Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

‘I don’t know. I had thought those days were over, too. I remember when I was a child — well, we would see the slaving caravans sometimes. And then we would run indoors and our mothers would hide us. And they would say to their husbands: “If my child goes, you will not wake up tomorrow!” I remember my own mother saying that. Not that my father would have sold us.’ The woman laughed, tenderly. ‘He wouldn’t have sold me for the world. But some men would. Well, that was long ago! Those days are past.’

‘They should be,’ said Mahmoud. ‘How comes it that they are not?’

‘It is the Pashas!’ said the woman bitterly. ‘There is one law for the rich and another for the poor. And what makes the law is money.’

Owen and Mahmoud continued to sit on at the well. They both knew that it was the way you had to do business in an Egyptian village. It was no good going round and questioning as you might in Cairo. In the village you had to wait for them to come to you. And there was a lot of thinking to be done before that would happen.

Although they were in the shade of the palms, the heat increased steadily. The centre of the village was now almost deserted. And yet there was something agreeable about just sitting there dozing. The doves gurgled in the palm trees, there was the occasional bray of a donkey and always, in the background, the continual creak of the water wheel by the river. It was peaceful, and even Mahmoud, with all the restlessness of a city dweller, succumbed to the effect.

At last the omda came up again and hovered uneasily. ‘What is it that Your Excellencies wish to know, Effendis?’ he asked anxiously.

‘About the slavers,’ said Owen.

‘If I could tell you, I would, Effendi, but there is little to tell. We heard that they were in the area and I couldn’t believe it. They have not been here since my father’s time. But so it was whispered. And the whispers grew. “How can this be?” I asked. But no one could answer me. “Keep the children indoors!” I said. And it was done. Except that Mustapha must have seen his chance and went out to seek them. Effendi, I cannot understand such evil! But this is a poor village and when men are in need they do evil things.’

‘Where did they come from?’ asked Owen. ‘The slavers?’

‘The Sudan, I think. It is not far from here, at a camel ride. And the border is uncertain.’

‘And where do they go to?’

‘No one knows, Effendi, but surely it must be to the coast. People are not bought and sold in Egypt these days. Not openly.’

‘To the coast, then. And where on the coast?’

‘There are ports in the Sudan.’

‘If there were whispers when they came, there will be whispers when they go. I would like to hear those whispers.’

‘You shall, Effendi.’

The object of Mahmoud’s inquiries was not the same as that of Owen’s. Although Mahmoud was just as concerned as Owen about the slave issue — possibly more, since he took it personally as an affront to Egypt and yet more evidence of the country falling short of his ideals — what he was here for was to find out what had happened to Soraya. And, he thought, he was making progress. The clerk at the railway halt would surely be able to identify the men who had brought the box to the station. He might be unwilling to but he would be able to.

And surely, thought Mahmoud, he knew enough now to be able to find the men. They had said themselves that they were the Pasha’s men. They had spoken of ‘our’ Pasha and had even given his name. It was no surprise: Ali Maher, whom he had already been to see. And who had said that he had no connection with Denderah. While all the time he had an estate here.

Clearly, what he would have to do now was to go to the estate. He would take the clerk with him to identify the men. Then he would arrest the men, bring them back to Denderah and then get on the next train to Cairo. It was all straightforward.

Except …

Except that nothing in Egypt was quite straightforward. How, for instance, was he going to get to the estate? It was only a few miles out of Denderah, but how was he going to cross those few miles? In Cairo (ah, Cairo!) it would have been simple. He would have hopped on the train or taken a cab. A horse-drawn cab, admittedly, but there would have been no difficulty in finding one. Just outside his office there was a row of them.

Here, however, in benighted Upper Egypt there weren’t any. Nor any trains, either. So what was he to do? Walk? Seven miles across the desert? No, thank you! Horse, then? There would be horses here, although so far he had not seen any. But Mahmoud, every inch an urban Cairene, had never ridden a horse and wasn’t sure he knew quite how to manage one. They were a long way up. Not as high as a camel — but that was definitely out of the question! Discreet enquiries confirmed what he had feared: he would have to go by donkey.

Fortunately, it was easy to hire one. In fact, he hired two, one for himself, and one for the clerk, who was possibly even less enthusiastic about the proposal than he was.

‘But, Effendi, my duties at the station …’

‘Find someone to stand in for you.’

‘But …’

But in the end a substitute was found — the clerk’s brother. Jobs in Egypt were best kept in the family. The brother was buoyant about it, the clerk less so.

Owen continued to sit by the well. It was about midway through the morning that a boy who introduced himself as Selim came up to him. He was holding a scarf in his hands.

‘This was Soraya’s,’ he said simply.

He had found it, he said, out beyond the doum trees, beyond the temple, towards the river. There were other things there, too. He had left them there that Owen might see them.

‘Let us go, then,’ said Owen.

The things were lying on the sand, apparently thrown out casually, as if the box had simply been tipped out; as if the box was what was wanted and the contents of no more importance than the girl who had owned them. They were humble things — a shawl, slippers, a cotton dress. But the shawl and the dress had been lovingly embroidered. Even the beads on the slippers had been carefully sewn on. He looked at them carefully. They were glass beads; not trocchee shells.

The boy was still holding the scarf. ‘This I gave to Soraya,’ he said quietly.

‘You gave it to her? As a present?’

The boy nodded.

‘Was there an understanding between you?’

The boy hesitated. ‘An understanding only. And no one knew. There could not be an agreement. We were too young. And her father, we knew, would not have it. He wanted someone who was older and in a position to give more. But she said she would wait.’

‘So you were surprised when you learned that she had not waited?’

‘I could not believe it! To do it without a word! But then her father told me she had taken her bride box with her and I saw that it was so. And I went off by myself into the desert and said that she was faithless. But, Effendi …’

‘Yes?’

‘I do not believe that. I have gone over it in my mind again and again, and still I do not believe it. It was a trick, a trick of her greedy father. But, Effendi, even if what he had said was true, and she had gone to another, I would not have minded as much as I do this . That she should have gone and not just from me but from … life …’

The tears were streaming down his face.

‘Effendi, if ever I find out who did this terrible thing, I will kill him!’

The women had finished, for the moment, their filling of buckets and the little square of the town had reverted to its normal doze. In the doum palms the doves, too, had subsided. Only a steady gurgling, almost a purr, emerged from their throats.