The Bride Box

SIX

There was an unfamiliar face at the station, belonging to the man standing in for the clerk. He said that he was the clerk’s brother and that he had done the job before. He was familiar with the duties. His name, he said, was Babikr.

Owen asked him about the station. How much traffic was there? Lots, said Babikr. But, on further enquiry, it didn’t seem to amount to that much, merely the train coming up from Luxor once a day and then a corresponding train returning south late in the afternoon. Sometimes a goods train passed through, usually at night. It must have been this train that Leila had seen and then hidden under. Trains stopped at Denderah for water and to drop or pick up packages. Like the bride box, thought Owen. There wasn’t a lot of business of this sort.

Owen asked if he knew of a white man who had come to Denderah recently on business.

Babikr nodded.

‘That would be Clarke Effendi,’ he said. ‘He trades in gum arabic and trocchee shells. The desert men’ — this was said with a certain contempt — ‘bring the gum in on their camels. It gets divided here and sent to different destinations, some on the coast, some in the big cities. A lot goes to Cairo. Clarke Effendi comes to see to that himself. He does not keep a man in Denderah.’

Babikr said that Clarke Effendi did not come often. He would wait, perhaps for months, for the stocks of gum arabic to build up and then would come with a big caravan to take it away. He combined this with a large trade in trocchee shells. On the outward journey from the coast to Denderah he would bring trocchee shells, which again would be distributed from Denderah. Most would go up to Cairo, from where they would be distributed to factories inland, but some would go straight to Alexandria or Port Said for export abroad. The shells went all over the world, some as far as America.

Having deposited trocchee shells in Denderah, the caravan would pick up gum arabic for the return journey. It was a big operation, said Babikr, and it all came together at Denderah. For over a week Denderah would be transformed.

‘You wouldn’t recognize it, Effendi.’

The space behind the station, about the size of two football fields, would be given over to camels and their drivers. The incoming loads of trocchee shells and gum arabic would be divided and subdivided and re-consigned. All, said Babikr, was bustle and busyness.

And over it all, Clarke Effendi presided in person. He had assistants, of course, mostly Levantines from the north, but he watched over it all like a hawk. ‘Trusting no one,’ said Babikr in admiration.

Miraculously, in little more than a week, it would all get sorted out. The trocchee shells would go one way, the gum arabic another. The desert men would go back to their gum trees, the caravan, its camels now loaded up with bales of gum arabic, back to the coast. The space behind the station would become empty and all, said Babikr, would be still again.

But the Effendi would see for himself if he stayed on. For the caravan was due to arrive the following week.

‘Ah!’ said Owen. ‘And Clarke Effendi with it?’

‘Most certainly! For he likes to keep an eye on all things.’

‘And does he sometimes come to Denderah on other occasions?’

‘As the time for the great caravan nears, he will come over on several occasions, to make sure that the suppliers of gum arabic are coming in as expected.’

‘Has he been recently?’

‘Oh, yes. And then he had been angry because he had thought that not enough had come in, and he had sent men to chide the suppliers. With some result, for the bales are now coming in thick and fast. Effendi, you will no doubt have seen how they are piling up at the station.’

‘And does the caravan sometimes bring things besides trocchee shells?’

‘Oh, yes, Effendi! This is the main caravan of the year, now that the huge pilgrim caravans of the past are dwindling in importance with the coming of the trains. Many ordinary people wish to send things from east to west, or from west to east, and not trusting the new postal system, will make use of it.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Things for the bazaars, Effendi. Or presents to the family.’

‘Bride boxes?’ suggested Owen.

‘Oh, no! Effendi!’ said Babikr, shocked. And knowing perfectly well what Owen was thinking.

Owen found Mustapha sitting in his small yard, his work things spread out on the ground around him. A half-finished basket was held between his knees. Some reeds ready for threading were stuck between his toes. He looked up listlessly as Owen came into the yard.

‘Effendi!’

‘Mustapha,’ said Owen, squatting down beside him, ‘I need you to tell me more.’

‘I have told you all, Effendi,’ said the basket maker.

‘Not quite all. Tell me about the slaver.’

Mustapha shrugged. ‘What is there to tell? He was a slaver. That is all.’

‘How did you come upon him?’

‘People said that he was in the neighbourhood.’

‘He was a Sudani. Did you go to him because he was a Sudani?’

‘Why should I go to him because he was a Sudani?’

‘Was not your wife a Sudani?’

‘I did not go to him because of that.’

‘No?’

‘I thought it might help,’ said Mustapha, after a moment.

‘Tell me about her. How came it that you met her? The Sudan is far from here.’

‘She came back with the Pasha when he brought his new wife. She brought servants and Hoseina was one of them. After a time she sought a husband. I had a friend who knew someone in the Pasha’s household and he spoke for me. I was doing well then. I promised to be a man of substance.’

‘How comes it that you did not become a man of substance?’

‘Children,’ said Mustapha bitterly.

‘You had too many?’

‘I could not provide for them. And they came too quickly for Hoseina. She ailed and could not manage the house. But still they came. It broke her down. And I could not provide.’

‘Did you not speak to the Pasha’s lady and ask for help?’

‘I did, and at first she helped us. But then she had troubles of her own and forgot about us.’

‘I wondered if perhaps the reason she took Soraya on to help in her house was that she remembered your wife?’

‘In part, yes. But it did not work out. She came home again and I thought that was the end of it. So when the slaver came … when the slaver came and said there was a man who had his eye on Soraya, my heart rejoiced. He said he would arrange it all. He did not speak of her as a slave, Effendi, but as … more than that.’

‘A concubine?’

‘Well, perhaps to start with. But it might grow, Effendi. These things have happened, I have known of them happening. And I thought it might be so with Soraya. She was not ill-favoured. The slaver himself said that. He said that affection might grow in the man’s heart, and then, who knew? He said the man had already noticed her, the seeds were already there. He spoke of it as a likely thing. More than likely; almost a certain thing. And I … I believed him, Effendi. I was a fool, yes I know, but I did not wish her harm, Effendi. She was my daughter, after all. But there were difficulties in the house, and besides, money was promised …’

‘Was money given?’

‘A little, Effendi, a little. But more was promised. And, besides, Effendi …’

‘Yes?’

‘The slaver spoke of it as a done thing. I thought of it as a done thing. And so I asked him if I should send the bride box with her, and when he laughed and said, “Why not?” I believed it to be certain.’

He shook his head.

‘I still cannot believe it, Effendi. Why should he kill her? As he himself said, she was a beautiful girl who would surely fetch a good bride price. So why kill her, Effendi? That is what I cannot understand.’

‘Tell me more about the slaver, Abdulla Sardawi. Where does he come from?’

‘Suakin.’

‘Suakin? The Dead City? Is that likely?’

‘Not many live there, Effendi, but he does.’

‘So that he may more easily slip his slaves across the sea?’

‘So they say, Effendi.’

‘I hope you are telling me truly. If so it may go some way towards reducing the punishment that awaits you. But if not, expect the punishment to be heavier.’

‘I have told you truly, Effendi. I tell you not because of the punishment. Let it fall upon me; I have deserved it. I tell it for Soraya. I tell it for the daughter who was once mine.’

Owen went back to the railway station. Mahmoud and the clerk were not yet back and the clerk’s brother was still standing as substitute.

‘Babikr …’

‘Effendi?’

‘Can you send a cable?’

‘I can, Effendi. I am a master of all the arts.’

‘Good. Well, send this one, then. It is to the Sudan.’

‘There will be no difficulty, Effendi. It will go straight to Khartoum.’

‘I wish it to go to the Slavery Bureau.’

The clerk’s brother handed him a pad. ‘Write your message there, Effendi, and I will send it at once. Within the moment.’

Owen took the pad and wrote:

Request assistance. Slaver active in Upper Egypt area. Believed based in Suakin. Possibly returning there with child slaves. Name Sardawi, Abdulla Sardawi.

The Mamur Zapt.

A long line of camels had just come in and were unloading their bales beside the rail tracks. The stacks of gum arabic had suddenly grown, and in the town itself there were more people. Many of them were from the desert and they wandered around the shops, not buying but looking at the wares. The space behind the station was filling up. After depositing their loads the camels had moved on to the square and were tearing at the forage thrown down on the ground for them to eat. Beside them sat their drivers, sometimes around a brazier, drinking tea. They were a different kind of Arab from the ones seen in the town, thin, wiry, with short galabeyas showing knees burned almost black by the sun. Some of them had great masses of fuzzy hair. These were Kipling’s ‘Fuzzy-Wuzzies’ and they came from the other side of the Sudan, near the coast, from the Red Sea Hills. They often had short stabbing spears. One or two merchants were already setting up stalls in anticipation of the caravan’s arrival.

Seeing the shoppers reminded Owen that he would be returning to Cairo the next day — he had already spent far too long away from his desk — and he ought to take something back for Zeinab. And also for Leila. He mustn’t forget about her!

But what? He had never bought for a child before and had no idea of what to buy. A toy of some kind? But they didn’t seem to have toys in the shops here. In Cairo it would have been no problem, but here …

Clothes? He would do a lot better in Cairo, where he would be able to draw on other people’s expertise. Zeinab, perhaps, was not the world’s expert on anything for children, but Georgiades’s Rosa was sure to have a sharp eye for these things. Nikos, of course, would be a dead loss.

And then there was the question of size. He knew roughly what size Leila was but not in the way a woman would. Better steer clear of clothes.

Slippers, say. There were some nice little embroidered ones in the shops here. She would like those. But again there was the question of size. He had an uneasy feeling that the ones here would be too small for Leila. He rather thought her feet were quite big in relation to her general size. Maybe feet grew first? Again he was venturing into areas new to him. If the slippers wouldn’t fit, they would be useless. Better steer clear of footwear.

But what then? Material? One or two of the shops had what seemed to him quite attractive lengths of material. But he could hear Zeinab dismissing them scathingly over his shoulder. They might do for Musa’s wife, he thought, but for Leila?

He was going to buy a carved wooden bracelet for Zeinab, something made locally and with a curiosity value. Would that do for Leila as well?

He was passing a carpenter’s shop. It was just an empty space with a few planks leaning against the walls. There was no counter. In the other shops, as in the less sophisticated parts of Cairo, there would have been a counter, with a shopkeeper sitting on it. There was one like that nearby, the one where they sold materials. But the carpenter’s shop was not like that.

He could see the carpenter working away in the back of the shop. He looked up and came across to Owen. ‘Does the Effendi desire anything?’

‘Advice,’ said Owen. He explained the situation.

‘What I would give my grandchildren,’ said the carpenter, ‘is something I had made. A spoon, perhaps? Like this.’

He produced some long, finely carved spoons.

‘That looks pretty good!’ said Owen, relieved.

‘Or this. To keep things in. Children always like something like this.’ He produced a little box.

Why not? It was small, about six inches long, made of nice wood. Sandalwood? It was smooth, pleasant to touch and agreeably smelling.

‘I’ll take it.’

‘Wait! Wait! Some paper, Selim. Go to Ali’s and ask him for some nice paper to wrap a present in, a present for a little girl.’

A boy at the back of the shop rushed out. There seemed something familiar about him. Selim?

‘Is that the Selim who came with me to the old temple? And found the things from Soraya’s bride box?’

‘Yes, it is. I don’t like to think of that, Effendi. Soraya was a sweet girl. I made her bride box for her. To think of the use it was put to! Oh, Effendi, there are wicked men in the world!’

He shook his head.

‘But you’re right, Effendi, it was Selim who found the things.’ He looked around furtively, but Selim was not yet back. ‘Between you and me, Effendi, there was something between Selim and Soraya. He has not been the same boy since. I try to keep him busy but you can tell his heart’s not in it.’

The boy returned and began to wrap up the box.

‘This is for Leila,’ said Owen quietly. ‘I will tell her that you wrapped the box.’

Mahmoud was getting ready to leave. By the time he and the clerk got back to Denderah it would have long been dark, but there was no point in staying here. He had done what he could. He had hoped that, with the clerk’s aid, he would have been able to wrap the whole thing up. They would have identified the men who had put Soraya in the bride box. They would probably be the men who had killed her but even if they weren’t, it could have opened the whole thing up. The end would have been in sight and so would have been his return to Cairo. Cairo, and his family. Mahmoud was missing his children. He had never been away from them for so long before.

But it hadn’t worked out like that. There had been no identifications. He was no further on than when he had started. Although perhaps he was. Not as far on as he had hoped, but at least he had been given a lead.

He called the clerk to him and told him to let it be known that Mahmoud would like to know when Suleiman returned. And there would be money in it. The clerk was to drop this in casually. Mahmoud had not been able to speak to Suleiman while he was here. As they knew, Suleiman had gone off on an errand for the lady, so Mahmoud had missed him. But he still wanted to talk to everyone, to make sure that he had spoken to all the lady’s servants. All, without exception. He wanted to be sure that he hadn’t missed anything. And so he would be grateful if he could be told when Suleiman had got back. And, as the clerk had said, there would be money in it.

More than that he could not do. At least for the moment. It wasn’t much but it was something. He might still be able to extract something from his visit to the Pasha’s estate. To both the houses. That at least he had learned.

At the last moment, as he was setting out for Denderah, the lady appeared. Give it another hour, she said. It would be cooler then. The sun’s heat would have gone from the ground, and it would be much nicer for travelling. True, it would be dark, but she would send someone with him to show him the way. Mahmoud accepted the offer gratefully. He could still feel the day’s heat in the air, and both he and certainly the clerk had just about had enough of it.

A servant brought him lemonade in the mandar’ah. Karim looked in once or twice, friendly but at a loss for conversation. He offered to show Mahmoud his guns, having apparently forgotten that he had already done so. Mahmoud politely declined.

The lady herself did not appear.

A servant came and said that Salah was now waiting. Mahmoud went out into the yard, where the donkeys were standing docilely. Salah was a short, stocky man who presumably worked in the lady’s fields. At the last moment Karim came out to say farewell. He said he would walk with them a little of the way.

As they went past the barns Mahmoud saw that activity of some sort was going on. The doors, which he had previously seen locked, were now open and men were bringing out heavy boxes. In the torch light something glistened.

‘It’s the guns,’ said Karim.

‘From your collection?’

‘No, no; these are the ones we’ve been storing for Hafiz.’

Mahmoud could count six boxes. There might be more inside the barn. ‘That’s a lot of guns,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Karim casually.

They moved on past.

‘Yakub will be sending someone to collect them tomorrow,’ said Karim. ‘Sometimes he brings a gun for me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, a present. Mother says it’s a way of saying thank you. I hope he gives me one of these. They’re a new model. It’s the sights, mostly — they’ve improved them. And certainly that would be a help with the small birds.’

They came to the edge of the out buildings.

‘Well, I must turn back,’ said Karim. He held out his hand. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr el Zaki.’

‘A pleasure to meet both you and your mother,’ returned Mahmoud. ‘Give her my thanks for her hospitality, will you?’

‘I will,’ promised Karim.

The night was soft and warm. Once they had got away from the house it seemed pitch dark but gradually their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and the track ahead was easily visible. It threaded its way through the thorn bushes. The donkeys padded softly along.

Mahmoud drew alongside Salah. ‘What is all this about the guns?’ he asked.

‘The Pasha’s lady keeps them in her barn until the great caravan comes,’ he said. ‘Then they send someone over to pick them up.’

‘And take them on to Denderah?’

‘That is right, yes.’

‘They don’t come with the caravan?’

‘They came with a smaller caravan earlier,’ said Salah. ‘Then they are left here.’

‘Who brings them?’

‘Yakub.’

‘In another caravan?’

‘In another caravan, yes. Yakub has camels of his own, which he hires out.’

‘Someone hires him to bring the guns?’

‘That’s right, yes.’

He didn’t seem disposed to say more. Perhaps he didn’t know more.

Gradually it became lighter, and Mahmoud realized that the moon had risen. It shone a silvery light on everything. It was almost as bright as day.

The night now was still warm but the heat was gentle. Mahmoud realized that the lady had been right. It was a much better time to travel.

Mahmoud was thinking about the guns. Although they were not particularly his concern on this occasion, they were of concern to anyone responsible for law and order in Egypt. Owen, he knew, would be interested. The governor kept a close watch on the illicit movement of guns. And this ‘movement’ was surely illicit. He would remember the names and pass them on to Owen. Yakub — it might come in useful.

The soft padding of the donkey’s feet and the slow, regular movement was quite soporific. He felt himself nodding off, and jerked himself awake.

The clerk, he saw, had bent so far forward over the donkey’s neck that he looked in danger of falling off. He was almost certainly asleep. Mahmoud wondered whether to wake him but decided not to. It would pass the night more quickly for him and, on the whole, it looked as if he was not going to actually fall.

Just as Mahmoud thought that, the clerk did fall, but forward over the donkey’s neck. He gave a start and raised himself. When Mahmoud looked again he was inclining forward once more.

Mahmoud himself must have dozed off because when he next took stock of his surroundings, the moonlight had become a drabber grey. He fancied he could see touches of dawn in the sky. He suddenly realized that he was very stiff and more than a little sore. This was the longest ride he had had on a donkey for many years, if ever. And he hoped it would be as long again before he had another one!

The next time he looked up he saw palm trees and buildings. He made out the black water tank of the railway station. Camels. People. Far more camels and people than when he had left, surely?

Owen found the omda hoeing a piece of land at the end of the town. He looked up when he saw Owen and wiped his forehead.

‘Effendi!’ he said, pleased to stop.

‘A question,’ said Owen, ‘about Soraya’s bride box. It was, we all agree, sent after her. But where to? It is said that it was sent to the Pasha’s lady’s house, and that she was angered when she saw it arriving. But I have just been speaking with Mustapha, and Mustapha says that it was the slaver who came for Soraya. And that when Mustapha asked him if he should send the bride box with her, the slaver laughed and said: “Why not?” The slaver said he knew of someone who had his eye on Soraya, and Mustapha understood that Soraya was going to him. And so he sent the bride box. But what happened then? Because the next thing we hear is that Soraya is again with the Pasha’s lady. And so is her bride box. Does this man exist? And if not, why should the slaver say he did? And how comes it that then Soraya and the bride box go to the Pasha’s lady’s house?’

The omda scratched his head. ‘I know not,’ he said.

‘The men who came for Soraya’s box — were they the slaver’s men? Or the Pasha’s lady’s men?’

‘The slaver’s men, surely.’

‘And yet the box turned up in the lady’s house. Did Soraya know that it was going to the lady’s house, or did she think it was going to a man the slaver knew of?’

‘I do not think she thought she was going back to the lady’s house. She thought, and Mustapha thought, that she was going to a man the slaver was acting for. “Leave it to me,” he said, “and I will arrange all.” We all thought that she was going to her marriage. The slaver spoke so. And she herself believed it, so when Mustapha spoke to her about it, she said she would not go to him unless she thought him worthy. And Mustapha was angered and wanted to beat her, but we restrained him.’

‘And yet she finished up at the Pasha’s lady’s house?’

‘It seems so.’

‘I find that hard to understand.’

‘It must be a trick. Men such as the slaver are full of tricks.’

Mahmoud had ridden into Denderah just before dawn. He had discharged the lady’s guide, the station clerk, and the donkeys and then snatched some sleep for himself. Only a little, for there were things to do. But he was good at waking himself up and midway through the morning he went to find Owen. He met him just coming back from talking to the omda. They walked back together to the station, where the stacks of gum arabic were growing all the time, and then out behind the station to what had been, when Mahmoud left, a vast, empty square but which was now brimming with people and camels and donkeys. Some stalls had been set up selling tea and Owen and Mahmoud ordered some from one of them. The man brought it to them sitting on the ground.

They had information to exchange. Owen needed to know about the guns and Mahmoud brought him up to date with the failure to identify any of the Pasha’s men — but also the possible lead with Suleiman. Owen shared with him the conflicting information about the destination of Soraya’s bride box.

In both cases the exchange brought about a switch in thinking. Mahmoud realized that he would have to go back to the Pasha’s estate and the lady’s house; Owen, who had been intending to return to Cairo, thought that in the light of what Mahmoud had told him about the guns — and what he had learned at the temple — he would stay on in Denderah for another couple of days, at least until the caravan had arrived bringing its miscellaneous cargoes.

As they were drinking the tea, Owen heard himself hailed. It was the clerk’s brother, Babikr, and he was moving a slip of paper.

‘For you, Effendi! For you!’

It was a reply to his cable to the Sudan Slavery Bureau. It read:

Abdulla Sardawi known to us. Bugger! Thought he’d retired.

Will keep an eye and nab on return to Suakin.

Macfarlane.

Afterwards, Mahmoud wandered off around the square and Owen went back to the railway station. A train had just come in but it was the passenger train from Luxor, not a goods train and had no effect on the great wall of gum arabic sacks that had sprung up.

Not many people got off the passenger train. This was not yet the tourist season and there were few visitors for Denderah: one or two Levantines in suits, merchants, perhaps, taking advantage of the great cross-over of goods, and a family returning to Denderah to be met by a great gang of relatives. Come for a wedding, perhaps? Or a funeral?

But there was also a tall, thin man in a white suit, a European of sorts. He wore a straw hat, pulled forward over his face against the sun, and dark sunglasses that he kept pulling off to see better. What he seemed to be looking at were the sacks of gum arabic, which he scrutinized very closely.

Some time later Owen had the feeling that he was being watched. This was something about which you developed a sixth sense if you were a Cairo policeman, and Owen, almost as a matter of habit, moved away into the shadows where he was less obvious.

Then he looked around himself. At first he couldn’t spot who had been watching him, but he was sure someone had been. And then he caught sight of him: it was the tall, thin European who had got off the train.

To the best of his knowledge Owen had never seen the man before, so why he should be watching him, he couldn’t think.

The man moved away and Owen almost forgot about him. But not quite.

Sometime later he felt the man’s gaze on him again. He was standing by some camels and he slipped behind him and looked back. It was the man again, the same man. And he was definitely watching Owen. When Owen passed behind the camels the man began to search around for him.

Owen showed himself and walked off. A little later, he looked back — and, yes, there was the man again.

Who was he? What was he doing? And why should he be watching Owen?

He didn’t look, from his clothes, as if he was from Denderah. The train had come from Luxor, but this man looked as if he had come straight from Cairo.

And that put another complexion on it. There were plenty of people in Cairo with something against the Mamur Zapt. But why come down to Denderah to attack him? In Cairo it could be done more easily and less obtrusively. And who was it, anyway? Owen began to run through the list — the rather long list — of those who might have a score to settle.

Owen began to stalk the stalker. It wasn’t easy to do it without being observed. There weren’t that many Europeans in the crowd thronging the square. But one of the few was the man he was trying to keep an eye on, and he stood out as much as Owen himself did.

At first the man seemed nonplussed when he lost sight of Owen, but after hovering about uncertainly for a moment or two he seemed to shrug and move away. Owen followed him as he went through the bales of gum arabic. He seemed to be checking numbers as much as their condition. But then a train of camels moved between them and he lost sight of the man.

It left Owen with a feeling of discomfort and puzzlement. He hadn’t expected this, not out of Cairo.