“He’s too moderate for both of them.”
“It may have to come to that,” Fakhri insisted. “There has to be compromise. Even they must see that!”
“They might see it,” said Daouad, “but others won’t.”
“If they see it, the others will have to.”
Daouad pursed his lips. “There are others who are even more difficult,” he said. “Compared with them, el Gazzari and Jemal are reason itself.”
“Then,” said Fakhri, “ you certainly do have problems.”
“Fakhri doesn’t really care if I have problems,” Daouad said to Owen. “He’s on the other side.” “There are lots of other sides,” said Fakhri. His cheeks crinkled with laughter. “Anyway,” he said, “of course I am! I like to hear of your problems. It m^kes me forget mine for a little.”
“How I envy you. Fakhri,” said Daouad. “There’s only one boss in your place and that’s you. In my place there are ten bosses and none of them is me.”
“I can’t believe there’s anyone worse than Jemal and el Gazzari,” said Owen.
“Oh, there is!” said Daouad with great conviction.
“There can’t be!” said Owen. “Who?”
Daouad started to speak, then stopped.
“There just are,” he said.
Owen shook his head, affecting disbelief.
“Some of el Gazzari’s factions are impossible,” Fakhri said to Owen. “And some of Jemal’s,” said Daouad.
Fakhri chuckled. “And Daouad is not going to tell us which of them he’s thinking of!”
“That’s right,” said Daouad. “I’m not.”
“I promise I won’t print what you say,” said Fakhri.
“It’s not that that worries me,” said Daouad darkly.
“What is it that worries you?” asked Owen.
Daouad looked at his watch.
"I’ve got to go,” he said.
“At any rate,” said Fakhri, “there’s one worry that I’ve got and you haven’t.”
“What’s that?” asked Daouad. ' v
“Money,” said Fakhri.
“Oh, money,” said Daouad, shrugging his shoulders.
“Just so,” said Fakhri. “But if you’re independent like me-”
“I am independent,” muttered Daouad touchily.
“-you’ve always got to be thinking about it. One big fine would close me down.”
“They can close you down without doing that,” said Daouad. They talked for a little while longer about the difficulties of the censorship. Owen knew he was being got at, but he did not mind. Fakhri was being very helpful. He had certainly earned something. The question was, what did he want? At one point Owen had thought he was angling for a bribe. That could be arranged. But perhaps Fakhri had in mind something less directly financiaclass="underline" greater tolerance if he stepped over the line, perhaps. That, too, was possible.
Daouad looked at his watch again. He shook hands with Owen and
Fakhri escorted him to the door. Owen wondered whether he could decently leave himself.
A voice behind him said: “No arts pages in al Liwa. ”
It was one of his friends from earlier in the evening.
“A pity,” said Owen, “especially from your point of view.”
“It would be a better paper if it did have them. It’s too one-track at the moment. Boring.”
“That’s because Daouad is boring,” said another of the earlier party, joining them.
“It’s not just that. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.”
“El Gazzari?” hazarded Owen.
The other two exchanged grimaces.
“Not that Jemal’s any better,” one of them said.
“A pity,” said Owen again. “Fakhri says they've got plenty of money.”
“He would. He’s envious.”
“Where do they get it from?” Owen asked. “Party funds?” “Ah-ha.” One of the young men laid a finger along his nose and winked. The other called to a group standing next to them. “Zeinab!” A girl turned round. It was the one Owen had spoken to earlier. “What is it?” she said, coming across to them.
“We want to know where al Liwa gets its money from.”
“Why ask me?”
“We thought Raoul might know.”
“Then ask him,” she said, and walked off.
A tall, distinguished-looking Syrian with silvery-grey hair came over.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“We thought you could help us,” they said. “We want to know where al Liwa gets its money from.”
The Syrian looked annoyed. “Why should I know?”
“You’re so friendly with al Liwa. ”
“I’m friendly with everybody,” the Syrian said.
“I wish you were friendly with Fakhri,” one of the young men said. “Then I could have a bigger column.”
“There’s no money in newspapers,” the Syrian said.
“Except what people put into them,” one of the young men said. The Syrian looked at him steadily. “I don’t put money into papers,” he said. “I stick to business.”
He rejoined the people he had been talking to previously. A little later, Owen saw him leaving, with the girl.
CHAPTER 6
Understandably, Owen got into the office late the next day. Nikos and Georgiades were waiting for him.
Nikos cocked an eyebrow.
“How are you feeling?” asked Georgiades.
“Fragile,” said Owen.
“Serve you right,” said Nikos vindictively. He had not forgiven Owen the business about the memo.
Georgiades clucked his tongue disapprovingly at Nikos and led Owen into his office.
“Coffee!” he shouted to Yussuf. “Coffee quickly! The man is dying!”
Yussuf scuttled into the room and poured out a large mug of coffee. He watched sympathetically as Owen did his best to wrap himself round it: cradling it in his hands and letting the warmth move up his arms, sucking in the aroma and then taking a sip and letting it transform itself into a glow in the pit of his stomach.
Georgiades took some, too; in case it was catching, he informed Yussuf.
Owen had not really drunk much the night before. One seldom did at Egyptian parties, even Europeanized ones. However, he had not left Fakhri’s until it had gone four and had had only three hours’ sleep.
He put the mug back on his desk and motioned to Georgiades to draw up his usual chair.
“OK,” he said. “Tell me about Ahmed, then.”
“Nineteen,” said Georgiades, “a student. Second year at the law school. Not very good at his studies. A certain native wit, his teachers think, but inconsistent. Not very well organized. His work doesn’t get done. Too many distractions.”
“Like?”
“Politics. Spends too much time hanging around Nationalist headquarters. Attends meetings. Distributes leaflets.” “Speaks?”
“No. Gets tied up. His emotion outruns his thinking.”
“Heart’s in the right place but head isn’t.”
“That’s the sort of thing.”
“And how did he come to fall into these bad habits?”
“Before he went to law school his father sent him to Turkey for six months. The idea was for him to make contacts which might be useful to him later. Business, a bit, but mostly the kind of contacts that would help him with the Khedive. Nuri’s good at that kind of lobbying. Anyway, apparently Ahmed didn’t spend much time talking to the kind of people Nuri wanted him to talk to. Instead, he fell in with a group of Young Turks-officers in the Army, stationed at Stamboul. He got to talking politics with them. They were very keen on getting some change in things. Too keen. They got put down by the Secret Police and Ahmed had to leave the country in a hurry. Nuri wasn’t very pleased.”
“And then he came home to Egypt and thought he’d carry on where they left off?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Young Turk, is he?”
“Not really. More Young Egyptian.”
“Never met that.”
“Treasure it,” Georgiades invited. “You might not meet it again. He’s on his own, this boy.”
“What’s his position? Who’s he against, for a start?”
“The British.”
“I’d spotted that.”