‘So he no longer works in the fields?’
‘Oh, he does sometimes. At harvest time, of course. But also other times. And he still brings back money.’
‘It was before he went to the city, then, that he was friends with Ibrahim?’
‘No, they stayed friends after he’d left the ostrich farm. Ibrahim sometimes used to go with him into the city.’
‘To the races?’
She looked at him in surprise.
‘That is where Ali goes, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but that is not where they went. They used to go to meetings.’
‘Meetings?’
‘Yes, big ones. Once,’ she said with pride, ‘they went to hear Mustapha Kamil.’
In a way it was no surprise. Thousands had gone to hear Mustapha Kamil, the charismatic young leader of the Nationalist Party, before he had died suddenly at a tragically early age. All the same, Owen hadn’t expected it. Ali, the tough nut, the one who, if Mahmoud was right, consorted with racetrack gangs, and Ibrahim, the humble villager, going to political meetings?
And Nationalist ones? Well, they wouldn’t have gone to any other, that was for sure. Politics was not for the likes of Ibrahim and Ali. Even the Nationalists drew their strength from office workers and the professional classes. They recognized that themselves. That, in a way, had been the point of the meeting that Owen had attended down by the Pont de Limoun. They had been trying to draw up support from the railway workers, without a lot of success.
But now here were two ordinary fellahs from the sticks turning up to listen to Mustapha Kamil! Unlikely ones, too, not exactly the sort you would see as avid readers of the Nationalist press, not the sort, actually, who could probably read at all. What was going on?
‘Mustapha Kamil!’ he said. ‘There was a man!’
‘There was a man indeed!’ agreed Leila proudly.
‘And Ali talked to you all about such things?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He had underestimated Ali, only too evidently. He had seen only the rough, hard villager. What was it that she had said? Head too hot and tongue too quick?
But she had said that about Ibrahim, not about Ali.
‘And Ibrahim, too, did he used to talk to you about such things?’
‘At first, yes, but then his father would not let him. He said such talk was bad, that the Pasha would hear of it and be down on us. I think Fazal would have talked.’
‘Fazal?’
‘Ibrahim’s brother.’
The difficult one. The one that Owen had thought might have looked for revenge for his brother’s killing.
He still didn’t think he was wrong. Only he had seen it all too simply. He had seen just the enmity, just the possible revenge relationship. He had not seen the relationships between the families. But relationships there were, of which the marriage between Leila and Ibrahim had been just one.
‘And were they all still going to such meetings, Ali and Ibrahim?’
She was silent. Then she said:
‘Mustapha Kamil is dead.’
‘But there are others. Others now speak in his place.’
‘There has been no time for meetings,’ she said, ‘not since Ibrahim began working for the Belgians.’
‘They did not meet?’
‘Only occasionally. Sometimes they would walk back to the village together.’
Suddenly she seemed to be far away. Perhaps she was remembering the past. Perhaps it was the first time since Ibrahim’s death that she had allowed herself to.
‘He was a good man,’ Owen prompted gently.
‘Yes.’
‘But a hot-headed one, you said?’
‘Yes.’
She laughed, remembering.
‘And too quick of tongue. How was he too quick of tongue?’
‘That time when he spoke up for the railwaymen. They were angry but no one would speak. Ibrahim was angry, too, but he said he would speak. His father wanted to beat him when he heard. Ali, too,’ she said, surprisingly.
‘Ali wanted to beat him?’
‘Not beat him. But he said it was foolish to step forward. “Let others do that,” he said.’
‘Why did he say that?’
‘He said it would do Ibrahim no good if he were to let himself be singled out. The job was not forever. Put up with it, he said, take the money, and then speak if you must.’
Owen was again surprised. Ali, the moderate? The man who had run for his gun that day?
‘But Ibrahim did not take his advice,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Was Ali angry?’
‘No. He said it was on his own head. But afterwards he came to him again and said: “There are men better at this than you.” “Let them come forward, then,” said Ibrahim. Well, Ali knew a man who wanted to work on the railway line and who was good at speaking and they let him come forward instead.’
‘Was his name Wahid?’ asked Owen.
As Owen approached the station he saw that a train was in. It was coming from Cairo, however, and no use to him. He was surprised, though, to see Mahmoud getting off.
Mahmoud, too, was disconcerted. He hesitated, gave Owen a slight bow with his head, and hurried past.
Owen was annoyed. Surely they had been friends for too long to mess about like this? On an impulse he turned and hurried after Mahmoud. Mahmoud heard the footsteps and looked round guardedly.
‘Are you going to the village? I have just come from there. I picked up one or two things-perhaps I could discuss them with you?’
Mahmoud instantly warmed. Quick to perceive a slight, especially when it came from the British, he was also quick to respond to a sympathetic initiative. In fact, he tended to overrespond, especially when it came from Owen.
‘I will stop. Where I was going does not matter. No, it does not matter at all. You are going back to Cairo? I will come with you!’
‘No, no!’ protested Owen. ‘I will walk a little of the way with you. You were going to the village?’
‘To the Tree. But I cannot allow you-’
After some while it was agreed that it was easier for Owen to accompany Mahmoud rather than vice versa and they set out across the fields. Owen looked to see if Leila was still there but she was not.
He was relieved to find that Mahmoud was still taking an interest in the village end of things. It had seemed that his attention was entirely on the railway and Owen felt that was unlikely to be productive.
He told Mahmoud what he had learned from his conversation with Leila. He hesitated for a moment over whether to tell him about the Nationalist meetings, but then decided that he would.
‘So you see,’ he said, ‘there is this connection between Ibrahim and Ali.’
‘The fact that they were friends,’ said Mahmoud, thinking, ‘wouldn’t stop the brothers from exacting revenge. Revenge overrides everything in the Arab code of honour.’
‘All the same-’
‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud, ‘I am glad you told me.’
‘And then there is the bit about the dispute, you know, the one on the railway that you are interested in, when Ibrahim acted as spokesman. I had been wondering why Ibrahim had acted as spokesman and not Wahid.’
‘I made too much of that,’ muttered Mahmoud.
‘Well, I’ve probably been making too much of Wahid.’
‘You were right, though. About the Nationalist connection.’
‘But how important is it? So Wahid is a Nationalist. So are half a million other Egyptians.’
The mutual concessions restored their old relationship and by the time they reached the village they were talking happily.
‘But you were going on to the Tree?’
‘Well, yes. I wanted to see the place without so many people there.’
‘I’m afraid-’ began Owen guiltily.
But then Mahmoud saw the Tree with its guarding legions.
‘What-?’
Owen explained.
‘And they are guarding the Tree against the French?’ said Mahmoud, amazed.