The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet by Michael Pearce Page B

was a group on it now, sprawled about on the cushions,
all talking animatedly.
    Two of Owen’s acquaintances went off to find
their host. They returned leading him triumphantly.
    He was Fakhri.
    He recovered at once, grasped Owen’s hand in
both his own and embraced him.
    “It would take too long to explain,” said
Owen.
    However, his friends were determined to
explain, and Fakhri got the general picture.
    “But
we have met already!”
    “You
have?”
    Fakhri
bore Owen away.
    “Whisky?”
he said. “Or coffee?”
    “I
would say coffee but I have had so much already—”
    “Whisky, then. For
me also. After such surprises—”
    “Sorry,”
said Owen.
    “Such nice surprises. I take it you are
not on duty?”
    “Far
from it,” said Owen, with conviction.
    “Then
enjoy your evening. Come! I will introduce you—”
    But
another group of guests arrived, who solicited Fakhri’s attention. Owen went
off to find his acquaintances. The playwright was in a little group about the
fountain. Owen started across to join him.
    The
party was Western-style. That is, women were present. There were Syrians, Jews,
Armenians, Greeks, Tripolitans and Levantines generally; there were scarcely
any Egyptians. None were unattached. That would have been flouting convention
too far.
    One
of them Owen recognized. It was the girl he had noticed at Nuri’s. She looked
up and caught his eye.
    “Why,”
she said, smiling, “le Mamur Zapt . ”
    Fakhri
appeared, hot and bothered from greeting three lots of guests simultaneously.
    “You
know each other?” he said. “Captain Carwall—” he mumbled the word “—Owen.”
    “What?”
said the girl.
    “Owen.”
    “I
know,” said the girl. “Le Mamur Zapt . ”
    Fakhri
looked at Owen a little anxiously.
    “Pas ce soir , ” said Owen.
    “Ah!”
said the girl. “You are Mamur Zapt only sometimes. That is imaginative.” She
turned to Fakhri. “Don’t you think,” she asked, “that it is one of the
weaknesses of the British that they can usually be only themselves?”
    “It
is one of their strengths,” said Fakhri. “They never doubt that they are
right.”
    “While we doubt all the time. Perhaps. But it is a weakness, too. The world is not so simple.”
    “Cairo
is not so simple, either,” said Fakhri, with a sidelong glance at Owen.
    He
slipped off to greet some new arrivals.
    “I
saw you the other day at Nuri’s,” said Owen.
    “My
father,” said the girl.
    “Nuri
is your father?”
    “Oui. ’’
    He
considered her. Something in the face, perhaps? A strong face, not a pretty one. But the figure was willowy,
unlike Nuri’s barrel-like one.
    “You
must take after your mother.”
    “In more ways than one.”
    “How
is she?” asked Owen. “The attack on your father must have been a great shock.”
    “She
is dead.”
    “I
am sorry.”
    “It
was a long time ago.”
    The
girl looked out into the courtyard where the fountain caught the moonlight.
    “I
think they loved each other,” she said suddenly. “They never married, of
course. She wouldn’t go in his harem.”
    Seeing
that Owen was trying to work it out, she said: “My mother was Firdus.”
    She
saw he was still puzzled.
    “The courtesan. You wouldn’t know,
but she was famous.”
    “And obviously beautiful.”
    The
girl regarded him sceptically.
    “She
was, as a matter of fact. But that is not one of the things I have inherited
from her.”
    “I
don’t know,” said Owen. “Is Ahmed your brother?” he asked. “Half-brother. His mother was a woman in the harem.”
    “We
met him at your father’s that day.”
    “C’est un vrai imbécile, celui-là , ” said the girl
dismissively.
    “He
doesn’t like the British.”
    “You
can’t expect originality from him.”
    Owen
laughed.
    “He
doesn’t seem to care greatly for your father, either,” he said. “Naturally,”
said the girl. “None of us do. We are angry for our mothers.”
    “You
are,” said Owen. “Is Ahmed?”
    She
shrugged