“He should be in a motor-car,” said the woman, “or in an arabeah.”
The bus had fallen quiet.
Conscious that she held the stage, the woman reached over and picked up two large melons.
She showed them to the passengers.
“Two fine ones,” she said.
She cast a sidelong glance at Owen.
“As big as your balls, Englishman,” she added, giving the other passengers a wink.
“As big as they would need to be, woman,” said Owen, “were I your husband.”
The bus exploded with delighted laughter.
The woman moved her melons, with good grace now, having enjoyed the exchange as much as anyone else, and Owen and Mahmoud sat down.
In a way, it was nothing, but Owen had sensed a current of feeling in the bus that had surprised him. Most Englishmen in Egypt would have said that the country-dwelling fellahin were all right, that it was only in the city that there was trouble. He had defused the current so far as he was concerned and the atmosphere was now quite relaxed. But that it should exist at all was significant.
Mahmoud must have sensed the current, too, for throughout the rest of the journey he kept the conversation at the level of general chit-chat, in Arabic.
The village omda, or headman, showed them to Mustafa’s house.
It was a mud brick house with three rooms and a ladder going up to the roof. The floor was beaten earth. In the first room, at night, a donkey and a water-buffalo lay down together. In the inner rooms the family lived, ate and slept. On the roof were the household stores and the rabbits.
There seemed to be at least eight or nine people in the inner rooms, two old people and six or seven children. When the omda explained the purpose of the visit, they all retreated into the furthest room, leaving Mustafa’s wife alone with Mahmoud, Owen and the omda. She held her veil up in front of her face the whole time they were there.
They sat down cross-legged on the floor. After a moment Mahmoud began.
“Tell me about your husband,” he said. “Is he a good man?”
There seemed to be a shy nod of assent.
“Does he beat you?”
Owen could not detect any response, but the omda said: “He is a good man. He beats her only when she deserves it.”
“Your children: does he beat them?”
This time there was no mistaking the denial.
“Those old ones: are they your family or his?”
“One is hers. One is his,” said the omda.
“Tell me about your sister,” said Mahmoud.
The woman put the veil completely over her face and bowed her head down almost to her knees.
Mahmoud waited, but she said nothing.
“I am not here to judge,” he said, “merely to know.”
The woman bent her body to the left and right in agitation but could not bring herself to reply in speech.
“She is ashamed,” said the omda. “Her family is dishonoured.” “And Mustafa felt this shame greatly?” asked Mahmoud.
The woman seemed to signify assent.
“He took it into his heart?”
More definite this time.
Mahmoud turned to the omda.
“He spoke about it? Some nurse a hurt in silence, others speak it out.”
"He spoke it out,” said the omda.
Mahmoud considered for a moment or two.
“It is hard to bear dishonour,” he said at last, “but sometimes it is better to bear dishonour than to lift your hand against the great.” “True,” said the omda neutrally, “but sometimes a dishonour is too great to be borne.”
“Was that so with Mustafa?”
“I do not know,” said the omda. “Mustafa is a good man.” Mahmoud turned back to the woman and shifted tack.
“Where is your sister staying?” he asked.
“With friends,” said the omda.
“In her village or in this?”
“She will not show her face,” said the omda, “either in her village or in this.”
“What will happen when her child comes?” asked Mahmoud. “It is a lot to ask of friends.”
The omda was silent. “I do not know,” he said at last.
The woman broke in unexpectedly.
“She will stay with me,” she said determinedly.
The omda looked troubled but said nothing.
“How will you manage?” asked Mahmoud.
“The way we have always managed,” said the woman bitterly.
“It is hard for a woman to manage alone,” said Mahmoud. “Even if she is used to it.”
The eyes above the veil seemed to flash.
“When did your husband begin taking hashish?”
The omda made to answer but the woman cut across him.
“He has always taken hashish,” she said, “a little.”
“But recently,” said Mahmoud, “he has started taking more.”
Again the eyes seemed to register the remark, but otherwise there was no response.
“Where did he get it?’’
“There are always those willing to sell,” said the omda.
“Whom you know?”
The omda spread his hands. “Alas, no,” he said.
“There are always those willing to sell,” said Mahmoud. “At a price.”
He leaned forward and addressed the woman directly.
“Money for hashish,” he said, “comes at the cost of money for food. His family was hungry. Why did he buy hashish?”
“It made him strong,” the woman said.
“Strong in the fields? Or strong in the bed?”
“In the bed,” said the woman. “In the fields, too.”
“He feared he was losing his strength in the bed?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
Mahmoud looked across at Owen.
Owen knew what he was thinking. In villages of this sort bilharzia was rife. Among the symptoms of the disease in males was a kind of overall sensual lassitude which the fellahin often took for loss of sexual potency.
“Your husband has the worm?”
“Yes.”
It was common for fellahin to take hashish to counter the lassitude. Ironically, it aggravated the very condition they feared.
In the room behind a small child began to cry. It was hushed by the grandmother but then began to cry again more determinedly. Another joined it.
The woman stirred.
Mahmoud put up his hand.
“One question more: in this last week your husband has come upon a great supply of the drug. Where did he get it from?”
“I do not know,” said the woman.
“Have strangers been to the village?”
“No,” said the omda.
Mahmoud ignored him.
“Has a stranger been to your house?”
“No.”
“Has your husband talked to strangers?”
“I do not know.”
“Has he spoken to you of the drug?” “He never speaks to me of the drug,” said the woman bitterly.
Mahmoud sat back and regarded the woman for a moment or two without speaking. Then he suddenly leaned forward.
“Listen to me,” he said to the woman, speaking slowly and emphatically. “I believe your husband to be a foolish man and not a bad one. He is a tool in the hands of others. I promise you I will try to see that his punishment fits foolishness and not badness. But I need to know whose are the hands that hold the tool. Think about it. Think long and hard.”
He turned to the omda.
“And you,” he said, “think, too. Think doubly long and hard. Or else you will find yourself in trouble.”
A servant showed them through the house and out into the garden, where Nuri Pasha was waiting for them.
He was sitting in the shade of a large eucalyptus tree, a gold-topped cane between his knees and a rug about his shoulders. His head was resting on the back of the chair and from a distance it looked as if he was asleep, but as they drew nearer Owen saw that the apparently closed eyes were watching them carefully.
“Monsieur le Parquet! And-” the watchful eyes lingered a little on Owen-“le Mamur Zapt!”
Servants brought up wickerwork chairs.
“I was,” said Nuri Pasha, “about to have a late tea. Would you care to join me? Or something stronger perhaps?”
“Thank you,” said Owen. “Tea would be very welcome.”