The Bride Box mz-17

by Michael Pearce

  She stopped. When she continued, it was in a kind of mutter. ‘I thought that perhaps we could come to some agreement. That she could stay here, in the house, with him. But not as his wife. I thought that perhaps his father would accept that. And the family. Why should they not? They already knew about Karim, about what kind of person he was. Every family, even a Pasha’s family, has secrets. Let them accept him, as he was. And if they could do that, perhaps they could accept the girl also. Every family has its handmaids and no one questions how far their service goes. Why should it not be like that with Karim and Soraya?’

  ‘Did you put this to your husband?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘No. For Soraya wouldn’t have it. She had seen me weaken, and she thought she had only to go on and I would give way. Completely. She was, in the end, like her father. Foolish, narrow, limited. I knew her mother. If she had been alive it would probably have been managed. But the mother was dead, and she would not listen to me.’

  ‘So she had to go again,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And this time for good.’

  ‘This time for good,’ agreed the Pasha’s lady.

  ‘Was that what you told Suleiman?’ asked Mahmoud.

  The lady looked startled.

  ‘Suleiman?’ she said. ‘Why should I tell Suleiman?’

  ‘I just wondered if you had told Suleiman.’

  ‘About the girl?’ said the Pasha’s lady, with a flash of anger. ‘I did not need to tell Suleiman. He knew.’

  ‘What did he know?’

  ‘About the girl? All. Everything. He was with me when I came from the Sudan. He stayed with me when I moved out of my husband’s house. He was with me when Soraya came. From the start he had said: “That girl is no good. She will do harm here before she is done.” He is my eyes and ears. Know? Of course he knew! He had seen her from the start. “That girl has designs,” he said. “She is not content to be a lowly servant.” But I did not listen to him. I thought I knew best. Soraya spoke my tongue. I knew her mother. So I trusted her. I advanced her. And look how she repaid me!’

  ‘You say that Suleiman knew all this?’

  ‘From the start.’

  ‘He knew about Karim?’

  ‘Of course he knew about Karim! He had held him in his arms when he was small.’

  ‘And when he grew. So he knew about Ibrahim?’

  The Pasha’s lady gave him a startled look. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he knew about Ibrahim. He was here when it happened. But why do you ask? What has Ibrahim to do with all this?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Mahmoud. ‘That is why I am asking.’

  ‘Ibrahim had nothing to do with any of this.’

  ‘But Suleiman knew?’

  ‘Of course. Why do you ask these questions?’

  ‘Was Suleiman a kinsman of Ibrahim?’

  ‘We are all kinspeople here.’

  ‘In this house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not your husband’s house?’

  ‘Both houses are my husband’s.’

  ‘But do both houses contain equally your kinspeople?’

  ‘They do not. My kinspeople came with me to this house when my husband said I should go.’

  ‘That Karim should go?’

  ‘That Karim should go. Which is the same thing. I am his mother.’

  ‘Let us go back,’ said Mahmoud, ‘to Soraya. And her bride box. When she left the second time, taking her bride box with her, who carried it for her?’

  ‘Who carried it? I do not remember.’

  ‘Men from your household?’

  ‘I do not recall. No, I think not. They all wished to have done with Soraya.’

  ‘So who were they?’

  ‘I do not recall. These things are small.’

  ‘When she came the second time, bringing her bride box, who brought it?’

  ‘I do not recall.’

  ‘I don’t think it was people from your household.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t.’

  ‘So who was it?’

  ‘I do not recall.’

  ‘It was the slaver’s men.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘You had spoken with the slaver before. He had acted for you with Soraya’s father. How was that?’

  ‘I do not recall.’

  ‘Not all people have dealings with slavers. How comes it that you did?’

  ‘I knew Abdulla of old,’ said the lady, sulkily. ‘And I knew that he was passing so I asked him to act for me.’

  ‘How did you know that he was passing?’

  ‘Some of his people knew some of my people.’

  ‘Because they come from the Sudan?’

  ‘Yes. Because they come from the Sudan. From that part of the Sudan where my family lives.’

  ‘What were the names of the men the slaver sent to collect the box?’

  ‘I don’t know. These are small things.’

  ‘Someone must have instructed them. Was it Suleiman?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘It would have been, wouldn’t it? Suleiman was your right-hand man. He acted for you in most things.’

  ‘All this is too far distant-’

  Mahmoud cut her short. ‘What I want to know,’ he said, ‘is what instructions he gave to the slaver’s men?’

  ‘How do I know?’

  ‘Suleiman would not have given instructions if he had not received instructions.’

  He waited.

  The lady said nothing.

  ‘So what were they?’

  The lady merely shrugged.

  ‘I would have asked Suleiman,’ said Mahmoud, ‘but you had sent him away. So that I could not.’

  After he had spoken to Karim, Owen went straight up to the temple.

  The afternoon heat still hung over it. There was not a person about. Everyone had retreated indoors. Everything was silent. Only, high up on the pylon in front of the massive portico, he heard a slight buzzing and remembered the bees. He looked up, and in the different light he saw that they were not bees but wasps. He saw now that there were dozens of tiny wasps’ nests, hanging from the stone like mud bubbles.

  He stood there for a moment looking up at them. Then he heard the cry of a hawk, and stepped inside.

  Selim emerged from behind a pillar.

  ‘The guns have come,’ said Owen. ‘They will soon be here.’

  ‘They are here already,’ said Selim.

  He took Owen inside and led him to the chamber he had shown him before. In the darkness it seemed to have changed its shape. Then Owen saw that the change was due to boxes that had been stacked there. He gently prised up a slat on one of the boxes and looked inside and saw the guns: new ones, like Karim’s.

  He hammered the slat back into place. It left behind it a slight smell of metal and grease.

  ‘The men will be back,’ Owen said. ‘Probably soon.’

  Selim nodded.

  ‘I will be here,’ he said.

  Owen went round to the station office, where he found the clerk’s brother, Babikr, standing in again. His brother, he said, was still sleeping it off after his exertion on the previous day.

  ‘The boxes I spoke of-’

  ‘Have arrived,’ said Babikr. ‘A man was sent to tell me. They are kept I know not where, but tomorrow they will be brought to the station just before the train arrives. There is a goods train, Effendi, early in the afternoon, and the boxes are to be put on it.’

  ‘Suleiman had been sent away on a family matter,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘Nothing to do with this or you.’

  ‘We shall see what he says.’

  ‘He is far away,’ said the lady, ‘and will not be coming back.’

  ‘The Khedive’s reach is long,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘But does not extend to the Sudan,’ said the lady.

  ‘But the British are there as here,’ said Mahmoud, ‘and they will send him back for me to talk to him.’

  The lady did not reply. In fact, she continued to sit there in silen
ce, thinking. ‘And all this,’ she said after a while, ‘for a silly girl!’

  ‘For a girl, yes,’ said Mahmoud, thinking that the lady was merely reflecting the general designation of women in the eyes of Arab society.

  ‘And no one thinks of Karim,’ said the lady.

  ‘His mother thinks of him,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And that is right. But the girl had a mother, too, who, if she had been alive, would have been thinking of her.’

  The Pasha’s lady sat silent again for, it seemed, a long time. Mahmoud, however, was prepared to wait. ‘Her mother is dead,’ said the lady suddenly, ‘so I had to do the thinking for her.’

  ‘For the mother?’

  ‘For her, yes. Since she is not alive and I am the senior kinswoman.’

  ‘Was that why you took Soraya into your service?’

  ‘Yes. Especially since I knew her mother, and her father is a sot. It is as if she were parentless. I had responsibilities.’

  ‘So you took her in?’

  ‘Yes, but it did not work out. She was stubborn, obstinate. She would not listen to me. It would have been better if she had.’

  ‘You cannot control a person’s feelings.’

  ‘No, but you can guide them. And that is what a parent should do. And I would have done — I did do — since I was in place of her mother. But she would not listen to me.’

  ‘Her eyes were looking in a direction where you felt they should not.’

  ‘Could not! I had to think of my family. Or, at least, my husband’s family. As well as hers. Even then I might have managed it if she had not been so obstinate. So proud! I had found her another man. That was right, that was what I should do! But she would not have it.’

  ‘Well, there is heart in this …’

  ‘Not if you’re a penniless girl, there isn’t! It would have been a good match. Better than she would ever have hoped for on her own. She should have been pleased. Delighted! But still she clung to her first thought and would not let it go.’

  ‘Karim, you mean?’

  ‘Yes! And he was out of the question. And it would not have been right. Karim is … well, you know how Karim is. He could not be a good husband to her! Nor to anyone! Oh, she felt tender towards him, and sorry for him. But that is not the same thing. From her point of view, as well as from his, it had to be stopped. So I tried to turn her eyes in a different direction.’

  ‘You tried to arrange a marriage for her?’

  ‘Yes! In the ordinary way. It is what her mother would have done. And her father should have done. So I spoke to someone, and he agreed. He was willing to take her. And … and she would not even have had to leave the house. She could have gone on living there — yes. Yes, she could have gone on being kind to Karim. Of course, she couldn’t have … But, then, poor boy, I don’t think it could have happened anyway. Not on his side. There was no question of that. And her husband would not have minded. Not her being kind to Karim. Since there could be no question of more. He was willing for it to be like that; he knew Karim. I spoke to him about it and he was willing for it to be like that. It would have solved all the problems. She would have been happy, he would have been happy. Karim would have been happy. But she could not let it be so! She wanted more. More than we could give.’

  ‘Who was this man?’

  ‘Suleiman.’

  There was a shift in the pattern of activity in the midan. Men were carrying the sacks of trocchee shells to the railway line and laying them alongside the track, and camels were coming in steady succession to the station to pick up the bales of gum arabic. When they were loaded, they were led to the far side of the midan, where camels and men were assembling. The camels were made to lie down but the loads were not removed. Owen realized that they were getting ready to leave.

  He went to the station office, where he found Babikr standing in again. He said that his brother had still not recovered from his long ride to the Pasha’s estate and back.

  ‘But all is in order, Effendi,’ he assured Owen.

  ‘The loads are being readied for departure,’ said Owen.

  ‘Yes, Effendi,’ said Babikr. ‘There is a goods train coming in and the trocchee shells will be put on it. And some of the gum arabic. The rest will go by camel to the coast.’

  ‘And the boxes?’

  Babikr hesitated. ‘Not here yet,’ he said.

  At the last moment, a train of donkeys appeared with the boxes. The donkeys were lined up beside the tracks and their drivers stood by them. Other men joined them.

  And then Owen saw him — the white man he had caught watching him earlier. He came up and stood by the boxes and appeared to be counting them. Apparently he was satisfied, for he nodded and stood back.

  In the distance a train blew its whistle and, shortly afterwards, came into sight. It drew into the station and stopped. Immediately, there was a frenzy of activity. The doors of the wagons were thrown open and the sacks and bales put inside.

  The boxes were loaded separately in a special wagon. The white man stood over the loading until it was complete and the door slammed closed again. Then he stepped away. He watched until the train drew out of the station.

  ‘Clarke Effendi likes to see that all is done as he had decreed,’ said Babikr.

  ‘And was Suleiman content?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘He was content,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘His other wife is growing old. And, besides, he knew he would be well rewarded.’

  ‘But Soraya was not content?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Suleiman know this?’

  ‘He knew it and was angered. Who was Soraya, a poor basket maker’s daughter, to set herself up against a Pasha’s lady and a man of worth? Again, you see, it was presumption. “She will need to have it knocked out of her,” he said, “and that I will do. I promise you, after we are married.”’

  ‘Did her father know about this?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘Mustapha?’ The lady hesitated. ‘He knew I had marriage in mind for her. But I had not mentioned Suleiman’s name. It was not settled.’

  ‘He still hoped, perhaps with her, that …’

  ‘He was as foolish as his daughter. But the thing about a man like Mustapha is that, for the price of a drink, he will do whatever you ask. He was of no account.’

  ‘But Suleiman was of account?’

  ‘A worthy man,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘Too worthy for a girl like her.’

  ‘He knew what you were thinking of?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And when he learned that she had refused him, was he angered?’

  ‘Of course. What man would not be? A chit of a girl! Who thought herself too good to be a servant with the other servants!’

  ‘And, of course, Suleiman was one of those servants.’

  ‘The thought that she might look down on him was intolerable to him. As anyone would expect!’

  ‘He was angered?’

  ‘Who would not be?’

  ‘And when he learned that she had refused him …?’

  ‘Angered again. But, perhaps, knowing who she was, and what she was like, not discontent.’

  ‘Yet angered,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And he was the one who was giving the slaver’s men their instructions?’

  The Pasha’s lady said nothing.

  ‘Again I ask,’ said Mahmoud, ‘what were those instructions?’

  ‘And again I reply,’ said the Pasha’s lady, ‘that I do not know.’

  ‘But you must know. For you first gave Suleiman the instructions.’

  ‘I instructed him to tell them that they were to take her home, and her accursed bride box with her.’

  ‘And that was all?’

  The lady was silent again. Then she gave a little shiver. ‘I know what you are thinking. But that was all.’

  As Mahmoud rode back to Denderah, he was not displeased with the way things had gone. He felt that his investigation had advanced. True, there were further questions to be asked. But he felt that the nu
mber of people of whom they had to be asked had narrowed down. Admittedly, it was not going to be easy to ask them, since Suleiman was in the Sudan and likely to remain there: and the slavers were who knew where. But Suleiman would in the end be reached, and so, he thought, would be the slavers. They might well be in the same place. Their actual apprehension might have to be left to others. But in the end they would be brought home to the Parquet roost.

  There was, he thought, little more that he could do here. So he was not as depressed, or as angered, as he might have been when he got back to Denderah and found a message recalling him at once to Cairo. Not as angered as he might have been, but nevertheless very surprised.

  TEN

  Owen was surprised, too, and thoughtful. Was this an expression of rivalries inside the Parquet? Of the jealousies of the old? He knew that Mahmoud’s speedy ascent was resented by some inside the Parquet. Mahmoud had told him that some of the senior people there had it in for him because of his political sympathies, that possibly his very assignment to the case had been a means of getting him out of the way. Owen thought that sometimes Mahmoud’s fear was overdone but guessed there might be something in it.

  But what troubled him was the possibility that Mahmoud had been whisked back to Cairo precisely because someone there was worried that he was actually getting somewhere. And didn’t want him to.

  And how far was this connected with the slavery issue? Strictly speaking, that was Owen’s concern and not Mahmoud’s; but the two cases — Soraya’s murder and the revival of slaving — were connected, and perhaps others knew that as well as he did. It was something to be looked into when he returned to Cairo.

  And, fortunately, that was just about to happen. The action had moved on, almost certainly into the Sudan, and there was little point in him staying on here. Apart from anything else, by this time the mountains of papers on his desk would be toppling over and something had to be done about them. Nikos, who, he knew, believed that any time spent out of the office was time ill-spent, wanted him back.