Mahmoud said nothing for some time. When he replied, however, it was in Arabic, which was a kind of response. “You cannot share,” he said, “because you cannot feel.”
“That is unjust,” said Owen quietly.
Mahmoud shifted uncomfortably.
“It is not your fault,” he said. “It is because you are an Englishman.”
Oh no, thought Owen, so that’s what it is.
“Have you forgotten so soon?” he said reproachfully. “I am not an Englishman.”
Something stirred down in the dumps. Arab, Mahmoud might be, and liable to plunge into the trough of depression; but Arab, he still was, and unable to forgive himself for anything that seemed a breach of courtesy. He raised a hand apologetically.
“I am not always clear,” he said, “about the difference between an Englishman and a Welshman.”
“This is fighting talk,” said Owen.
Mahmoud managed something that was a little like a smile. He took a sip of coffee, looked at it with surprise and took another sip.
“What have we done this time?” asked Owen.
“We? I thought you were a Welshman?” said Mahmoud, beginning to sparkle.
“We have a pact with them.”
“If you have, it’s a pact with the devil.”
“Are things that bad?”
“Well-”
Mahmoud looked round and waved for more coffee. He was beginning to brisk up. That was a good sign. Mahmoud, in normal form, had all the briskness and sharpness of a mongoose.
“They won’t give me access,” he said.
“Access?”
“To the files. It is quite improper. To refuse a request from the Ministry of Justice, from the Government. Whose country do they think this is?”
“Hold on. Whose files are we talking about?”
“Garvin’s, Wainwright’s, Mustapha Mir’s. Yours.”
“I haven’t refused you access.”
“Haven’t you?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“It’s not going to be up to you. An in-principle decision has been taken. By the Consul-General.”
“I’ll have a word with Paul.”
“It’ll be no good. This goes deep, you see. It raises big questions. The biggest,” said Mahmoud bitterly, “is: who governs this country? And we know the answer to that, don’t we?” Owen tried to think what to say. Mahmoud, however, was not expecting a reply.
“It’s the principle of the thing,” he said vehemently. “It is fundamental to the administration of justice. The investigating officer must have access to relevant documents. No one, no one should be able to refuse. No one should be above the law. Neither I nor you, nor the Khedive, nor the British. We are all equal before the law. Everyone! That is what justice is.”
“Yes,” said Owen, “but this is Egypt.”
“It doesn’t matter. It should make no difference.”
“It is the difference,” said Owen, “between an ideal and reality.”
“Yes, but,” said Mahmoud, all excited now, “on this there must be no compromise. Or where shall we be? One law for one, one for another”-forgetting that in Egypt there were at least three legal systems-“No!” He banged his fist on the table. The cups jumped. Owen looked around apprehensively; but other people, all over the place, seemed to be banging their fists too. It was the normal mode of Arab conversation. They were probably talking about something as innocuous as the weather. “We cannot have it!” shouted Mahmoud. “Not as Egyptians, no, nor as English, but as part of mankind! It is our right!”
He banged his fist so fiercely that even some of the other bangers looked round.
“And as Welshmen, too,” added Mahmoud, a little selfconsciously.
What was he going to do? Owen asked himself. Not about Mahmoud’s depression-he was bouncing out of it now and was once more rearing to go-but about the issue of principle? The Consul-General had defined it and that ought to have been the end of it for any member of the British Administration. But Owen wasn’t, or, at least, not quite, entirely a member of the British Administration and interpreted himself as having some degree of latitude. He didn’t have to go along with it if he didn’t want to.
“Why don’t they let me investigate?” cried Mahmoud, firing up again. “Have they something to hide?”
“I doubt it. It’s just the normal bureaucratic reaction.”
“Is it that they do not trust me?” demanded Mahmoud fiercely.
“No, no, no, no. It’s nothing like that.”
Except that in a way it was. Every administrator-and Owen was one himself-developed a kind of plural sense of the truth. They knew the truth had more than one side. The difference between Owen and the others, however, was that whereas for them there were only two sides-their Department’s and anyone else’s-for him there were so many sides that he couldn’t keep up with them. Mahmoud, on the other hand, believed that there was only one truth, which it was his job to discover.
People who felt like that were always difficult to deal with. They recognized everybody else’s partiality but not their own. They made, however, very good investigators.
“They look down on me,” said Mahmoud, “because I am an Egyptian!”
“Nonsense!”
He knew, however, that he would have to do something. “I’ll tell you what,” he said: “you can look at my files.” Mahmoud stopped in his rhetorical tracks.
“I can?”
“Or rather, Mustapha Mir’s. Those relating to that period. The ones we can find,” he amended, remembering what Nikos had said.
“That will be something,” said Mahmoud. “That, in fact, would be a great help.”
“I hope so.”
“But, look,” said Mahmoud, remembering that Owen was his friend, and concerned, “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“That’s all right.”
“How will you get round the Consul-General’s ruling?”
“No one’s told me about it yet,” said Owen. “By the time they do, it might be too late.”
“No one’s said anything about it yet.”
The necklace hung casually on a hook beside Zeinab’s dressing table. It had not been admitted to the silver box where she kept her bracelets, rings and other jewellery.
“That’s funny,” said Owen, picking it up. “You’d have expected someone to have claimed the credit by now.”
“Or the reward?”
“There isn’t going to be a reward,” said Owen firmly.
“No?”
Zeinab put the necklace back on the hook; which was exactly where she liked to keep Owen.
“You’re right, though,” he said, reflecting. “No one gives something for nothing. The question is: what reward did they have in mind?”
“I’d have thought that was obvious,” said Zeinab.
“That’s what I thought, too. But the fact that they haven’t come forward is making me think again.”
“What else could it be?”
“Either it’s part of some deal your father is cooking up-”
“Forget about my father. He usually tells me if he’s thinking of me marrying someone.”
“-or else, or else, it’s not really to do with you at all, it’s-”
“Yes?”
“It’s something to do with me.”
“Oh, come, darling-”
“It’s like those earrings. The ones that were sent to Garvin. Or rather, to Garvin’s wife.”
He told her about them. Zeinab listened seriously.
“First the diamond,” she said, “then this. I think you ought to go a bit carefully, darling. For a while.”
“Yes, you’re right. We ought to be a bit careful with the necklace. See it’s kept somewhere.”
“Your pocket, perhaps?” suggested Zeinab.
The Aalima, straight-backed and veiled, was waiting to receive him. The coffee pot was already standing on the low table beside the divan and the pleasant aroma of the coffee filled the room. The shutters were closed because of the intense heat, but enough light came through the slots to make it unnecessary to use a lamp.
The Aalima was more relaxed this time and conversation was conducted at a proper pace. Owen fell naturally into the long, graceful Arabic salutations and then gradually, feigning proper reluctance, allowed himself to be persuaded to sip his coffee, praising it copiously. One of the things he liked about visiting Egyptians was that their courteous insistence on observing the forms reduced everything to a slow rhythm. Owen was all in favour of slow rhythms, especially in heat like this.