sitting might have been more comfortable had it not been for the fact that the pressure of the crowd was forever making people fall over them. Not that that disturbed anyone.
The recital went on for hours, or so it seemed to Owen. The crowd was still as thick, more tightly jammed if anything. For some time he had been conscious of an approaching wail and thump. The wail ceased to approach and continued to sound at intervals forlornly. A wedding must have got stuck in the crowd. The tourists on the terrace above were still disregarding the vendors and following the Balkan display of boots. The vendors, discouraged, turned to the nearer spectacle and formed a little ring around Owen and Mahmoud and the flower-and strawberry-seller and listened rapt to the tale.
Owen abandoned all hope of getting anywhere. Mahmoud, however, worked patiently on, bent courteously forward to catch the strawberry-seller’s words, offering little suggestions now and then which blocked off a detour or returned after a diversion. And gradually, very gradually, he brought the conversation around.
Owen came to with a jolt when he realized that they were talking now about Moulin.
“His wife is here,” said the strawberry-seller.
“Is she?” said the flower-seller. “I thought she had gone.”
“Not that one. Another one.”
“Has he two wives, then?”