Read Online The Camel of Destruction by Michael Pearce - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Pearce
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Barclay. ‘By the
Waqfs
.’
‘
Waqfs
?’
‘Ministry of.’
‘I thought they just administered the endowments?’
‘They do. Upkeep is part of the administration.’
A young man came round the corner carrying a piece of broken tile. He recognized Barclay and smiled at him.
‘This is Selim,’ said Barclay. ‘He does quite a bit of work for us.’
‘When it’s there,’ said the young man, shaking hands. ‘At the moment there’s more with the
Waqfs
.’
‘Do you specialize in restoration?’ asked Owen.
‘I’d like to. But there really isn’t enough work of that sort. Especially now. It’s one of the things that get cut.’
‘He’s done some lovely work,’ said Barclay. ‘I’ll show you one day.’
‘Thanks. I’d like to see it.’
They shook hands and moved on.
‘Good chap,’ said Barclay. ‘A bit political, but he knows his job.’
At the top of the steps they turned and looked back.
‘A gem!’ said Barclay. ‘Pity if that got in the way of a developer.’
The Widow Shawquat, impressed but slightly flustered at so exalted a response to the letter she had placed in the Mamur Zapt’s box, was prepared to receive him. Mindful of proprieties, however, she could do so only in the presence of a suitable male and it took a little while to find him; especially as, equally mindful of what was her business and not that of her neighbours, she went to some pains to choose one who was deaf.
Eventually, though, Owen was seated on a low, moth-eaten divan with a brazier in front of him on which a brass pot of coffee was warming.
‘The Mamur Zapt, eh,’ said the Widow, wriggling with pleasure, ‘in my house!’
‘Be quiet, woman!’ shouted the old man. ‘Men speak first!’
The Widow, behind her veil, gave him a look but subsided. The old man, conscious, too, of proprieties, clapped his hands.
‘Coffee!’ he bawled. ‘Coffee for the Effendi!’
An old woman scuttled in and poured Owen some coffee in a small brass cup. Owen sipped it dutifully and praised it copiously. It was quite some time before they were able to get down to business.
‘Please tell the Widow Shawquat that when the Mamur Zapt read her letter he was deeply concerned.’
‘The Effendi was deeply concerned,’ the old man told the Widow.
The Widow’s eyes flashed impatiently but she said nothing. ‘I cannot promise to do anything for her since this is really the business of the Ministry of
Waqfs
.’
‘This is not woman’s business,’ shouted the old man.
Owen thought he saw a distinct bridle on the part of the Widow Shawquat but ploughed on.
‘I will do what I can, however. It would help if she gave me some more details. The
waqf
, for instance—’
‘What?’ said the old man.
‘The
waqf
,’ shouted the Widow.
‘What? Oh,
waqf
.’’
‘It was in the name of your husband, naturally.’
‘My husband’s family—be quiet, you, the Effendi can’t wait all day—the Shawquats. It went back to his great-great-grandfather’s time. It’s always been in the family. I wouldn’t have married him if it hadn’t been. What was Ali Shawquat to me, a rich woman, with my own property—’
‘What property?’ asked the old man suddenly.
‘My uncle’s shop—’
‘That wasn’t your property!’
‘It would have been—’
‘The
waqf
,’ said Owen.
‘It was the
waqf
, you see. Without that he wouldn’t have been anything. Oh, a nice enough man but weak—oh, so weak! You wouldn’t believe it! Mind you, it’s not always bad when a man is like that, it means you can get on with things in your own way. But then something comes along like this— my son’s just the same, he’s not going to get anywhere without his mother behind him—’
‘The
waqf
was in the name of the Shawquats and entitled them to what?’
‘The
kuttub
. It’s in the fountain-house in the El Merdani.’
‘Your husband received a salary as headmaster?’
‘Yes. Not much, but more than a man like him
Waqfs
.’
‘
Waqfs
?’
‘Ministry of.’
‘I thought they just administered the endowments?’
‘They do. Upkeep is part of the administration.’
A young man came round the corner carrying a piece of broken tile. He recognized Barclay and smiled at him.
‘This is Selim,’ said Barclay. ‘He does quite a bit of work for us.’
‘When it’s there,’ said the young man, shaking hands. ‘At the moment there’s more with the
Waqfs
.’
‘Do you specialize in restoration?’ asked Owen.
‘I’d like to. But there really isn’t enough work of that sort. Especially now. It’s one of the things that get cut.’
‘He’s done some lovely work,’ said Barclay. ‘I’ll show you one day.’
‘Thanks. I’d like to see it.’
They shook hands and moved on.
‘Good chap,’ said Barclay. ‘A bit political, but he knows his job.’
At the top of the steps they turned and looked back.
‘A gem!’ said Barclay. ‘Pity if that got in the way of a developer.’
The Widow Shawquat, impressed but slightly flustered at so exalted a response to the letter she had placed in the Mamur Zapt’s box, was prepared to receive him. Mindful of proprieties, however, she could do so only in the presence of a suitable male and it took a little while to find him; especially as, equally mindful of what was her business and not that of her neighbours, she went to some pains to choose one who was deaf.
Eventually, though, Owen was seated on a low, moth-eaten divan with a brazier in front of him on which a brass pot of coffee was warming.
‘The Mamur Zapt, eh,’ said the Widow, wriggling with pleasure, ‘in my house!’
‘Be quiet, woman!’ shouted the old man. ‘Men speak first!’
The Widow, behind her veil, gave him a look but subsided. The old man, conscious, too, of proprieties, clapped his hands.
‘Coffee!’ he bawled. ‘Coffee for the Effendi!’
An old woman scuttled in and poured Owen some coffee in a small brass cup. Owen sipped it dutifully and praised it copiously. It was quite some time before they were able to get down to business.
‘Please tell the Widow Shawquat that when the Mamur Zapt read her letter he was deeply concerned.’
‘The Effendi was deeply concerned,’ the old man told the Widow.
The Widow’s eyes flashed impatiently but she said nothing. ‘I cannot promise to do anything for her since this is really the business of the Ministry of
Waqfs
.’
‘This is not woman’s business,’ shouted the old man.
Owen thought he saw a distinct bridle on the part of the Widow Shawquat but ploughed on.
‘I will do what I can, however. It would help if she gave me some more details. The
waqf
, for instance—’
‘What?’ said the old man.
‘The
waqf
,’ shouted the Widow.
‘What? Oh,
waqf
.’’
‘It was in the name of your husband, naturally.’
‘My husband’s family—be quiet, you, the Effendi can’t wait all day—the Shawquats. It went back to his great-great-grandfather’s time. It’s always been in the family. I wouldn’t have married him if it hadn’t been. What was Ali Shawquat to me, a rich woman, with my own property—’
‘What property?’ asked the old man suddenly.
‘My uncle’s shop—’
‘That wasn’t your property!’
‘It would have been—’
‘The
waqf
,’ said Owen.
‘It was the
waqf
, you see. Without that he wouldn’t have been anything. Oh, a nice enough man but weak—oh, so weak! You wouldn’t believe it! Mind you, it’s not always bad when a man is like that, it means you can get on with things in your own way. But then something comes along like this— my son’s just the same, he’s not going to get anywhere without his mother behind him—’
‘The
waqf
was in the name of the Shawquats and entitled them to what?’
‘The
kuttub
. It’s in the fountain-house in the El Merdani.’
‘Your husband received a salary as headmaster?’
‘Yes. Not much, but more than a man like him
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