The Bride Box mz-17

by Michael Pearce

  ‘It’s like that,’ said Owen. ‘Only the sea is much, much bigger.’

  ‘I would like to go on the sea.’

  ‘Perhaps one day you will.’

  Karim contemplated the prospect. But then the distance in time and space was too much for him. He lost interest. His attention was caught by the parcel Owen was carrying. ‘What is that parcel?’ he asked.

  ‘It is a present,’ said Owen. ‘A present for a little girl.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  Owen unwrapped it.

  ‘I know what it is,’ said Karim. ‘It’s a box.’ He took it from Owen and fondled it. ‘It is a nice box,’ he said. ‘All smooth.’ He stroked it, thinking. ‘I know what it is!’ he said suddenly. ‘It is a box like Soraya had. Only smaller, much smaller.’

  ‘It is a plaything only,’ said Owen.

  Karim nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for a child. But it is like Soraya’s box. Only smaller. She showed me her box once, you know. She opened it and let me look in. There were all sorts of nice things in it. Things she had made. There was a little …’

  He stopped, and frowned.

  ‘A little thing,’ he said. ‘I don’t know its name. It was a little patch of cloth. Only about this wide.’ He indicated with his hands. ‘And soft, very soft. She let me feel it. She said she would make me one. I wanted her to make me one.’ He imitated putting it to his face. ‘So soft,’ he said. ‘So soft. Like Soraya.’

  ‘Like Soraya?’

  ‘Soft,’ said Karim, ‘so soft.’

  ‘You touched her?’

  ‘She let me touch her. She let me hold her hand. It was very nice. And when she touched me — she touched my face — her hand was so soft. So gentle! No one had ever touched me like that before. I said that. I told her that. And … and she cried! I don’t know why she cried! Do you know why she cried?’

  ‘I can guess,’ said Owen.

  ‘It was a little square,’ Karim said. ‘She had sewn it herself. There were little beads on it. They were made of glass and they sparkled in the sun. It was lovely. I asked her to make me one, and she said she would. I wonder what has happened to it. They have taken all her things away, you know. When she left. With the box.’

  ‘Did you see her go?’

  ‘No. It happened one night. After I had gone to bed. She left, and she took her box with her. And that little thing — I don’t know what you call it — must have been inside. And I don’t think she ever made one for me. Or perhaps she did? And it’s lying around somewhere. I’ll ask my mother if she’s seen it.’

  ‘Pity me, Mahmoud!’

  It was his old friend from student days.

  ‘Willingly; but why should I pity you, Idris?’

  ‘I told you a lie yesterday, Mahmoud.’

  ‘One of many, I am sure; but which one specifically?’

  ‘I told you I was a trader in trocchee shells.’

  ‘And are you not?’

  ‘Oh, I am. But also I am not.’

  ‘But that is not a lie, Idris. That is merely a half-truth.’

  ‘Put it another way, Mahmoud: I have not one job, but two.’

  ‘But, Idris, this is astonishing. Two jobs! And are both of them paid? You must be on your way to riches!’

  ‘I should be so lucky! I am barely paid enough for one.’

  ‘It will build up, Idris, I am sure.’

  ‘But slowly. And the trouble is, Mahmoud, that there is no gain without pain.’

  ‘You have to work for it?’

  ‘Worse. A consignment has just arrived. And when it arrives, it has to be split.’

  ‘That is not an insurmountable problem, Idris.’

  ‘And I have to split it.’

  ‘It is still not insurmountable, Idris. Challenging, possibly, but not impossible.’

  ‘One part has to go to Cairo. The other to the Sudan.’

  ‘Difficult, but not-’

  ‘And I have to go with it.’

  ‘To the Sudan?’

  ‘If it was to Cairo, there would be no problem.’

  ‘Still …’

  ‘The Sudan, Mahmoud, the Sudan! Where giant scorpions lie in waiting. And lizards as large as crocodiles. And flies, Mahmoud, flies in abundance!’

  ‘But are you not used to flies?’

  ‘Not flies like these. They are cannibal flies, Mahmoud. They consume you.’

  ‘Not flies, Idris, not flies!’

  ‘Mosquitoes, then. Truly malignant ones. The sort that give you malaria by a stab. And the sand, Mahmoud, and the heat. Where the water, if there is any, runs already hot from the taps! I shall die, Mahmoud, I shall die!’

  ‘Again, Idris, I wonder if you have completely understood. Are you sure you have to send part of the consignment to the Sudan? Is not the Sudan where trocchee shells come from, not go to?’

  ‘I am not talking about trocchee shells.’

  ‘No? What are you talking about, then?’

  ‘That, I cannot reveal to you.’

  ‘All right, be like that, then!’

  ‘I told you I have two jobs. The trocchee shells are one. This is another.’

  ‘So it is not trocchee shells that you are dividing?’

  ‘No. Mahmoud, it does not matter what I am dividing. I don’t want to go to the Sudan!’

  ‘Why go, then?

  ‘Duty.’

  ‘Oh, come, Idris!’

  ‘You and I both serve a great ideal, Mahmoud. Duty calls. In a hell-hole like the Sudan, the call is muted, I will allow: but it is still there. I wish it weren’t. Oh, how I wish it weren’t!’

  ‘Have courage, man; you may return alive.’

  ‘Or I may not.’

  ‘Whereabouts in the Sudan are you bound for?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. Somewhere between the Red Sea Hills and Port Sudan. Between the Devil and the deep sea, Mahmoud. Both are equally undesirable.’

  ‘Well, Idris, when you get there, will you send me a postcard, so that I will know where to come to collect your body?’

  ‘Mahmoud, is it even possible to send postcards in the Sudan?’

  ‘Of course it is. There is a very good postal service there.’

  ‘I will send you one, then. In fact, I will send you more than one. So that you will know that my life still flickers.’

  As Mahmoud walked away, he felt slightly uncomfortable. If Idris did send him a postcard, he would know where Idris had gone — and, presumably, where his part of the consignment had gone, too.

  Did that matter? Mahmoud rather feared that it did. Because what was this mysterious consignment? It couldn’t be ordinary goods, or Idris would have said. It was something he had to be guarded about. So what could it be?

  Mahmoud had an uneasy suspicion that it might be arms. Idris appeared to have been sent on some sort of political mission. He had always been a bit of a hot-head. At university he had always taken up extreme positions. Well, was that so bad? reflected Mahmoud. So had he himself. So had most students.

  But Idris had always carried them further than most of their friends, had talked more wildly, had always been in the forefront of demonstration against the government. But that was just Idris. Except that Idris had gone on for longer, had gone on after he had left university, when most others had let themselves be swallowed up by work. They had sunk into respectable, responsible jobs — as Mahmoud had himself. True, he had kept the ideal burning bright, had constantly worked for it in his off-duty moments. But that was not quite the same as devoting your life to it full-time. Idris had committed himself totally to the cause and gone on committing himself. You shouldn’t let yourself be fooled by his flippant manner. Idris wasn’t the fool he sometimes pretended to be.

  This business that he was presently engaged in, whatever it was, was serious. There could be no doubt about that. And it was, of course, political.

  Nothing wrong with that, in Mahmoud’s eyes. Except … except that a lot depended on how it was political. If it was viole
nt, Mahmoud didn’t like it. He had a distaste for any form of terrorist or quasi-terrorist activity. Well, he would, wouldn’t he, as a member of the Parquet. He wanted change but he wanted it to come by peaceful means. He was used, of course, to being accused of siding with the Pashas and the British. And there was, he had to recognize, some truth in the change. But, committed as he was to change, he was also committed to the law. That, after all, was why he had chosen to become a lawyer. He believed that through the law his vision of a better Egypt could be accomplished. Through politics, yes, but above all through the law. Politics in the end had to be subject to the law. And he knew that too often in Egypt it wasn’t.

  He had thought it through over and over and had arrived at a position which satisfied him. But every now and then something cropped up which jarred it. As now. Should he follow up what Idris had let slip and see if there really was something questionable, illegal, in what he was doing? And did it matter if there was? There were lots of things that for an Egyptian official it was convenient not to know. Was he making too much of this? Should he not just forget about it?

  He knew what the worldly wise Owen would say: at least wait for the postcard!

  NINE

  There were still camel trains coming in, although less frequently, and smaller ones now. When they reached the midan they came to a halt while their drivers tried to find a space for them. When this failed they sometimes tried to force their way in among the camels already there. Often the camels resisted and bit and lashed out with their hind legs at the newcomers. Then the camel herds would rush in with their whips and try to restore order. There were bitter arguments.

  Owen was hovering around, keeping an eye on new arrivals when he saw Karim again. This time he was carrying a gun.

  ‘That’s a fine gun!’ said Owen.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Karim proudly. ‘It’s one of the new ones, with the new improved sights.’

  ‘May I look?’

  It was one of the new service rifles, which were only just being issued to the army. Owen wondered how it had been obtained. He squinted through the new sights.

  ‘Be careful!’ said Karim anxiously.

  ‘It’s not loaded, is it?’

  ‘No, but my mother says you’ve got to be very careful with guns. No loaded guns in the house! Nor anywhere where there are people. That’s the rule and she’s very strict about it. It’s been the rule ever since Ibrahim died.’

  ‘Ibrahim?’

  ‘From my mother’s side of the family. He used to come up and see my father a lot. That was when we lived in the old house. And when he came he used to let me play with his gun. Well, one day I was playing with it, when it went off. And Ibrahim fell down. And then …’

  He stopped.

  ‘And then?’ prompted Owen.

  Karim looked puzzled. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘I don’t always remember things. My mother says I must try harder. It’s important, she says. And I do remember some things. But I don’t remember others. I do remember, though, that Ibrahim fell down. And then my mother took the gun away from me. I cried, but she said I was too small. So she took it away and made the rule. No guns in the house!’

  ‘A very sensible rule,’ said Owen. ‘But what about Ibrahim?’

  ‘I don’t remember. He didn’t come to the house again. He fell down. And perhaps he was put in a box? Or was it someone else who was put in a box? I think he was just wrapped up. I don’t remember. But my father was very angry and said I had to go. And my mother said it wasn’t my fault. Ibrahim ought to have known better. And she said that if I went she would go with me.

  ‘So she and I went to the other house. And my father went away up to Cairo. And Ibrahim stopped coming. But sometimes people do come up from the Sudan still. Only, of course, it’s no good them going to the old house these days. My father’s not there. So they come to us. My mother likes to see them and have a good chat. About the family and that sort of thing. And then she sends them away. I don’t know where to. Perhaps to Cairo? I think they want to see my father. There’s a lot of business to do. Only now, of course, they have to go up to Cairo, which is much further for them, and they don’t like it. My mother says it would be better if my father came down here. But he won’t. I think it may be because of me.’

  ‘That would be a pity,’ said Owen.

  ‘That is what Soraya said. And my mother was very angry, and said that a Pasha did not need to take instruction from a servant girl.’

  A man came up at that point and spoke to Karim. He gestured at the gun. ‘Better let me have that,’ he said.

  ‘I want to keep it,’ said Karim sulkily.

  ‘Tamuz says, let him keep it. He will give it to you on the way home.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Owen. ‘So Tamuz is here now?’

  The man looked at him coolly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Tamuz is here.’

  ‘And the boxes?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about boxes,’ said the man.

  Mahmoud set off early the next morning, while it was still dark, for the Pasha’s lady’s house. Riding in the cool made it much more pleasant and the journey did not seem so long this time. By the time it grew light he was nearly at the house and able to find the last part of the way easily.

  ‘You are back,’ said the Pasha’s lady.

  ‘The police are always back,’ said Mahmoud, ‘when they have not been told correctly when they first came.’

  The lady raised her eyebrows.

  ‘What is this?’ she said.

  ‘You did not tell me all,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘All?’ said the lady bitterly. ‘That would be a long story!’

  ‘And you took care that I should not hear it,’ said Mahmoud. ‘You sent Suleiman away.’

  ‘I sent Suleiman away because I had work for him to do. Do you think the world stops for you, Mr Parquet man?’

  ‘I wished to see him. With the others.’

  ‘You will have to wait, then. For he is with my family in the Sudan. And will not come back until I tell him to.’

  ‘That is disappointing,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Because this is an important matter.’

  ‘Is it to do with that girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then that is not important. She was merely a servant girl.’

  ‘To be commanded,’ said Mahmoud. ‘But not to be killed.’

  ‘The men who killed her are, no doubt, evil men; but not without wit.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because they sent her to my husband.’

  ‘Wit?’

  ‘She was a Sudani. And he loves Sudanis. Doesn’t he?’

  ‘He loved you once.’

  ‘And then he didn’t any more.’

  ‘Are you saying he loved someone else? A Sudani?’

  ‘It may be, for all I know.’

  ‘Soraya?’

  She startled. ‘Soraya! He might have used her. But I don’t think he would have loved her. She was just a servant girl.’

  ‘I wondered why you sent her away?’

  ‘Not because of my husband, I assure you!’ said the lady drily. ‘I would lay many charges against him, but not that!’

  ‘Why did you send her away?’

  ‘She was presumptuous. She presumed too much.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She was silent. Then she said: ‘I prefer not to tell you.’

  ‘Presumptuous, I would accept as a reason for dismissal from your service. But I would like an instance of it.’

  ‘She brought her bride box.’

  ‘But that was the second time that she came. What of the first?’

  ‘There were indications,’ she said, after a moment.

  ‘Indications? Of what?’ He waited. ‘You will have to tell me in the end. Was it Karim?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

  ‘You will have to tell me.’

  She was silent, Then: ‘Karim is … backward. In all things. In
this as in other things. He did not understand what she was doing to him. I had to protect him.’

  ‘So you sent her away?’

  ‘I had to end it.’

  ‘But then you decided not to. You called her back.’

  ‘I was foolish. It was ended. I should have let it stay like that. But … he missed her. I could see that. A mother knows. He became difficult. The heart went out of him. I thought it would go away, but it didn’t. So I thought …’

  She made an impatient gesture with her hand, as if sweeping it away. ‘I thought, perhaps after all it was for the good. Or could be for the good if I could control it. If she gave him pleasure, well, why not? There was not much pleasure in his life. And she was kind to him, I could see that. And gradually in him something stirred. I could see that, too. And in a way I rejoiced at it. Do not laugh at me. I was foolish, I know. But a mother of a child like mine always hopes — can’t not hope — that perhaps by some miracle her son will become a man. A foolish hope in the case of Karim, I know, but … but you can’t help hoping. And it seemed to be happening, because of Soraya. So … so I sent for her again. Hoping that … but knowing inside that …’ She made the gesture again, fiercely. ‘I was foolish. As I have said.’

  ‘You found you could not control it?’

  ‘Who can control these things?’

  Again the gesture: dismissal, but also despair.

  ‘And Soraya, too, perhaps, was foolish?’ suggested Mahmoud. ‘For she, too, had hopes.’

  ‘She set her hopes too high. They were not realistic. What would Karim’s father, his father’s family, have said? A Pasha’s son and a servant girl! And what — given the way that Karim was — what might they bring into the family? Another monster? That is how he, and they, would have seen it. Another monster to begin, perhaps, a line of monsters. No, I could not let this happen. I could not do that, even to my husband! So I sent her away again. And broke Karim’s heart.’

  ‘You sent them both away. Her and the bride box?’

  ‘I thought of sending just the box away. I thought that would be a sign. Would tell her what she needed to realize. That that would be enough.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do that?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have done any good. Her heart — no, not her heart, her mind, for she was crafty and knew what she was doing — her mind was set, and she would not abandon her hopes. I told her the box would have to go. “Does that mean I am to go, too?” she said. “Yes,” I said, for by now I could see no other way. “It will hurt Karim,” she said. “So be it,” I said. She bowed her head. But I could see she still hoped. So I said: “It does not have to be like this.” She looked at me quickly. “Does it not?” she said. And I could see that she still hoped. “Set your hopes lower,” I said, “and you can still have him.”’