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

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.”
    He
did not know how strict a Muslim Mahmoud was.
    Nuri,
it was clear, was a very Europeanized Egyptian. He spoke English perfectly,
though with a suggestion that he would rather be speaking French. He was
dressed in a dark jacket and light, pin-striped trousers. His shirt was
impeccably white and he wore a grey silk tie fastened with a large gold pin.
    “Tea, then.”
    Already,
across the lawn servants were bringing a table and tea-things. The table was
spread with an immaculate white cloth. The teapot was silver, the cups of bone
china. One of the servants poured the tea and then