Latifa?’
‘You’ve not heard of her?’
He had, just. Mahmoud filled him in.
Labiba Latifa was a lady of independent means and independent spirit who in her youth had trained as a nurse – abroad – and on her return occupied herself with a number of good causes, most of them in the field of health. That she had been able to do this so publicly had been in large measure due to the position of her husband, who had been the Dean of Cairo’s Medical School. When he had died, she had proposed to carry on in exactly the same way.
That, however, was a quite different thing. While widows, especially wealthy ones, were accorded more leeway in Egyptian society than most women, the prominence of her activities and the outspokenness of her views had soon brought her notoriety. Even in reformist circles, opinions of her were mixed, some feeling that progress was more likely to be made in quieter ways. She was altogether a formidable lady; as Mahmoud had found when she had come to see him.
She said that she had read the findings of the autopsy with interest, and asked him what position he proposed to adopt on the case.
Mahmoud had replied, with strict correctness, that he proposed to adopt no position on the case. His task was simply to present such evidence as he could to the inquest.
Labiba had asked him if that would include evidence that she had died of the effects of circumcision. Mahmoud had reminded her that these were only the preliminary findings; but if the final report was to that effect, then he certainly would.
What verdict did he expect? And what action was likely to follow?
Mahmoud, honest to a fault, replied that he thought it highly unlikely that any action would follow.
Was he satisfied with that?
Mahmoud had replied, truthfully, that he wasn’t.
So what did he propose to do about it?
Owen imagined that there must have been quite a silence at this point. Eventually Mahmoud had said that he didn’t know.
Labiba had nodded her head.
What did she expect him to do, Mahmoud had asked?
Labiba had said that this was a case in the public eye, and that the right thing to do was to make an issue of it.
Mahmoud had said that this was hardly up to him. His role was to serve the law as it stood. If wider issues were raised by the case, then they would be identified either by the court or by the Parquet.
Was there nothing that he, as investigating lawyer, could do, Labiba had asked? And waited.
Mahmoud was much too sharp not to understand how he was being pressurized, and to recognize that his integrity was being skilfully called into play. Labiba had done her homework and knew her man.
He had replied neutrally that he was still at an early stage of his investigations and if when he had completed them there were issues to be raised he would consider the matter then.
He had braced himself for further pressurizing. Instead, Labiba had merely nodded her head again, as if accepting what he had said. He had realized afterwards that this was a clever way of binding in his commitment.
She had then, to his surprise, completely switched tactics. In fact, she had confessed, she was not sure herself how to proceed in the circumstances. Could she discuss them with him?
Following the publication of the autopsy findings, the case had been brought to her attention by a group of midwives with whom she had dealings on other matters. They had been especially concerned about the age at which the circumcision had taken place.
‘Opinions differ, Mr el Zaki,–even amongst midwives – on whether female circumcision is in itself an acceptable practice. I have my own views on the matter and they are clear-cut, but I do have to recognize that they are not universally shared, especially in the poorer, more traditional quarters. The group of ladies in question live out beyond the Khan-el-Kahlil and they usually disagree with me on such issues. We do not, however, disagree on the fact that if it has to be done at all, it is best done at an early age. In this case, as you know, the poor girl was twenty.’
‘Why, then, was it done?’ asked Mahmoud.
‘She was going to get married. Late, yes, but she was the only woman in the household – her mother died some years ago – and I fancy her father did not want to lose her services about the house. However, the opportunity of a profitable marriage came up and he couldn’t afford to miss it. Now, the bridegroom was very much older than she was and very traditional in his thinking. He would certainly expect her to be circumcised. Indeed, the marriage might well have been off if she wasn’t. So –’
‘Why hadn’t she been circumcised before?’
‘Her mother had died. These things are usually seen as women’s matters and there was no woman to see they were done.’
‘No one else in the family?’
‘They had moved from the country. The father is a water-carrier, poor, and’ – Labiba sniffed – ‘very ignorant. Do you know what is the greatest cause of crime in the country, Mr el Zaki? Ignorance. Not even poverty, for we can be poor without being ignorant. Admittedly, the two usually go together.’
Mahmoud bowed his head gravely. He had expected a lecture at some point.
‘So he knew no better. That is why, Mr el Zaki, I am in some difficulty. On the one hand the case is in the public eye, and an issue of principle is involved, an issue which we can make narrow enough – the age, not the fart, of circumcision – to enlist public support. On the other, the person in the dock should be ignorance, not some poor, lowly, uneducated man. Nor the poor, lowly, uneducated woman who performed the circumcision.’
‘You know the woman?’
‘I do.’
‘And the girl?’
‘I know of her.’
‘So,’ said Mahmoud, putting down his coffee and looking at Owen, ‘the issue of principle is very close.’
Which way Mahmoud would go on the issue when the moment of decision came, Owen did not know. No one could rise as far and as fast in the Parquet as Mahmoud had done without being worldly wise. Yet there was at the same time an odd streak of naiveté in Mahmoud which took the form of an obstinacy about principle. He remained, thought Owen, as he walked down to the river the next morning, an idealist at heart.
He was on his way to see how preparations for the Cut were getting on. As he neared the point where the Khalig Canal came out into the river and where the Cut would be made, there were increasing signs of the coming festivities. Banners had appeared on some of the houses and brightly-coloured strings of bunting hung across the streets.
He had arranged to meet McPhee and when he turned a corner he saw him ahead of him. Along with a group of small boys and half the neighbourhood he was watching the public crier crying the height of the river.
‘Fifteen digits today and still rising!’ the crier intoned sonorously.
A hand was pushed through the lattice-work of one of the harem windows above and some coins thrown down. The crier scooped them up swiftly before the small boys got to them and bowed to the window.
‘Blessed be the mistress of this house!’ he called.
‘Digits?’ asked Owen.
‘On the Nilometer,’ said McPhee.
It stood at the end of Roda Island, just opposite them.
‘It’s very important, you know,’ said McPhee. ‘In the old days it used to relate to tax. There was a law which said that you couldn’t levy land-tax until the river had reached a height of sixteen cubits. Very sensible, really, because people’s capacity to pay depended on the irrigation of their land. Of course, the Government used to fake it.’
The