The Bride Box

TWELVE

‘It hasn’t happened again, then?’ said the Greek.

‘Just the once,’ said Nassir.

‘That’s a relief!’ said Georgiades.

‘I don’t know,’ said Nassir. ‘She was some looker!’

‘Yes, but, I mean, you wouldn’t want to be spending all your time doing that.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nassir.

They both laughed.

‘A married man like you!’ said the Greek.

‘Just because you’re married, doesn’t mean you don’t notice,’ said the clerk.

‘The veil was made for men like you!’

‘She wasn’t wearing a veil.’

‘She wasn’t wearing a veil?’

‘Not a real one. Just one of those half ones you see on posh ladies. And all filmy, so that you can half see through them.’

‘I worry about you, Nassir!’

‘You ought to be worrying about him!’

‘Clarke Effendi?’

‘Yes, Clarke Effendi. I never supposed he was like that.’

‘Bowled over like that, you mean? Well, these quiet ones sometimes are, you know. They keep it shut in, and then suddenly it breaks out. Bang! Like that! Feel like it myself, sometimes.’

‘Even with a wife like yours? It’s you we should be worrying about!’

‘I keep it bottled up.’

‘Well, you surprise me, my friend. The things one learns when one gets to know people!’

‘Oh, she’s quite safe from me. But what about you, Nassir, will you be going along there now you know where she lives?’

‘She’s probably got a husband who’s an all-in wrestler.’

‘But you know where she lives?’

‘In the Tisht-er-Rahal. Just off the Derb-el-Akhmar. Where it becomes the Sharia el Tabarneh.’

‘By the Mardam Mosque?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I know it well.’

He should. It was where Owen lived.

In his mail that morning Mahmoud received a letter. It was addressed to him personally at the Parquet.

It was from the Pasha’s lady, who said that she was now in Cairo. She had brought Karim with her and they were staying at a small hotel called the Atbara near the Sukkariya Bazaar. It was a Sudanese name and the Sudanese Bazaar was nearby, on the other side of the Sukkariya. It was one of the poorer bazaars but there were some interesting shops specializing in the inlaying of mother of pearl and the general working of trocchee shells. Set against the dark wood usually used in Cairo they were very effective. Just beyond the end of the street was the famous mosque of El Azhar, which was also the great university.

Mahmoud turned the letter over in his hands. Why this sudden rush of letters from the Pasha’s lady? And why to him?

He thought he could answer that one. He was probably the only member of the Parquet that she knew personally, and the Egyptian way was always to go through the personal.

But why was she writing to him anyway? Just to say she was in Cairo? Keeping him posted of her movement, as it were?

He kept coming back to his original answer: she wanted someone to know. And was afraid.

He made up his mind, took his fez, and got up.

As he approached the hotel, he saw, striding along the street ahead of him, the tall form of the Pasha Ali Maher. He dropped back. He didn’t want to arrive there at the same time as the Pasha. In fact, he was having doubts now about going to the hotel at all. He held back uncertainly.

Suddenly he saw the Pasha’s lady come out of the hotel, clutching Karim firmly by the arm. Karim, overawed by the number of people, the bustle and the traffic, kept tight to her.

She saw the Pasha and stopped.

Ali Maher went up to her. ‘What are you doing?’ Mahmoud could hear him from way down the street. ‘Why have you brought that boy?’

‘Why shouldn’t I bring the boy? He is my son.’

‘But here? Here! I told you never to bring him to Cairo again!’

‘I didn’t want to leave him.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you want. Those were my orders. That was the agreement,’ he added more weakly.

‘You broke the arrangement yourself. You told me to stay down there. And then, suddenly, you tell me to come up!’

‘You, yes; but not the boy.’

‘I was afraid to leave him.’

‘Afraid?’

‘Of you. And what you might have done to him if I had left him on his own.’

‘Afraid of what I might do to him? He is my son!’

‘I am glad you remember that!’

‘Of course I remember that!’

‘Only sometimes, I think you forget it.’

‘I never forget it. It hangs on me like a great weight, all the time.’

‘A weight you might want to get rid of.’

‘Get rid of? Get rid of?’ he shouted. ‘He is my son! What are you saying? What are you saying, you terrible woman? What sort of a man do you think I am?’

‘I think you are a man who has abandoned his son. You have no natural feeling. You lost that a long time ago. If you ever had any.’

‘I did only what was best for him. You know that. If he had stayed in the city he would have been unhappy. You have seen him. He was not made for here. In the country he could be at ease with himself. There was nothing to bother him; there were no people who might trouble him. It was simpler for him. He could cope there. The city was too much for him.’

‘You make him sound like a natural.’

‘He is a natural! Treat him like one.’

‘He is your son; treat him like one.’

‘Why have you brought him here? Here, of all places?’

‘I did not want him to be harmed.’

‘Harmed?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘It is in the world that he is harmed. Out of it, when you were supposed to be keeping him safe, he would not be.’

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she said: ‘He is better. He is not what he was.’

‘You deceive yourself,’ he said.

‘He is growing up.’

‘But not as others do.’

‘As others do!’ she insisted. ‘You have not seen him lately. You do not know …’

‘I see him now.’

‘He is bigger. And not unlike what you yourself were.’

‘On the outside only.’

‘There is growth inside, too,’ she said softly. ‘Where only a mother sees it.’

He shook his head.

‘Take him home,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘He is better there.’

‘When he stands beside you,’ she said, ‘many would not know the difference.’

‘Would that were so!’

‘It is so!’ she insisted.

‘You do not understand,’ he said. ‘There are people now who look to me. And if they come to him, not knowing, and find … that he is what he is, what will they think? Of me and all our plans?’

‘You used to share those plans with me.’

‘I would now. But it cannot be. Your duty is to him.’

‘Is not your duty to him also?’

‘Yes. But I cannot discharge it. I have other duties too.’

‘Are they not less important?’

‘No. They are wider than just you and me. As you know.’

‘And so I have to bear those alone? By myself?’

‘Yes.’

‘It is hard.’

‘I would not have it thus.’

‘You used to speak to me gently.’

‘And would again. God knows I do not like it thus. I had great hopes. For him as well as of him. But … they cannot be fulfilled. We have to accept that. But other hopes remain, and these may yet be realized. But they cannot be realized if he is here with me, where all can see him, and talk behind their hands. There is too much at stake. He must stay where he cannot be seen. And where he is happy.’

She looked down. ‘He is less happy than he was.’

‘Is there something wrong?’ he said sharply.

‘No, there is something right. He is growing up.’

He made a gesture of impatience.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Hear me. He has needs. They are the needs of normal people, of every man …’

He was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘Cannot they be met? Cannot you find him someone? Some ordinary girl who would be glad of the money? Even if she would not do it at her father’s command?’

‘I have tried that.’

‘There are always girls …’

‘There was one he liked. He liked especially. I thought I could manage it. I brought them together. And he was happy, and I thought she was content. But she was not. She wanted more.’

‘More?’

‘Marriage.’

‘Ridiculous!’

‘That’s what I said. And sent her away. But he pined. And in the end I had to bring her back. I still thought I could make it work, but … She was obstinate.’

‘She refused?’

‘Yes.’

‘But did you not …? She was deaf to your commands?’

‘Yes. But it cannot be quite like that these days …’

‘Can it not? We shall see. Let me speak to her.’

‘You will have her whipped.’

‘She deserves it!’

‘But still she may not be willing. And if you have her whipped, how will Karim take it?’

‘Does it matter how he takes it? As long as he has her in the end.’

‘It does matter,’ she said. ‘Although I do not quite know why it should. Things are different now. Or they are beginning to be different. Even in the village.’

‘Money is still money. Even in the village. Why have you not spoken to her father? Let him do the whipping.’

‘The father is weak. He will take the money, yes, and do the whipping. But still she will not obey.’

‘Not obey! Then whip her some more!’

‘It is not like that these days. And what will Karim say?’

‘That is what you said before!’

‘And I say it again: Karim has grown up. And, yes, it matters now.’

The Pasha was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘You have really messed this up!’

He stood there for some time, thinking. Then he seemed to make his mind up.

‘We shall have to attend to this. But not now. I have other things to attend to. I wished to see you about something else.’

‘Not Karim?’

‘Not Karim. We had better go indoors.’

He led the way towards the hotel. The Pasha’s lady followed obediently, together with Karim.

The Pasha halted at the door. ‘Not Karim,’ he said.

‘What shall I do with him? I cannot leave him.’

‘Let him stay here.’

‘In the street? He will wander away.’

‘God sustain us!’ said the Pasha in exasperation.

‘I will have to stay here with him.’ The Pasha’s lady shrugged. She was about to say something to Karim when she stopped. ‘What am I to do with him?’ she asked. ‘I cannot let him wander about on his own. Not here, in Cairo, with the traffic.’

‘You shouldn’t have brought him,’ said the Pasha.

‘I thought you might want to see him.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘Sometimes you seem to care for him,’ said the Pasha’s lady, ‘and sometimes you don’t.’

‘I care for him,’ said the Pasha impatiently. ‘But there are times-’

‘When you forget that you have a son.’

‘I never forget that I have a son,’ said the Pasha. ‘Would that I could! I do not forget. But there are times when other things are more pressing. And this is one of them. I need to speak with you. Without the boy.’

‘What am I to do with him?’

‘How the hell do I know?’ said the Pasha, boiling over. ‘He shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have brought him!’

‘But I have brought him,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘What am I to do with him? While we talk?’

‘Let him stay here.’

‘I cannot talk to you in the street! Not about this!’

‘You are talking already.’

‘Not about … what I want to talk about.’ The Pasha’s lady considered. ‘Very well,’ she conceded, ‘he can sit over there, in the square, and watch the trams. And we can talk over here.’

‘Where everyone can hear us?’

‘Where I can keep an eye on him.’

The Pasha gave in. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Then send him over there.’

Karim had been hearing all of this and Mahmoud, watching from outside the carpet shop, where the rolls standing on end provided a screen, saw that he was troubled. He plucked continually at his mother’s arm.

She stroked him gently on the cheek. ‘It will be all right,’ she said. ‘I will not go away. I shall be watching all the time. You just go over there. See — there’s a nice seat! Sit there and watch the trams. It won’t be too long.’

Karim reluctantly obeyed.

‘You shouldn’t have brought him,’ the Pasha repeated.

‘What did you wish to see me about?’

‘This mad prank of yours. Sending the body to me. In a chest.’

‘It is a bride box,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘I thought that appropriate.’

‘I have told you: you are still my wife.’

‘It is not that. The body is that of the girl Karim loved.’

‘The girl Karim loved!’

‘And that was her bride box. She brought it with her, thinking she was going to marry him.’

The Pasha seemed to be struck speechless.

‘Now you can see why the box was appropriate,’ said the Pasha’s lady.

‘What have you done?’ cried the Pasha in anguish.

‘I? I have done nothing. It is what you have done. And haven’t done. That is important.’

‘But the girl … How could you do something like this?’

‘It had to be done. It was the only way. He would have gone on loving her otherwise. And she would never have surrendered him.’

‘But …’

‘It had to be. There was no other way.’

He seemed stunned.

‘Down there,’ she said, ‘where there is so much space and the sky, and the sand, and that is all, you see things more clearly. You should come back. It would help you to see things clearly, too.’

‘I wouldn’t have seen them like this! What have you done, you terrible woman?’

‘I have done what I had to do.’

‘The police will track you down. And put you in prison. And then where will Karim be?’

‘They are already knocking on the door,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘The Parquet has already been.’

‘But this is a disaster!’

‘For Karim?’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘Or for you?’

The Pasha put his face in his hands.

The Pasha’s lady regarded him for a moment with satisfaction.

‘What is to be done?’ he said hoarsely.

‘It is not as bad as it seems,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘And it is not quite as you think. You have always been ready to believe the worst of me. But it was not I who killed the girl.’

‘Not you?’

‘There are those who serve us loyally. They have an eye to what needs to be done. They are true to our family — yours, as well as mine. They could see that a marriage such as this would do great harm to the family. They decided it could not be.’

‘My people, or yours?’ asked the Pasha.

‘Do not they serve us both?’

‘Who?’

The lady did not reply. She stood there thinking. Once she looked across the square where Karim was watching the trams delightedly. ‘One who wishes you well, and has always wished you and your family well.’

‘He took it upon himself?’

The Pasha’s lady nodded. ‘I had sent the girl home. With her bride box. And on the way he must have decided that she should not come again.’

They remained talking for just a little longer. Once or twice the Pasha again put his head in his hands. If he had been the dominant one before, now it was she. He seemed to dwindle before Mahmoud’s eyes. By the end he was almost in a state of collapse. The Pasha’s lady, on the other hand, seemed to grow visibly. She dominated the exchanges now. Mahmoud could no longer hear what was said but rather thought that all of the lady’s pent-up anger was being poured out on the Pasha’s bowed head. He no longer spoke but listened in silence. At the end he drew himself up and almost tottered away.

The lady, perhaps weakened, too, found a seat and sat down by herself for a little while. Once or twice Karim looked back at her and she waved a hand to him. To show that all was well? Karim was clearly not sure. He kept looking at her and seemed to want to come over to her but then thought better of it and stayed where he was, watching the trams. A row broke out between two of the drivers. Both drivers descended from their trams and for a moment it looked as if they would come to blows. Such incidents were fairly common at Cairo’s crowded streets and no one paid much attention. But the argument was sufficiently fierce as to draw Karim’s attention and perhaps he forgot what had been troubling him before. His father now had gone away and his mother was sitting calmly by herself. Reassured, Karim concentrated on the trams.

Mahmoud wondered whether to carry on as he had intended and speak to the lady. He had read into her letter a possible plea for help. Now he was not so sure. She seemed able to look after herself pretty well. In the end his doubt was resolved for him by the lady catching sight of him and breaking into a welcoming smile. He walked across to her.

‘How nice to see you!’ she said, as if surprised.

‘I got your letters,’ said Mahmoud.

‘Oh?’

It was as if they were of no interest to her now.

‘Letters?’ she said vaguely.

‘Notes, rather. To say that you were coming to Cairo.’

‘Oh?’

Again it was as if she had completely forgotten them.

Mahmoud decided that he had been reading too much into them.

‘I hope you enjoy your trip to Cairo,’ he said. ‘And Karim, too.’

‘Karim, yes,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘It is a while since he was last in Cairo and he has forgotten. It is all very exciting for him. But also very confusing. In a little while he will begin to get headaches. A sort of migraine. Then I shall have to take him home.’

Mahmoud muttered something about medication.

The Pasha’s lady smiled. ‘You are a nice man, Mister el Zaki,’ she said, patting him on the knee. ‘And there are not many around.’

She stood up and Karim ran obediently back to her.

Later, he told Owen about it. Especially about the part concerning Suleiman.

‘A cable came in this morning,’ said Owen. ‘They’ve picked up Suleiman and are sending him up to us.’

‘To you?’ asked Mahmoud. It was always a vexed question, this: who really ran the show in such circumstances? The Mamur Zapt or the Parquet? The British or the Egyptians? Usually both sides took care to see that it did not come to a head. The British deferred to the Egyptian authorities, so long as the authorities did what they were told.

Here, the issue was simpler than it usually was. Suleiman had been picked up in the Sudan, which meant that he had been picked up by the British. Egypt had no powers in the Sudan. Which was another thing that rankled.

‘He will be repatriated back to Egypt,’ said Owen carefully. ‘And I imagine to the Parquet.’

He had better send a cable to make sure that this was so.

‘Let me know how you get on with him,’ he said. Mahmoud, bubbling up with pleasure, swore that he would. And, as a quid pro quo, passed on to Owen what he had learned from Idris. He had not really intended to do that, believing that the dealings of Idris’s patrons were not a matter for the British. But in his delight he couldn’t resist the temptation.

Owen’s agents — different ones daily, so as not to arouse suspicions — kept continual watch on the warehouse and the madrassa. Nikos was busy tracking down who Ali Maher’s political associates might be; and Georgiades shambled around, staying close to Nassir, and to Abdul, the porter, so as to be quite sure that they did not miss the moment when the arms were transferred to the madrassa. Nassir kept him informed about the dealings of his boss, Clarke Effendi, who seemed, however, to have dropped out of sight since he had returned to Cairo.

Suleiman duly arrived, under guard, at the Parquet, and Mahmoud went to interview him.

Suleiman, an assured, middle-aged Sudani from the Pasha’s lady’s family holdings on the coast, had been shaken by his unexpected arrest and then transfer to Cairo. He said nothing — was notably monosyllabic on everything, in fact — but his nervousness was betrayed by the constant switching of his eyes, as if fearing that a new attack could come from any quarter. He obviously recognized Mahmoud, although he had seen him only once, at the Pasha’s lady’s house, on that first day. Which made Mahmoud think that he had indeed been deliberately sent away.

‘So, Suleiman,’ he said easily, ‘I catch up with you at last.’

Suleiman did not reply.

‘Despite your being sent away so that I shouldn’t.’

He waited, but again Suleiman made no response.

‘So let me ask you now the question I would have asked if you had stayed with the others; it concerns Soraya’s bride box.’

He waited, then went on: ‘It was sent away, wasn’t it? By the mistress, yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Suleiman, guardedly.

‘Along with Soraya.’

‘That is so,’ Suleiman agreed.

‘Were you sorry to see Soraya go? You were to be married to her, were you not?

‘I was.’

‘And then you weren’t. How was that?’

Suleiman hesitated. ‘The mistress wanted it otherwise.’

‘Because Soraya was proving unsatisfactory?’

‘Unsatisfactory, yes.’

‘Did you find her unsatisfactory?’

Suleiman shrugged.

‘She was to marry you. Surely she was satisfactory, then?

Suleiman said nothing.

‘To the mistress, perhaps, but not to you?’

‘To neither of us.’

‘Then …?’

‘She would have it so.’

‘But you didn’t care for the girl?’

‘She was forward. She would not have been a good wife.’

‘To you. But perhaps to Karim?’

‘She would have been a bad wife to Karim, too.’

‘Why?’

Suleiman struggled for words. ‘It would not have worked out,’ he said.

‘No? Why?’

‘It was unseemly. She ought never to have thought of it.’

‘Soraya, that is?’

‘Soraya, yes. She was raising her eyes too high.’

‘So the mistress sent her away. But, being compassionate, she had previously looked out another husband for her. You.’

‘Me, yes.’

‘But then she thought better.’

‘Yes.’

‘And sent her away. Back to her home.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you go with her?’

Suleiman hesitated. ‘Not I, no.’

‘I was told you did. That you had command of her return?’

‘No.’

‘And saw to the bride box?’

There was a long delay before Suleiman responded. ‘I saw that it was done,’ he said at last.

‘Did you not go with her?’

‘I may have done. Part of the way.’

‘But then returned?’

‘Yes.’

‘After having seen to her killing?’

‘No. No. I did not do that.’

‘But you had charge. Perhaps you merely said it should be done?’

‘I did not see to it. Not that. The charge was passed to others.’

‘Who?’

‘I cannot remember.’

Mahmoud raised his eyebrows. ‘The charge was passed to others? Whom you do not know?’

‘That is so, yes.’

‘A strange way of dealing with your mistress’s charge! But perhaps she decreed that, too?’

Suleiman said nothing.

‘Someone killed her, Suleiman. Either you, or someone you charged with the task. For she did not get home, did she? How was that?’

Suleiman’s eyes began to look around. ‘Perhaps bad men fell upon her,’ he muttered.

‘I think they did. But one of the bad men was you, Suleiman.’

‘That is not so.’

‘Then who? You were in charge, Suleiman. Which man was it?’

‘I do not know. I do not know the men. They were bad men. They fell upon her.’

‘Did you not stop them?’

‘I could not stop them!’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I ran away.’

‘There were men with you. Did they run away too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who were these men who were with you? Were they men in the mistress’s service?’

‘Yes.’

‘Their names!’

‘I … I do not recall.’

‘I shall ask, Suleiman. And let us hope that they say what you say. Or it will go ill with you. Now tell me another thing: when you got home, did you speak of this to anyone? Think carefully before you speak, because I shall ask them.’

‘I … I did not speak of it to anyone.’

‘Not even after so dreadful a thing?’

‘I was afraid.’

‘Did you not speak of this to your mistress? Surely she questioned you when you returned?’

‘I spoke of it, yes.’

‘She did not speak of it to me.’

‘When I spoke of it, I spoke … generally,’ said Suleiman, looking acutely miserable.

‘Now tell me the truth,’ said Mahmoud.

It was Zeinab’s turn to take the children to school that morning. Sometimes Musa took them and sometimes his wife; sometimes it was Aisha, Mahmoud’s wife, and sometimes Zeinab. That morning it was Zeinab, which she quite liked. She would deposit the little girls at their kindergarten and then go on to call on friends — sometimes, indeed, Aisha — and occasionally to shop in the big French stores. Zeinab wasn’t that interested in shopping but it was important for an emancipated Pasha’s daughter to ensure that her turnout was comme il faut and in a dressy place like Cairo that required constant review.

The two little girls, Leila and Aisha’s daughter Maryam, walked along hand in hand, chattering. Zeinab walked just behind them.

Somebody bumped into her, jostled her, in fact, and when Zeinab, taking umbrage, turned to address them, they spun away into the crowd.

When Zeinab turned forward again there were no longer two little girls but just one. Leila had vanished. A shocked Maryam, roughly thrust aside, her hand torn from Leila’s, stood in mid-wail.

‘Where is Leila?’ said Zeinab, also shocked, and stunned by the suddenness of it all.

It took her a moment or two to realize that Leila had been snatched away.

Zeinab grabbed Maryam by her hand, then picked her up and carried her as that was easier, and began to hurry around asking people if they had seen a little girl, dark, being taken away. The crowd was sympathetic and soon everyone was looking.

‘A little girl — Sudani!’

But Leila had disappeared.

A policeman was fetched. Others appeared, for Zeinab was not a Pasha’s daughter for nothing, and threw her weight around.

When they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere she commandeered an arabeah and went to the Bab-el-Khalk. The friendly McPhee, much agitated, had a dozen policemen in the street in a flash and, later, Garvin the Commandant added his reinforcement. In no time the streets were flooded with policemen.

But to no avail. Hours later they were forced to admit to themselves that little Leila had disappeared completely.