The man nodded.
‘I have heard two things. The first is terrible, but must be as God wills. It is about the second that I have come.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘That the girl was strangled. And that my son is suspected.’
‘I would not go so far as that. The Parquet suspects all until they are proved innocent. That is how it is with your son. He is suspected neither more nor less.’
‘Nevertheless he is suspected? Well, my friend was right. It is time I came.’
‘There are powerful people who speak for him.’
The old man smiled.
‘But not as powerful as the Mamur Zapt.’
He had come in the time-honoured way to plead for his son. And in the time-honoured way he had gone to the Mamur Zapt, not for justice, for that was the prerogative of the Kadi, but for mercy, because that was the prerogative of power, and for centuries the Mamur Zapt had been the Khedive’s right-hand man, the man, after him, most powerful in the city. Things had, of course, changed; but many in the countryside were not yet aware of this.
‘The time for intercession is not yet,’ he said. ‘It may be that there will be no need of it. The Law has still to ask the questions.’
‘In the asking,’ said Suleiman’s father, ‘lies danger.’
‘The man who asks,’ said Owen, ‘is a man of honour. But perhaps it would be well to find another man of law who can watch over your son and advise him.’
‘I have already done that. It is not that. It is-’ he hesitated-‘that the questions could go deep.’
‘Why should they go deep?’
‘Because these things have roots. There is bad blood between me and the girl’s father.’
‘Why should that affect your son?’
‘It already has affected him. It was why the girl’s father spurned him. If there had not been bad blood, perhaps none of this would ever have happened. That is why I wonder what I have done.’
‘You should not blame yourself. One cannot trace these things to their infinite cause. All these things are past.’
‘I wish they were,’ said the old man. ‘I wish they were. It was never my intention-but sometimes these things return upon us.’
‘How came it that there was bad blood between you?’
‘We came from the same village. We worked fields next to each other. There was a dispute between us over water. I thought I was in the right, he thought he was. We went to a kadi, who ruled in my favour.’
The old man shrugged.
‘Bitter words were said. I was young and hot and enforced the law to the letter. It meant he went without water. He had to leave the village. It was the beginning for me.. Afterwards, I prospered so that now I own more land than the entire village used to hold. But for him, it seems, it was the end-’
‘It was as God decreed.’
‘But sometimes He works these things out to their infinite end and lets justice fall not on us but on our children. That is what I am afraid of.’
‘Who can read God’s pattern?’ said Owen.
The debate was not going well for the Government. The Minister had found himself unexpectedly under fire. He would certainly get his Supplementary Vote-the Government had an enormous majority in the Assembly-but things were proving stickier than he had expected.
‘This is a work of national importance,’ he said indignantly.
A man rose on the benches opposite.
‘No one doubts that,’ he said. ‘It is the cost of the proposals that we are disputing.’
Since it was unusual for the Opposition to want to reduce the cost of anything-they were normally in favour of increasing it-the Minister was slightly taken aback. He muttered something about technical reasons.
‘But that is precisely the point!’ said the man opposite. ‘We are being asked to take these technical arguments on trust. Has an independent opinion been sought?’
‘Tenders will be invited in the normal way,’ said the Minister.
‘But who has drawn up the specifications?’
‘The Department’s own advisers-’
‘British. And the contract will go to the British. Has consideration been given to asking independent consultants to draw up the specifications?’
‘That would increase the cost.’
‘It would probably reduce costs. The Department’s estimates are usually inflated. Why will not the Minister go outside the Department for advice? Outside the country, even? This is a very big contract and firms outside the country will be interested.’
‘They will have an opportunity of tendering.’
‘But on terms drawn up by the Department’s British advisers. That is what we are objecting to.’
It was the usual Nationalist tactic. They wanted the British out; and while they certainly didn’t want other countries in, internationalism was a handy stick to beat the Government with.
‘Those estimates are pared to the bone!’ whispered Macrae, beside Owen, indignantly. ‘That laddie doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Who is he?’
‘Mohammed Jubbara,’ whispered Owen. ‘He’s a big man in the Nationalist Party.’
The Minister was muttering something about The Time Factor.
‘This is an emergency,’ he proclaimed.
Someone else rose on the benches opposite.
‘Hamad el Sid,’ whispered Owen.
‘I hope the Government, in its eagerness to do a quick deal with foreign business interests, will think about the effect of its grandiose schemes on the poor.’
‘We are always thinking of the poor,’ said the Minister.
‘And how to grind them down further, I know,’ said Hamad el Sid.
The Minister affected shock. He turned to his colleagues on the benches behind him.
‘The schemes that Mr el Sid so disparages have increased the production of grain three times; the production of cotton five times; the production of-’
‘But at a price,’ interrupted Hamad el Sid, ‘in terms of the health of the poor. Is the Minister aware that the incidence of bilharzia and ankylostoma in the male population of Egypt is now eighty-five per cent? Would he care to put a figure-since he is so keen on figures-on the role of water-borne diseases over the last few years? And relate them to the public works of which he is so proud?’
It was almost, thought Owen, as if he had been talking to Cairns-Grant. Perhaps he had; or perhaps Cairns-Grant had been talking to him.
Macrae shifted restlessly.
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘but-’
The Nationalists shifted back again.
Was it true, a third man wanted to know-
‘Al-Faqih Mas’udi,’ whispered Owen.
‘-that the proposed new regulator will take up a substantial part of the remarkable gardens at the barrage. Gardens which were a source of pride and pleasure to so many ordinary citizens of Cairo-’
And so it went on. At one point Owen took Macrae and Ferguson out for a cup of coffee. In the corridor he saw Labiba Latifa. She waved a hand to him.
‘We’re having a meeting. Care to join us?’ she said.
‘Thanks. I’ve got my own,’ said Owen.
Back in the Chamber, Members were debating the effects of the Aswan Barrage on the Temple at Philae.
‘What has this got to do with replacing the Manufiya Regulator?’ pleaded the Minister despairingly.
At last it was over and the Supplementary Vote, despite the Minister’s travails, agreed. Macrae and Ferguson were jubilant. ‘That means we can get on with it?’
‘Heavens, no!’ said Owen. ‘Now it has to go to London.’
‘But-but-that will take years!’
‘Aye,’ said Owen.
A door opened and out popped Zeinab.
Owen was astounded. She had hitherto shown absolutely no interest in the workings of parliamentary democracy. Power was one thing and she was interested in that, but parliamentary democracy, especially in Egypt, quite another. She was a true daughter of her father. Nuri Pasha had once been a Minister; indeed, had hopes, though they were receding, of being one again. But he knew that this had nothing to do with so unreliable a thing as voting. It was a matter of securing the Khedive’s favour. That, in Zeinab’s view, was what Government was all about.