The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet Read Online Free PDF Page A

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