El Deyna was a small village on the outskirts of old Cairo just beyond the Citadel.
“You have work in the fields,” said Mahmoud. “What brought you to the city yesterday?”
“I came to kill Nuri Pasha,” said the other uncompromisingly.
“And why did you want to kill Nuri Pasha?”
“He dishonoured my wife’s sister.”
“Your story will be checked,” said Mahmoud.
He waited to see if this had any effect on the man but it did not.
“How did he dishonour your wife’s sister?”
Mustafa did not reply. Mahmoud repeated the question. Again there was no response. The fellah just sat, brawny arms folded.
Mahmoud tried again.
“Others will tell us if you do not,” he said.
The man just sat stubbornly there.
“Come, man,” said Mahmoud, not unkindly. “We are only trying to get at the truth that lies behind this business.”
“There is one truth for the rich,” the villager said bitterly, “and another for the poor."
“The truth we seek,” said Mahmoud, “is not necessarily that for the rich."
“The rich have all the weapons,” the man said, “and you are one of the weapons.”
Unexpectedly, Mahmoud seemed to flinch.
“I would not have it so,” he said mildly.
The man had noticed Mahmoud’s reaction. It seemed to mollify him.
“Nor I,” he said, mildly, too. “I would not have it so.”
He rubbed his unshaven chin.
“Others will tell you,” he said. “My wife’s family works in the fields for Nuri Pasha. One day Nuri went by. He saw my wife’s sister. He said: “Tell her to bring some melons to the house.” She brought the melons and a man took her in. He took her to a dark room and Nuri came to her.”
“That was wrong,” said Mahmoud, “but it was wrong also to try to kill for that.”
“What was I to do?” the man said passionately. “I am a poor man and it is a big family. Now she is with child. Before, there was one mouth and she could work in the fields. A man wanted her and would have taken her at a low price. Now there are two mouths and she has been dishonoured. No one will take her now except at a large price. And how can I find a large price for her?”
Unconsciously he had laid his hand on the table palm uppermost as if he was pleading with Mahmoud.
“How?” he repeated vehemently. “How? I have children of my own.”
Mahmoud leaned across the table and touched him sympathetically on the arm.
“There is worse, friend,” he said. “How will they manage without you when you whcn»^teti are gone?”
The passion went out of the man’s face.
“There will be money,” he said, and bowed his head, “without me.”
“How can that be,” asked Mahmoud softly, “ when you have none?”
“Others will provide.”
“What others? Your family?”
“Others.”
Both sides seemed to consent to a natural pause, which lasted for several minutes. Owen was impressed. He knew that if he had been conducting the interrogation, in the distant English way, he would never have reached the man as Mahmoud had done.
Mahmoud leaned forward now and touched Mustafa on the sleeve. “Tell me, brother,” he said, “about your visit to the city yesterday.” “I went to the city,” said the man, almost as if he was reciting, “and there were many people. I was one of a crowd. And I saw that bad one and I fired my gun at him. And he fell over, and I gave thanks to Allah.”
“How did you know where to find the bad one?” asked Mahmoud. The man frowned.
“I do not know,” he admitted. “He was suddenly there before me.” “Someone told you, I expect,” said Mahmoud.
The man did not pick this up.
“Have you been to the Place before?”
Mustafa shook his head.
“Never.”
“And yet you knew where to find him,” Mahmoud observed.
He waited, but again the man did not pick it up.
Mahmoud switched.
“Where did you get the gun?”
The man did not reply.
“Did the one who told you where to find the bad one also give you the revolver?”
Again there was no reply.
“If the rich have their weapons,” said Mahmoud, “and I am one of them, you, too, are a weapon. Who is wielding you?”
“Not the rich!”
“When the tool is broken it is thrown away.”
“I am not broken,” said the man defiantly.
“As a tool you are broken. As a weapon.”
“My task is done,” said the man. “I am satisfied.”
“Nuri is still alive.”
The man looked at him, startled.
“Didn’t you know? The shot missed.”
“Is that the truth?”
“On the Book.”
The man buried his face in his hands.
“I am a poor weapon.”
“You have fed too much on the drug,” said Mahmoud.
“It gave me the power,” said the man from behind his hands.
“It took away your power.”
The man shook his head.
"Who gave it to you?”
“A man.”
“The same who gave you the gun?”
Again the shake of the head.
“The one who showed you where to find Nuri Pasha?”
The shaking had become continuous. Owen doubted now if it meant negation.
“The one who will provide for your family when you are gone?” Mahmoud went on inexorably.
The shaking stopped and the man raised his head.
“Inshallah,” he said. “If God wills.”
He would say no more and after several further attempts to resume the conversation Mahmoud ordered him to be returned to the cells.
That afternoon they went to el Deyna. Mahmoud decided, on the spur of the moment, that he would like to talk to Mustafa’s family. Then, equally on the spur of the moment, he decided he would ask Owen to go with him.
Owen accepted at once. He liked Mahmoud and, besides, he had grown sensitive enough to Arab style by now to know that if he did not respond with equal warmth it would immediately chill the relationship that was developing between them.
He was, however, a little surprised. Relations between the ministries were not normally as close as this. He wondered whether the invitation was solely the product of an impulse of friendliness. Mahmoud was no fool. Perhaps, operating alone in what might turn out to be politically sensitive areas, he felt the need to guard his back. If so, Owen could certainly sympathize with him.
They met after lunch at the Ataba el Khadra, the terminus for most of the Cairo tramways, and took a tram to the Citadel.
Although it was still relatively early in the afternoon, and extremely hot, the Ataba was, as always, full of people. The ordinary population of Cairo was still impressed by trams and treated them very seriously. To board a tram at the terminus meant forcing one’s way through a mass of street-sellers, all concerned that the passengers might perish en route for lack of sustenance. Water-sellers, peanut-sellers, lemon-ade-sellers, Turkish-delight-sellers, sellers of tartlets, sweets and sherbet competed for custom.
The tram itself was, of course, crowded. Passengers hung over the driver in his cab and shared his agitation at the continual excesses of arabeah drivers. They bulged out of the tram itself and clung on to the steps. One or two hardy spirits climbed up on to the roof, from which they were dislodged with difficulty by a determined constable, only to be replaced by equally tenacious clamberers at the next stop.
Owen enjoyed all this, but even he had had enough, in the heat, by the time they got to the Citadel. They changed with relief into the small bus which would take them out into the country.
Here, too, there was difficulty in finding a seat. A large fellahin woman with a load of water-melons occupied the whole rear of the bus.
“Come, mother,” said Mahmoud. “Move your fruit. They take up more space than people.”
The woman started to move the melons and then looked up at Mahmoud.
“Why is the Englishman here?” she asked in Arabic, not thinking that Owen understood.
“He is with me,” said Mahmoud.