The Camel of Destruction Page 7

  ‘You want me to ask Aisha about it?’

  ‘Could you?’

  ‘I’ll try. The trouble is, it’s always difficult getting to talk to women on their own. I’ll have a go, anyway.’

  ***

  But, as he approached the Fingaris’ house, he was having second thoughts. If he went to the door and asked to see Miss Fingari, he would certainly be refused. The uncle, Istaq, would probably not be there, and he had had enough difficulty with him last time. Aisha wouldn’t see him on her own, not publicly, that was; and he was loath to involve the parents.

  He walked on past the house, turned and walked round the square, thinking. And then, seeing a convenient table, he sat down in a little Arab café and ordered coffee.

  An irrelevant thought struck him. Should he pay for this coffee himself or should he charge it to expenses? Normally, he would pay for it himself, thinking that drinking coffee was strictly in the course of the day’s duties and disliking filling in forms over piffling details. But should he be taking this relaxed view?

  He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for his duties and thinking was work, wasn’t it? If he didn’t claim for it, he was, in fact, giving money to the Government. Did he want to give money to the Government? He did not.

  Besides, it was all very well for a bachelor to take a relaxed view about money. But if he was thinking of getting married, especially to Zeinab, relaxing about money was the last thing he could afford.

  Unfortunately, if he was getting married to Zeinab, cutting down on the coffee bills wouldn’t help much, either.

  He moved his chair as a watercart went past spraying out water behind to damp down the dust in the streets. The main thoroughfares were done first thing in the morning; they only got to little squares like this much later.

  As always, the cart was followed by a crowd of urchins dancing in and out of the spray. The sight of them gave him an idea.

  He beckoned them over to him.

  ‘Do you know a boy named Ali?’

  ‘We know lots of boys named Ali.’

  ‘He lives around here somewhere.’

  ‘You were here the other day, weren’t you, effendi?’

  ‘Yes, he saw Aisha.’

  ‘Do you want to see Aisha again, effendi? I could fix that up. You don’t need Ali.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  It was the original, authentic Ali, materializing from nowhere.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, effendi. He is a lying, cheating scoundrel. Besides, Aisha doesn’t like him.’

  ‘She doesn’t like you much either, Ali.’

  ‘I am useful to her,’ declared Ali in a lordly fashion. ‘She trusts me. The Effendi does too.’

  Owen distributed some milliemes and Ali drove his rivals away.

  ‘Now, effendi, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to see Aisha.’

  ‘Difficult, difficult. She is guarded as by the beast of a hundred eyes.’

  ‘Who’s guarding her?’

  Ali disregarded this question.

  ‘It could be managed; though at a price.’

  He named a figure.

  ‘But, Ali,’ said Owen, astounded, ‘I could have all the women in the quarter for that sum!’

  ‘That, too, later,’ said Ali.

  ***

  ‘Let us now turn to the boll weevil,’ said the speaker on the platform.

  Owen looked along the row of chairs for a means of escape. All the seats were taken, however, and to extricate himself would cause such a disruption that he thought better and resigned himself to the rest of the lecture.

  ‘The rise of Egypt from bankruptcy to prosperity,’ declared the speaker, ‘can fairly be attributed to two causes: Cromer and cotton!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘Modern irrigation, investment from overseas and the freeing of the fellahin, these were the things which provided a sound basis for the expansion of cotton production—’

  ‘The freeing of the fellahin?’ interrupted an incredulous voice from the back.

  The speaker put down his notes.

  ‘Yes, sir, the freeing of the fellahin. By giving fellahin the right to possess their own land, Lord Cromer transformed them from poverty-stricken serfs owing allegiance to feudal Turkish pashas to—’

  ‘Poverty-stricken peasants owing everything to the bank! That’s not freedom!’

  There were cries of protest.

  ‘Mr. Chairman,’ someone called out, ‘isn’t this a political point?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said the Chairman. ‘This is not a political meeting, Mr. Sidki. May I ask you, please, to keep your remarks in order?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Chairman,’ said the lecturer, mopping his brow—it was extremely hot in the large tent—‘I was certainly under the impression, when I agreed to address the Khedivial Agricultural Society, that I was being asked for a scientific contribution. I’m not in the business of making political speeches.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘I just want to say this: Egypt wouldn’t be where it is today if it didn’t have the wealth, experience and expertise of England behind it!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘But that is a political speech!’ cried the persistent voice from the back.

  The Chairman decided it was time to move the meeting on.

  ‘If I were you, Mr. Hiscock, I would stick to cotton,’ he advised.

  ‘Yes, well, it’s all connected. My point is that everything in Egypt depends on cotton. The economy is based on the success of the cotton crop. And now it’s all being threatened by the boll weevil.’

  The speaker, more at home with figures than words, produced statistics to show the crop loss resulting from the weevil’s depredations.

  ‘Could you put a value on that, Mr. Hiscock?’ asked the Chairman.

  ‘£3.29 millions for the year just ended, at last year’s prices.’

  ‘Three million!’

  Someone whistled.

  ‘That’s a lot! Think of the difference it would make to the country’s finances at the present time!’

  ‘There is no doubt,’ said the speaker, ‘that the shortfall over the past three years has contributed materially to the present recession.’

  ‘Is there anything that can be done about it?’ someone asked.

  The speaker glowed. There certainly was. But first he would have to explain the life cycle of the boll weevil.

  Owen looked along the row again but the situation had not changed. If anything, the tent had become more crowded. When he had decided to go to the public meeting he had not expected that there would be such a large audience. The Khedivial Agricultural Society was clearly a thriving body.

  The cycle began, the speaker explained, when the moth laid its eggs on the shoots of the young cotton plant in spring. When the eggs hatched out, the worms burrowed into the plant and fed upon it. The worm then came out again and formed a chrysalis from which it emerged later as the boll-worm moth.

  ‘For our purposes, though,’ said the speaker, ‘the crucial thing is the timing.’

  The gradual increase in temperature during the summer meant that most eggs hatched out in September, just when the cotton crop was becoming ready for picking. The first picking, early in the month, was not greatly affected; the second, later, showed significant depredation; and the third, in a bad year, could be a total loss.

  ‘If, therefore,’ said the speaker, ‘we could bring the ripening of the crop forward, were it only by a couple of weeks, we would increase the yield significantly.’

  ‘And how might this be done?’

  ‘By changing the seed,’ said Mr. Hiscock triumphantly.

  There was a rustle of interest around the tent.

  ‘I can report that the Society has developed a new str
ain of seed which allows the crop to mature earlier.’

  The audience burst into applause. The Chairman allowed it to continue for some minutes and then rapped his gavel.

  ‘But this is very important!’ said a man, standing up, at the front. ‘Lancashire depends on Egypt for its cotton.’

  ‘It’s pretty important to the fellahin, too,’ said the irrepressible voice from the back.

  ‘And the Society owns the rights in this?’ asked the man at the front.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent! Excellent!’

  He sat down but then at once jumped up again.

  ‘How soon can we have sufficient stocks to start selling?’

  ‘Virtually immediately. Although, of course, it will take a year or two to build up stocks to the level at which we can replace all other seeds.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a new, diffident voice. ‘Has the seed been properly field-tested?’

  ‘Ah, Mr. Aziz,’ said the Chairman, with a certain lack of warmth. ‘From the Department of Agriculture.’

  ‘Of course it’s been properly tested!’ said the lecturer indignantly.

  ‘I ask only because I saw the results of the last trials and they showed that the seed had a tendency to deteriorate on re-sowing.’

  ‘Those were the first trials. We have, of course, improved the strain since.’

  ‘And there is no deterioration? It’s important, you see,’ said Mr. Aziz, shy but sticking to his guns, ‘because the fellahin always keep back some seed to sow the following year.’

  ‘They can always come back to us for new ones. In fact, that might be an advantage.’

  ‘One moment, Mr. Chairman!’ called the persistent Mr. Sidki from the back. ‘Is Mr. Aziz saying that the fellahin could be tricked into buying seed which it is known has a tendency to deteriorate?’

  There were shouts of protest.

  ‘Mr. Aziz is saying nothing of the sort,’ said the Chairman coldly. ‘He was merely asking a question.’

  ‘It’s not the question that I’m bothered about; it’s the answer.’

  ‘Mr. Sidki, really! The Society, I can assure you, is as committed to the interests of the fellahin as you are yourself!’

  ‘It just sounded as if they were the ones who were being asked to bear the costs if things went wrong.’

  ‘They’re the ones who stand to gain most!’ someone called out.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Mr. Sidki. ‘I think the ones who stand to gain most are the ones who sell them the seed and lend them the money with which to buy it!’

  It was some time, amid the uproar, before the Chairman could be heard banging his gavel.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that this would be a good point at which to close the meeting.’

  ***

  Afterwards, they all moved out on to the lawn for a cup of tea. The meeting was taking place, by kind permission of the Consul-General, in the grounds of what Old India hands—and there were lots of Old India hands—persisted in calling the Residency.

  Small groups gathered among the rosebeds. Their behaviour was different, however, from that of the groups which annually gathered on the Consul-General’s lawn; they actually looked at the roses.

  By no means all the audience was English. There was a considerable sprinkling of sober-suited, be-tarbooshed Egyptian effendi. Owen wondered who they were. Employees of the society? Managers who worked for the big pashas who still owned over two-thirds of Egypt’s cultivable land?

  He recognized Aziz, the one who came from the Department of Agriculture. He was standing on his own and appeared to be rather out of it.

  Owen went across to him.

  ‘I was interested in the point you made,’ he said. ‘Do you think there’s a real risk of the seed deteriorating?’

  ‘Hard to say. The Society usually knows what it’s doing. But that’s what usually happens when you try to produce a new strain of seed. You think you’ve made a permanent alteration but after a generation or two it regresses.’

  ‘You’re a scientist yourself?’

  ‘An entomologist.’

  ‘Just the man for the Department of Agriculture.’

  ‘Well…’ Mr. Aziz looked doubtful. ‘I tried to get a job with the Society but of course there’s a lot of competition.’

  ‘Less so for the Ministry?’

  ‘The Society is very well established.’

  ‘Too well established,’ a brisk voice joined in. It was the pushful Mr. Sidki. He was a short, burly man, dressed in an extremely expensive dark suit and full of energy. He shook hands warmly.

  ‘The Mamur Zapt,’ he said. ‘So at last you’ve got round to it. Well, better late than never. Nice to see you here.’

  He turned to Mr. Aziz and took him confidingly by the arm.

  ‘A good point you made just now! Excellent! I can see you’re a man to watch.’ He took a card out of his pocket and gave it to Mr. Aziz. ‘Sidki. Abdul Sidki.’

  Mr. Aziz looked at the card and his eyes rounded. ‘Mr. Sidki—!’

  Sidki patted him on the arm. ‘We must have a word some time. Come and see me at the Assembly. Before too long. We’re always on the lookout for bright young men.’

  Owen remembered now who he was. He was a Member of the Legislative Assembly, one of the radicals; he did not actually belong to the new Nationalist Party—he had his own political ambitions—but was one of its most prominent sympathizers in the House.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Sidki—’

  Sidki patted him again. ‘But now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like a word with the Mamur Zapt. That, too, is overdue.’

  Aziz withdrew, impressed. Sidki now took Owen confidentially by the arm.

  ‘Good to see you here, my dear fellow. So at last they’re beginning to listen! Pretty goings on, don’t you think? Not content with making a fortune out of selling fertilizer, they now want to get everyone to change to a new seed. And at a higher price, I’ll be bound!’

  ‘It seemed to have advantages.’

  Mr. Sidki waved these aside.

  ‘And disadvantages, too, if that young man is right. And it’s the fellahin who’ll pick those up. But, Captain, Owen—’ he clutched him more firmly—‘advantages or disadvantages, that’s not the point. The point is that the benefit will all be going to private interests.’

  ‘The Khedivial Agricultural Society hardly counts as private—’

  Mr. Sidki withdrew his arm, turned and stared at Owen.

  ‘But surely, Captain Owen, you know? The Khedivial Society is big business. It is not like, what shall I say, the local Agricultural Society in, say, Maidenhead. (And, incidentally, Captain Owen, I do find some English placenames distastefully explicit.) The Khedivial Agricultural Society is one of the most powerful businesses in Egypt.’

  ‘Oh, come—’

  ‘Think for a moment!’ Mr. Sidki insisted. ‘It already supplies nearly half the country’s new seed. And this in a country where the cultivation of seed is the chief livelihood. You don’t do that on one pound members’ subscriptions, Captain Owen!’

  ‘Perhaps not, but—’

  Mr. Sidki seized Owen again and brought his mouth dramatically close to Owen’s ear.

  ‘Where does the money come from?’ he hissed. ‘And where does it go? There are no published accounts. We’ve asked for them but been refused. It’s not a public body, you see. The whole thing needs looking at.’

  He stepped back a little and waved at someone over Owen’s shoulder with the ready, practised smile of the politician.

  ‘Especially now,’ he said, ‘when we’re being asked to make such large sums available to the Agricultural Bank.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.’

  Mr. Sidki looked at Owen as if he coul
d not believe anyone could be so innocent. Then he shrugged his shoulders slightly as if to say that if that was what Owen wanted, then he was prepared to go on with the game.

  ‘It’s a cosy little arrangement, isn’t it? The Bank lends money to the fellahin so that they can buy seed. But it makes one condition: the seed has to be of good quality.’

  He stopped meaningly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘And who decides whether it is of good quality?’

  ‘The Khedivial Agricultural Society?’

  ‘Exactly. And, strangely enough, it only finds really satisfactory the seed which the Society itself has produced.’ He smiled triumphantly and watched Owen closely. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’

  ‘And not accidental, you’re suggesting?’

  ‘I’m suggesting the arrangement needs examination to see if it’s in the public interest.’

  ‘Public audit?’ murmured Owen, who had been learning fast recently.

  Mr. Sidki made a gesture of dismissal.

  ‘Accountants look for consistencies; they don’t look at realities. Provided the story is consistent, they’re not bothered whether it’s true.’

  ‘Hum, yes.’

  ‘Otherwise, why would they let obviously dubious firms get away with it? Have you, Captain Owen, since you have been in Egypt, ever known auditors publicly qualify a firm’s accounts?’

  ‘No,’ said Owen, who had only just heard there were auditors, ‘er, no.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Mr. Sidki. ‘So—?’ He looked at Owen expectantly.

  ‘You may be right, Mr. Sidki, and this matter may need investigation. But I am not sure I am the one who should be conducting it.’

  ‘A Parliamentary matter, you mean? Well, of course, you’re quite right. A Select Commission—the obvious answer, I’ve proposed it myself. But the Government won’t hear of it. And you can guess why! Vested interests, Captain Owen, vested interests! No, given the Government’s attitude, I’m afraid, it’s going to have to be someone completely independent.’

  ‘The Parquet, perhaps—’

  ‘The Parquet? Independent? A Government tool.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Mr. Sidki, I think you’ve been implying that there could be an issue of criminal law here. It’s the Parquet that would have to handle that.’