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.’
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 tea-pot was silver, the cups of bone china. One of the servants poured the tea and then retired into the background.
‘Good,’ said Nuri, sipping his tea.
He put the cup back in the saucer.
‘And now, what can I do for you two gentlemen?’
‘If it would not distress you,’ said Mahmoud, ‘I would like to hear your account of what happened in the Place de l’Opéra.’
‘Of course, dear boy,’ said Nuri. ‘I am only too glad to be able to assist the Parquet. Especially,’ he smiled, ‘in the circumstances.’
He seemed, however, to be in no hurry to begin. His eyes wandered across the flowerbeds to the other side of the lawn.
‘Beautiful!’ he whispered.
Owen thought at first that he was referring to the freesia or the stocks, or perhaps to the bougainvillaea in bloom along the wall which surrounded the garden, but as he followed the direction of Nuri’s gaze he saw that the Pasha was looking at a young peasant girl who was walking along a raised path just beyond the wall with a tall jar on her head.
‘Beautiful,’ breathed Nuri again.
‘If I was younger,’ he said regretfully, ‘I’d send someone to fetch her. Those girls, when they are washed, are very good in bed. They regard an orgasm as a visitation from Allah. When I was young—’
He went into graphic detail.
The story came to an end and Nuri sat for a moment sunk in the memory of past pleasures.
Owen stretched out a hand towards the cucumber sandwiches. The shadow of a kite hawk fell on the table and he looked up hurriedly, but the hawk was wheeling far above. He helped himself to the sandwich. Sometimes, at the Sporting Club, the hawks would snatch the food out of your very hand.
Mahmoud ventured a little cough.
‘The Place de l’Opéra,’ he murmured.
Nuri