The Map of Love (68 page)

All the women want to come with me but one woman knows the way to the police station so I take her and Abu el-Ma
ati’s daughter and Khadra. My hands are shaking and I grip the wheel tight. I can feel myself starting to cry and I force the tears down and hold myself rigid. As we come to the edge
of the clearing around the police station, soldiers run at us with their bayonets, forcing us to stop.

‘Halt! Stop! Where are you going?’ they shout.

‘We are going to see the chief,’ I say.

‘It’s forbidden.’ They surround us. Boys, nervous and angry.

‘What’s forbidden? We want to go into the markaz.’

‘I told you it’s forbidden.’

I open the door and get out of the car. ‘Listen, you and him,’ I say and am amazed at authority in my voice. ‘There’s nothing called forbidden. This is a police station and I am going in to see the chief. And if you don’t make way immediately right now I shall call Muhyi Bey the Governor on the mobile and turn your day black. I’ll have you sent to Tokar.’

‘Ya Sett Hanim, we have orders —’

‘What orders? One of you go in and tell the chief Amal Hanim al-Ghamrawi is coming to see him and I’m coming in right after you.’

‘But cars are forbidden to come near the markaz.’

‘I’ll leave the car here. And if something happens to it I’ll bring you a catastrophe.’

One of the soldiers heads for the markaz and I start to follow. The women open the doors of the car but the soldiers push them back.

‘No natives.’

‘Natives? These people are your people.’

‘Impossible,’ the soldier says. ‘I’ll be shot.’

‘Ma
alesh,’ I say to the women. ‘Wait for me. And lock the doors from the inside. And none of you come near them,’ I say to the soldiers.

In his office the Ma
mur stands to greet me. He is a big man, fortyish, thickset with a black moustache. He looks harassed and is perspiring heavily in the cold November night. Two men in civilian clothes are sitting in armchairs to one side of the room. I shake his hand, say my name and sit down.

‘I have come to Your Excellency regarding some people from our village —’ I begin.

‘Which village?’ one of the civilians asks.

‘Tawasi,’ I say. ‘Some soldiers came to the village today and collected the men. I have come to see what can be done for them.’

‘And what is your concern with this affair?’ the man asks.

I turn to him; he has pale grey eyes and he is looking me up and down. I do not know what he is, is he Police or Army or Intelligence? Is he superior to the Ma
mur? He has to be, to cut in like this.

‘Tawasi is on my land,’ I say, ‘and the fallaheen are my responsibility. The women came to my house and asked for my help.’

‘We have a state of emergency,’ the Ma
mur says.

‘Because of Luxor?’

‘Yes, because of Luxor. They killed sixty people there. Tourists.’

‘And what has Tawasi to do with Luxor? These are a peaceable people —’

‘We have to collect all suspects,’ he says and I hear a trace of weariness in his voice.

‘But why should people in Tawasi be suspects?’ I press. ‘These are people living and seeing after their work. You collect them from their houses at night —’

‘Everybody is a suspect.’ Pale-eyes speaks again.

‘So you’ll collect all the men of Egypt?’

I watch him flush.

‘And the hareem too if we have to,’ he says.

‘Ya-fandim —’ I turn again to the Ma
mur — ‘have any of these people done anything to arouse suspicion? Have you found anything in any of their homes —’

‘I told you: we have a state of emergency.’

I am silent for a moment, then I try again: ‘How long will you keep them?’

‘Nobody knows. It depends.’

I turn completely towards the Ma
mur. I will him to look up and meet my eyes.

‘Your Excellency the Ma
mur,’ I say, ‘among the people you are holding there are some old men. Respectable sheikhs. Why would you want these? Let them go and the village will calm down and tomorrow God will do what is right for everybody. And your favour will hang around all our necks.’

‘Nobody will leave tonight,’ Pale-eyes says. ‘Tomorrow they will be interrogated and after that we shall see.’

I look at the Ma
mur but his face is closed. ‘You heard what the Basha said,’ he says.

As I stand I feel the tears well up behind my eyes and I am so angry that I point at the notice hanging on the wall above their heads. ‘You see this?’ I say — it reads “The Police in the Service of the People” — ‘I think it would be more honest if you removed it.’

I drive away from the clearing but I am weeping at the wheel. I know what the men will be going through and the women know it too. They are all crying softly. I see the rope around
Am Abu el-Ma
neck, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth into the fine wrinkles of his chin. I wince at the blow that lands on his face, on the back of his neck: ‘ya
kalb
ya ibn
el-kalb —
I have to,
have
to stop myself imagining worse —