The Bride Box

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.

There were one or two things, however, to be settled before he left. The first was what was to be done about Mustapha. Clearly he had to be formally charged and brought before a court. Owen himself could not do this: all that sort of thing had to be handed over to the Parquet. In fact, formally, it had already been handed over to the Parquet, in the shape of Mahmoud.

He and Mahmoud discussed the matter. Mahmoud agreed to bring Mustapha before a court. The question, though, was which court. The obvious answer was the one in Cairo. But there were arguments against that. In Cairo the trial could easily become enmeshed in politics and not get anywhere. Denderah was a long way from Cairo. Especially in terms of the urgency with which the legal system would address it. Better somewhere away from Cairo, sophisticated enough to be able to handle the issue, not so sophisticated as to be more interested in playing political games than bringing the issue to a conclusion. They decided that Mahmoud would take him to Luxor. The court there was sufficiently developed to be able to take on the trial and, being closer to the scene of the crime, might even be able to address it more easily.

So Mahmoud and Mustapha took the train south and Owen the next train north. Owen was the only passenger to get on at Denderah. He looked for Clarke but did not see him. Bibikr, who had come to the station to see Owen off, said he would have gone back to the coast with the gum arabic.

Owen was a little surprised at this, given Clarke’s previous fussiness over the guns and his insistence on overseeing personally anything to do with guns. No doubt, though, he would have made special arrangements.

Owen, of course, had also made arrangements.

‘I don’t know that I can!’ said Nassir, the warehouse clerk. ‘I’m that busy this morning!’

‘Too busy for a cup of coffee?’ said Georgiades, affecting amazement.

‘Well …’

‘Not even one?’

‘A quick one!’ stipulated the clerk.

Which stretched until it was no longer a quick one — but, then, there was a lot to catch up on after the weekend and the latest reckless ventures of Georgiades’ wife.

‘But hasn’t she got shopping to do?’

‘Tell me about it!’ said the Greek gloomily.

‘A man must eat!’

‘Oh, I eat all right. She looks after that side well.’

‘But not the other side?’ said Nassir hopefully. The Greek was sparing of details but the clerk had gathered the impression that that side was pretty good, too; remarkably so, in fact.

‘Take aubergines,’ said the Greek.

‘Aubergines?’ said Nassir, disappointed.

‘She went down to the market this morning to get some. A few, for lunch. And she came back with two barrow loads! “What’s this?” I said. “Are we feasting the neighbourhood, or something?”

‘“That’s an idea!” she said. “We could charge twenty piastres a head. Two hundred and fifty people — I could get more aubergines if I haven’t got enough. That’s five thousand piastres. Cost, definitely less than two. That’s three thousand profit. With that I could buy …”

‘“Just stick to aubergines,” I said. “And my lunch!” But there you are, you see: she goes out to buy a simple thing and finishes by buying up the whole market!’

‘May Allah preserve us!’ said Nassir. ‘She goes out to buy a few things for your lunch, and in a moment she’s disrupted the whole economy! There’s suddenly a shortage of aubergines!’

‘And the trouble about that,’ said the Greek, ‘is that it pushes the price of aubergines up, and then she comes back to the market and makes a killing! And everybody else in the market is going mad!’

‘The worries of having a wife!’

The clerk looked reluctantly at his watch. ‘I have to go. There is much to do today, with Clarke Effendi coming back.’

‘He’s coming back, is he?’

‘Sent a message.’

‘And what about the goods?’

‘They’ll be arriving on the train before. I’ve got to get down there and see them off the train. He doesn’t like to have them hanging about by themselves even for a moment.’

‘And then you’ve got to move them on, I suppose.’

‘First, to the warehouse, and then on from there afterwards. But he likes to see to that himself.’

‘Another night job.’

‘It could be. It very well could.’

‘You’d best be getting along, then. And I’ve got to be getting back to my wife. To stop her.’

‘Stop her?’

‘She’s thinking of putting the money she makes from the aubergines into night dresses.’

‘Night dresses!’ said Nassir, sitting down again.

‘She knows a chap who’s got a lot of night dresses on his hands. A shop went bust and left him with a lot of stock to dispose of. She reckons she could get them for two piastres each. Now, four hundred and sixty at two piastres …’

But, enticing as this prospect was, from more than one point of view, the warehouse clerk was forced to tear himself away.

The Greek ambled along the street, exchanging greetings with everyone he passed, calling in at the barber’s for a brief word which became several words, and coming to a stop at the broad pan of the pavement restaurant, where he sniffed the air appreciatively.

‘It’s different,’ he said.

‘Always the same!’ decreed the restaurant owner. ‘We never change.’

‘Is it the oil?’

‘Just the same. It may be slightly different this morning,’ he conceded. ‘We’ve opened a new tin. But the oil is just the same. I get it from Feisal.’

He dipped a spoon in and tasted it. ‘Well, I think it’s just the same!’ he said. ‘Here, you try.’

The Greek sipped. ‘I can’t taste any difference,’ he admitted. ‘It was just that, coming down the street this morning, it struck me as different.’

‘You’re tasting the newness. The oil is just the same but it’s fresh from the can.’

‘That must be it.’

The Greek squatted down beside the pan.

‘Of course, it’s a bit early for lunch …’

‘Oh, come on — try a bit!’

‘Well, just one. A little kebab.’

The restaurant owner watched him.

‘Delicious!’ the Greek said appreciatively.

The owner, relaxing, went back to his chopping of vegetables.

‘Hello!’ the Greek said, catching sight of his neighbour. ‘It’s Abdul, isn’t it? Nothing on this morning?’

‘Just carried a wardrobe.’

‘Then you’ll need something to restore you!’

He signalled to the owner, who dipped some beans into the bowl before Abdul.

‘I haven’t forgotten you,’ said the Greek. ‘I’ve got something coming along. It’ll be a rush job.’

‘How rush?’

‘The next couple of days. It’s on its way. A handy load.’

‘If it’s too big, I can’t do it. I’ve got something on.’

‘I expect you could fit this one in. It comes in bits. You could do part of it tomorrow, part the next day, and then fit it in. The thing about it is that my friend pays well — over the odds. But it’s got to be fitted in, like I said.’

‘When would I know?’

‘Soon. It’s worth putting yourself out for. As I say, he pays over the odds. It’s delicate, you see.’

‘Perishable?’

‘Fragile, rather. You’d have to be very careful with it. That’s why he doesn’t want just anybody. He’s got to be strong, but careful with it.’

‘Experienced!’ said the porter.

‘As my wife says, a bit of experience goes a long way!’

‘She says that, does she?’ said the porter, grinning.

‘Tells in my favour,’ said the Greek. ‘And at my age you need something that tells in your favour!’

‘You need size, too. And energy!’

‘I had the size. But now I’ve lost the energy.’

‘Pity!’

‘It matters. You see, my wife is younger than I am.’

‘That has its advantages.’

‘True. But sometimes I worry … The thing is, she’s a bit of a beauty. Was a dancing girl.’

‘A dancing girl?’

‘Yes. Very supple. You’d be surprised!’

‘She can get up to things, can she?’

‘Oh, yes. She’s a bit older now than when we first married, but she’s still … well, you know!’

‘Oh, yes, I know!’

‘She’s still got her figure. A regular Scheherazade!’

‘But misses the energy?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Well, that’s not all bad, is it?’

‘No, but it’s demanding.’

‘You can’t keep up?’

‘Not any more. You’d need to be, well, like the Khedive himself. If half of what I’ve heard is true.’

‘It’s having so many wives that does it. Keeps you in trim.’

‘One’s enough for me!’

‘Especially if she’s the way you say she is!’

‘The trouble is, I’m out so much.’

‘That must be a real worry. In the circumstances.’

‘Oh, it is. You see, I can’t keep my eye on her all the time. I’ve got a job to do, after all.’

‘Well, yes. Look, I’m around quite a bit of the time. I’ll keep a lookout and tip you the word if I see anything going on.’

‘Would you?’

‘No problem at all!’ said Abdul, grinning.

Abdul was still sitting at the pavement restaurant the next time the Greek went past. He dropped down beside him.

‘The work’s not come through yet, then?’

‘No. The stuff is coming in by train and it’s not here yet. But Nassir likes me to be right at hand when it does. His boss likes it to be just so. And if it’s not, he kicks Nassir’s backside! When it’s coming up, Nassir gets all edgy.’

‘It’s for Nassir, is it? He was telling me about it. He’s got to be here himself, he was saying, and right on the dot!’

‘That’s right. And he wants me to stay close while it’s on the boil. That’s why I’m sitting around here. The moment the train gets in I’ve got to get everyone together so that we can go over the moment he gives us the say-so. We’ve not to be on the platform; his boss doesn’t like that. He says it draws attention to the consignment. So we’ve got to be just round the corner and then get round there in a flash. And then it’s pick the boxes up — and they’re bloody heavy, too — and take them round to the warehouse immediately, with Nassir leading the way and his boss right behind us breathing down our necks!’

‘Gets you a bit edgy, too, I would think!’ said the Greek sympathetically.

‘Oh, I don’t mind it,’ said Abdul. ‘The money’s good, and it doesn’t last long. And then we’re off round to the beerhouse the moment after.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said the Greek, laughing.

‘I’m not saying that it’s not. Mind you, as I say to Nassir, it’s not the smartest way of doing things. Because we’ve got to move them on again afterwards, and if we did it at the same time and just moved them on straightaway to where they’ve got to go, it would save time and money. But I’m not really complaining. That way he does it makes two jobs out of one, so that’s better for us.’

‘Is the second move a big one? Much of a carry?’

‘No. It’s just around the corner, to the madrassa. It doesn’t take a moment and it would be easy for us to do the first time.’

‘You don’t want to tell him that,’ said the Greek.

‘I don’t reckon Nassir wants to tell him that,’ said Abdul. ‘Otherwise it would all have been done in the one job years ago. But I reckon that this way Nassir makes something out of it.’

‘That’s the way of the world!’ said the Greek.

Although he gave no outward sign of it, the moment the porter mentioned the madrassa, Georgiades become alert. Madrassas were schools. Not the new state schools the government was building, but the old, traditional, religious schools. They came in various shapes and sizes. Usually they took the form of pupils gathered around a teacher who would instruct them in the Koran. Instruction meant learning by heart. The leader would read or recite a passage from the Koran and the pupils would repeat it until they were word perfect. There was some explanation of the passage but the main thing was to commit it to heart.

Often the teaching would take place not in the classroom but beneath pillars of a mosque. The teacher would sit with his back against one of the pillars and the pupils would gather round him. Sometimes the pupils were very young, barely more than toddlers, not even carrying slates. But sometimes they were burly adolescents who used their slates not for writing on but as missiles. You would find them setting the pace in almost any riot.

Usually the rioting was spontaneous, a bit of adolescent fun, on the whole harmless, as Owen had to frequently point out to his superiors, both Khedivial and British. But sometimes it was not and then, often, it was not fun. The madrassas frequently served as centres for radical movements drawing on the young. Cairo abounded in political societies and many of these were based on or grew out of madrassas.

Madrassas were the bane of Nikos’s life. They were always causing trouble. He monitored them as best he could; he had a list of them as long as your arm. But they kept coming and going; they were essentially fluid and difficult to keep track of. Some were religious in orientation and some were exclusively political; some were reformist and many revolutionary. Some were violent.

If trouble was coming, it was usually coming from the madrassas.

So when Georgiades reported back to Nikos what the porter had said, Nikos immediately switched on. He knew from long experience that this was the moment when you could nip potential violence in the bud. It wasn’t a long moment; it could burst into open rioting very quickly, and then it was very difficult to deal with. But, just for a moment, if you could intervene early and decisively, you could stop it in its tracks.

The important thing was early intelligence, which, he thought, in this case he had acquired. But he had not yet got enough. He sent Georgiades out again. This was their job: to find out what they could. And then present their findings to the Mamur Zapt, who would decide on the necessary action. That was not his concern, for which Nikos thanked God. He knew he wouldn’t be good at it. Fortunately, Owen was returning. And not, Nikos told himself and everyone, before time.

Georgiades had taken up position in the goods part of the Pont Limoun. From where he was standing, at the very edge of the area, just where it gave on to the main station with its bustling passengers, he could see Nassir waiting nervously. From time to time he walked off agitatedly but he always returned to the spot he had chosen.

The goods train from Luxor pulled in. Immediately there was a great banging of doors and cries from the porters. Goods were brought down from the wagons on to the platform and porters began taking them away. Nassir, however, did not move.

He did not move until the bustle had subsided and most of the goods which had been unloaded had been either taken away or stacked on the platform. Then, when everything was quieter, Nassir moved forward.

The wagon before which he had stationed himself had not so far been opened. Now a man came up and began to unlock it. The door was pulled open and the station porters started to unload. They put the loads, heavy wooden boxes, carefully on the platform. Nassir was standing within a yard of them, so close as almost to get in the porter’s way. When they had finished, he counted the boxes. Then he stuck his head into the wagon to make sure that none had been left behind.

Satisfied on that score he went back to the boxes already piled there. Then he stood there keeping an eye on them while the station porters moved on to their next task.

He stood there for nearly an hour and then Clarke Effendi appeared, coming from the passenger area. He walked straight over to the boxes and began counting them, hardly sparing a word for Nassir, who hovered beside him. When he had finished counting, he said something to Nassir and Nassir signalled to someone at the end of the goods platform. In a moment, Abdul appeared with a crowd of burly porters. They began to pick up the boxes. The boxes were heavy and even Abdul could not manage one by himself.

With two men to a box, there were a lot of porters, and Georgiades saw that there had been a lot of work behind the scenes. By Nassir, presumably. Now they were here, though, it did not take long. They formed up in a convoy, with Nassir leading the way and Clarke coming behind. Once or twice he snapped something at a porter who had fallen short.

The convoy was moving out of the station, with Georgiades not far behind, when suddenly he saw Zeinab and Leila. They were crossing the Place Bab el Hadid, just in front of the Douane, the big Customs Office, when Clarke saw them.

He ran to the front of the convoy and seized Nassir by the arm. ‘That girl!’ he said, pointing to Leila. ‘Who is she?’

‘I don’t know!’ said Nassir, clearly taken aback.

‘Find out!’

Nassir hesitated, and said something. Probably he was asking what Clarke wanted him to do: stay with the convoy, or follow Zeinab and Leila? It was obviously the latter, for Nassir detached himself from the porters and went away after Zeinab and Leila.

Georgiades wondered what to do. Ought he to follow Zeinab and Leila in case of trouble? Trouble? From Nassir? He didn’t think that likely. Besides, he could find out from Nassir later what had happened. And Zeinab and Leila, of course.

No, the thing to do was stick with the convoy. They would surely be going to Nassir’s warehouse. But guns were guns, and Georgiades knew that the one thing he must not do was lose sight of them. If by some chance they did not go to the warehouse, and were lost in the warren of Cairo’s back streets, Owen would never forgive him.

Zeinab had picked up Leila from the kindergarten that morning. She often did so these days. They would usually go to the Hotel Continentale for an ice cream, which you could have sitting out on the terrace. Leila liked that because while you sat there you could watch the tumblers turning cartwheels along the street in front of you and the street sellers parading up and down with their monkeys. Sometimes the street sellers would poke their wares through the balustrade at the tourists. The tourists at the Continentale were European or American but not English, which suited Zeinab. The English usually went to Shepheard’s.

After they had had their ice creams they would walk home for lunch. By this time, after the morning at school, Leila would be getting tired. If it was Musa, not Zeinab, who was with her, he would usually pick her up at this point and carry her but Zeinab just held her hand. When they got home they would have lunch in the cool of the kitchen — there would be no cooking in the kitchen until Musa’s wife was preparing the evening meal. By that time Leila would just be getting up, as she went to bed after lunch for an hour or so.

Zeinab increasingly liked these moments together with Leila. They brought a bit of peace into her life, too; and whereas at one time she had enjoyed her morning gossips with her friends in their homes or the big European style — indeed, Parisian style — shops, now she liked the artless chats about the morning’s school that she had with Leila and with Leila’s friend, Aisha’s daughter.

Like Aisha, too, she was missing her other half. Owen had not been away for very long but she was used to having him around, and with him away everything felt slightly odd. Which was, perhaps, another reason for her turning increasingly towards Leila. She wondered what it would be like when Owen got back. She hadn’t really seen much of him with children and wondered how he would get on. When she had seen him with children they had seemed to get along very well, but having a child constantly in the house was different.

And would Leila be constantly in the house when Owen got back? This, he had told her, was a temporary arrangement, a means of safeguarding the child until they had got the slavers behind bars. When they had — and Zeinab was quite confident that Owen would do that — what then?

Mahmoud had got in that evening, tired after the journey and a little subdued. Aisha couldn’t make out whether things had gone well or whether they hadn’t. She knew he was angered and depressed at being so cavalierly, as he felt, summoned back to Cairo before he had quite finished the case. Why had he been? Aisha feared that he had crossed some political bigwig with influence in the Parquet. This had happened before, and was always likely to happen, with Mahmoud so fierce about his political commitments. Aisha was with Mahmoud every inch of the way on these, but sometimes she wished that his career progression was a smoother one.

He seemed a little downcast, which, again, was not unusual with him at the end of a case. No matter how successful he had been, somehow it always fell short of what he had hoped. This was usually part of a passing phase and she hoped it was the same this time.

A lot, apparently, turned on this man Suleiman. But he, it seemed, was now in the Sudan, where Mahmoud could not reach him. Mahmoud, in fact, was not too despondent about this. He knew that if he could not reach him, Owen probably could. There were advantages sometimes, thought Aisha darkly, in the English having power all over the place. Mahmoud had told her about this poor girl. It had put Aisha in an untypical fury. To treat a young girl like that! It was typical of the way women were treated in Egypt. And she was proud, very proud, that it was her husband who was leading the battle against it.

Mahmoud was glad to be home. It was frustrating to be dragged away just when he felt he was getting somewhere. But it wasn’t the end. Either he would still get somewhere or, if they had put someone else on the case, then that someone else would. Soraya would not go unavenged. It might take time — more time than he had thought — if, as now appeared, the politicians were taking a hand in it. If they were, there would be a struggle in the Parquet. But there were enough young men in the Parquet these days for the battle not to be hopeless. And he himself would take a hand in it. Now that he was back in Cairo he could play an active part in any politicking. They would see!

But, meanwhile, he was feeling a little puzzled. Just before he had got on the train a man had dashed up to him. He had been sent, he said, by the Pasha’s lady. And he was to tell Mahmoud that the Pasha’s lady had been summoned to Cairo, too. By her husband. And would shortly be arriving.

This was an unexpected turn of events. He had thought that the Pasha and his wife were so utterly at loggerheads that there could be no prospect of them coming together; much less of the Pasha actually inviting — or perhaps it was summoning — her. Or of her agreeing to come if he did.

And why was she telling him — and going out of her way to tell him?

The thought came to him that perhaps she wanted someone to know. In case she didn’t come back.