They were sitting on the ground just beyond the outer ring of Sheikh Isa’s listeners, far enough away to demonstrate their independence, yet close enough to hear what was being said. The barber had temporarily moved his shop there; that is, his chair, his bowls and his implements.
And also his cronies. This was a different congregation from Sheikh Isa’s: younger, more dissident, free-thinking. It included, besides the wounded Ja’affar, several of the men who worked on the railway, among them the man who had acted as their spokesman in the confrontation over the removal of Ibrahim’s body. It also included the dead man’s brother.
‘You’re right,’ said the man who had acted as spokesman. Wahid appeared to be his name. ‘Ordinarily I wouldn’t agree with the old sheikh either. But he’s got a point. If this working-on-the-Sabbath idea goes ahead, soon they’ll have us all working on the Sabbath. You, Ja’affar, me, Ismail-not you, though,’ he said, looking at Owen.
Owen had come there to pay his dues. It had turned out, however, that a hakim had not in the end been sent for.
‘He would have had to have come all the way from the city, Effendi,’ explained the barber. ‘Besides, to what end? What is a broken collarbone? I can fix that.’
‘You said it didn’t need fixing,’ said Ja’affar accusingly. ‘You said it would get better of its own accord.’
‘And so it will. The sling is there just to support the arm so that it will not put weight on it. And to show old man Zaghlul that there really is something wrong with you.’
Ja’affar had seemed not just satisfied but mending, so Owen had contented himself with settling the barber’s bill, an action which had endeared him both to Ja’affar and to the barber and his ring of cronies.
‘I work all the time,’ said Owen, smiling.
He had accepted a cup of tea and sat down in the circle with the others; from where he could, conveniently, hear what Sheikh Isa said and at the same time sample local opinion. One thing the issue of Friday-working did appear to have done was to have pushed Ibrahim’s death out of the forefront of men’s minds. If it had, that would help Mahmoud. It would give him more time in which to track down Ibrahim’s killer and prevent the whole thing from turning into a revenge feud. If, of course, the killing was purely a local matter.
But now what was this? Sheikh Isa was connecting the two things.
‘How many more signs does God have to send? First, the Tree; then poor, murdered Ibrahim! Are not the signs there to be read? And is there a man so stupid that he cannot read them? Lust, adultery and death everywhere; discord and disharmony. God piles sign upon sign. Nature revolts. Yesterday, but yesterday, here, yes, here in this very village, an ostrich breaks out and savages a man! What is this but God’s way of showing us that we have gone too far, that if we transgress the bounds of order, so too with Nature! Stop now! Turn back this foolish thing, this monster, this sacrilegious beast! Stop this railway now!’
Wahid, the labourers’ spokesman, stood up and applauded vigorously.
Owen suddenly had trouble at home. It began auspiciously enough with an invitation to dinner from Zeinab’s father, Nuri Pasha. When he arrived, Zeinab, who was coming independently, had not yet got there so Owen took off his shoes and climbed up on the liwan beside Nuri for a good chat. The liwan was a dais at one end of the mandar’ah, or reception room, where the host would lie, on large divans, or cushions, and, if his guests were sufficiently favoured, invite them to recline also.
Nuri was a traditionalist when it came to comforts and beside the liwan was a stand on which he kept his coffee-sets, water-pipes and dishes of Turkish delight and nougat. His comforts extended more widely, too, and on the floor above was a harem-room well stocked with wives and concubines. Nuri, however, was growing older and no longer found the performance of the concubines as satisfactory as he had once done, something which he attributed to the declining standards of the age.
He had never, in any case, found anyone to match Zeinab’s mother, who had once been the most famous courtesan in Cairo. Nuri had loved her dearly and recklessly, proposing marriage to her on a number of occasions. His conduct had been for several years the scandal and glee of Cairo society. Zeinab’s mother, as independent as her daughter, had tactfully refused his proposals, unwilling, she said, to accept the sacrifice of standing and career that such a step would mean for the man she loved. Career, replied Nuri-he had been young then-was transitory; love was permanent. And, indeed, their relationship had lasted for quite a time; until, in fact, Zeinab’s mother died, leaving behind her something less transitory in the shape of Zeinab.
Nuri, a Francophile and, in those days, a modernizer, had decided to bring up his daughter in the Western manner, wanting her to grow up to be as spirited and free-thinking as her mother. Now, having done so, he was not quite so sure that it had been a good idea.
What, for example, about marriage? A match with a wealthy Pasha or Pasha’s son was the obvious thing, but Pashas and sons alike were frankly terrified of her. Besides, the years were going by and she was now twenty-eight. Girls got married at half her age.
Zeinab herself was beginning to be uncomfortably aware of this. Owen, fortunately, was not, and for the time being she intended to make the most of a relationship with someone who thought she was normal.
Nuri poured out these and other woes to Owen as they lay on the liwan, and Owen replied, as he always did, that Zeinab would make up her own mind about these things and that nothing either he or Nuri did would alter this in the slightest.
They were in full, contented flow when Zeinab arrived, brandishing a large gilt-edged card.
‘What is this?’ she demanded.
Nuri took it gingerly.
‘It is an invitation to a reception to mark the formal opening of the Racing Club at Heliopolis,’ he replied.
‘What have I to do with Racing Clubs, what have I to do with jumped-up, parvenu places like Heliopolis?’ she demanded. ‘What, more to the point,’ she said, looking fiercely at Owen, ‘have you to do with them?’
‘Nothing,’ said Owen. ‘I’m just going to the reception, that’s all.’
‘It’s that girl,’ said Zeinab.
‘What girl?’ said Owen, bewildered.
‘That one I saw you with the other day. In Anton’s.’
‘Salah-el-Din’s daughter? She’s just a child.’
‘I know what she is,’ said Zeinab, ‘and it certainly isn’t a child!’
‘Who’s Salah-el-Din?’ asked Nuri, interested.
‘The new mamur at Heliopolis.’
‘And he shops at Anton’s?’
Nuri looked thoughtful.
‘It’s odd that you should have been invited,’ said Owen, puzzled. Egyptian women, even if they were Pasha’s daughters, were hardly ever invited to public events.
Zeinab, however, was in a mood to take umbrage.
‘You don’t want me to be there, is that it?’ she demanded, switching tack.
‘Of course not. I’m just puzzled, that’s all. You’ve never had anything to do with racing. How did they come to pick on you?’
He took the card from Nuri. The names of the Club’s new committee were printed at the bottom.
‘Malik?’ he said. ‘Do you think it could be Malik?’
‘That man I told Anton to throw out?’
‘Malik?’ said Nuri. ‘Which Malik?’
‘Abd-al-Jamal’s son,’ said Owen.
‘You told Anton to throw him out?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Oh, my God!’ said Nuri.
‘He’s a gross pig.’
‘Yes, but Abd-al-Jamal’s son!’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘Abd-al-Jamal’s very powerful. And very rich. Besides-’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been talking to him recently,’ said Nuri unhappily.
‘So?’
‘Well-’
‘What,’ said Zeinab in sudden fury, ‘have you been talking to him about?’
‘Well-’
‘If,’ said Zeinab ominously, ‘you have been talking to him about marriage-’