Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

The omda came out of one of the houses, followed by a group of men. The men scattered, but not so far that they could not watch proceedings, leaving the omda alone to come across to Owen.

‘Effendi …’

‘Yes?’

‘We have spoken with Mustapha.’

‘Good!’

‘He is willing to confess all.’

‘You have done well.’

‘It is not so much our doing but his wife’s. She could not sleep, she said, for thinking about the consequences of his foolishness. And to persist with it! There was no standing out against the mighty, she insisted. The police, especially around here, are nothing — but the Khedive is another matter. In the end he will have what he wills, and he has strong arms. Not for nothing does the Mamur Zapt come down to Denderah. His eye is on all things, even on what we do with our daughters. It is useless to try to deceive him. Or to deny him. Either you answer his questions here, she told him, or you answer them in jail.’

‘Those are words of wisdom,’ said Owen.

‘Mustapha did not think so at first. He said: “I shall not answer even though they put me in jail.” And his wife said: “Not at first, perhaps; but as the years go by? I don’t want to see you rot in jail while I wait outside the door. You have done wrong. Admit it, and take your punishment. And then it will be all over and done with and we can get on with our lives again.”

‘And we told him,’ said the omda, ‘that what she said was wisdom. But still he wouldn’t have it. “Must I suffer, just for daughters?” he said.

‘“I was a daughter once,” she said.

‘“You were with me in this,” he told her.

‘“I was wrong,” she said, “and will go to the Mamur Zapt and tell him so.”

‘“He will have you whipped,” said Mustapha.

‘“He won’t,” she said. ‘“He will put me in jail. Nor will he whip you if you go to him.”

‘“He will put me in jail,” said Mustapha, “which is worse.”

‘“You will go to jail anyway,” we told him. “And justly so. Wipe the slate clean before you go, and then at least we will be able to remember you without shrinking.”’

‘So now he will speak?’ said Owen.

‘Yes, Effendi.’

‘You have done well.’

He got up from the wall.

‘Show me his house.’

He had forgotten how deep the poverty of rural Egypt was. The house was bare. There was not even a bed, just some shawls thrown down casually in a corner. There was no table. Just a rough native chest in which things were stored. There was a brazier for a fire to cook on, a sack of durra. The wife would prepare the meal outside. The children would eat, and naturally sleep, outside. How had Soraya succeeded in preparing the things for her box? Everything here was a wrestle with life.

The house was dark and low. There was only the single room. If Mustapha had been just that little bit wealthier he would have had a water buffalo, which would probably have shared the house with them. In the yard outside there were one or two hens and a pile of the basket maker’s raw materials.

The omda had entered the house with him, followed by a small crowd of people.

‘Do you wish the elders to stay?’ asked Owen. If they did, they could act as witnesses.

Mustapha made a gesture of indifference.

‘Right, then, stay,’ said Owen, ‘that you may see that what is done is justice.’

Mustapha, prompted by his wife, ran through what he had told Owen already. In the case of Leila there was little to add. He had heard that there were slavers in the district and one evening, when he had been drinking — and had, he said, been provoked by his daughters — had decided to put an end to it and at the same time to turn them to profit.

‘And you urged me!’ he said, turning to his wife.

‘I did. It had become impossible to live with them. Particularly Soraya.’

The sale of Leila had gone through without difficulty. He had gone to see the chief slaver and the deal had been struck at once.

‘One moment,’ said Owen, ‘the chief slaver. Was that the white man?’

‘No. He stood mostly to one side. There was an Egyptian in charge at the caravan.’

And that, as far as Leila was concerned, was about it. Money had changed hands, Leila had been passed over and, as far as Mustapha knew, had joined the other children in the caravan.

‘And Soraya?’

This had been less straightforward. Yes, the slaver had wanted her. But not for himself. He already seemed to have known about her because it was he who had raised the question of her sale to Mustapha. He seemed to be acting on behalf of someone else, someone who had seen Soraya and taken a fancy to her. He had asked the slaver to act as intermediary and would pass her back to the slaver when he had finished, so that the slaver would be doubly in wealth.

For the buyer was prepared to pay quite a lot for Soraya. Mustapha had by chance overheard the sum the slaver was expecting and it was considerable. It had quite taken Mustapha’s breath away. The size of the sum was what had made Mustapha think that the buyer must have more in mind than the purchase of a mere slave. He had asked the slaver if she should bring her bride box. The slaver had laughed and said: ‘Why not?’

So when he had told Soraya to come with him, he had told her to bring her bride box. And Soraya had said: ‘Why should I bring my bride box when I am not to be wed?’ And he had said: ‘Don’t be so sure of that!’ And Soraya had said she did not want to marry a man she knew nothing of. And Mustapha had lost patience with her, thinking that this was yet more of her difficult behaviour. And he had said all that she needed to know was that he was rich. ‘What if he were a Pasha?’ he had said. And Soraya had been intrigued and had agreed to at least meet him.

‘But I shall not wed him if I don’t think him worthy!’ she had said. And Mustapha had lost his temper and said that if she went on like this, no one would want her. And she had said she knew someone who would. And that had made Mustapha even angrier, for he knew who she was thinking of.

‘It was Selim, Effendi, a poor boy from the village, worth nothing, and who never will be worth anything. Worthless entirely. So I told her to put him out of her mind and at least see what else was on offer. Which she agreed to do. And I was confident, Effendi, that when she saw that he was a rich man she would have some sense. And so I sent her bride box with her.’

‘Tell me about the slaver.’

‘He was not from these parts.’

‘What part was he from?’

Mustapha hesitated. ‘I do not know. The Sudan, I think.’

‘What was he called? Come, you must have known what he was called.’

‘Abdulla,’ Mustapha said reluctantly.

‘The rest of his name?’

‘Sardawi.’

‘Abdulla Sardawi. That is how he is known, yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Mustapha.

‘And you think he comes from the Sudan. Why do you think he comes from the Sudan?’

‘My wife was a Sudani,’ said Mustapha. ‘My first wife.’

‘Ah!’ said Owen. ‘That explains it.’

‘Explains …?’

‘Your first wife, was she a dark Sudani? Is that how Leila comes to be so dark?’

‘She took after her mother.’

‘And Soraya?’

‘She was less dark. She took after her mother, too, but more after me.’

‘She was lighter in colour?’

‘The mother was light but there was darkness in her. Her blood was mixed.’

‘She was the beautiful one,’ said his second wife, from the hall.

‘And therefore most likely to make a good marriage?’ asked Owen.

‘That was what I thought. And hoped.’

‘But looks are not all,’ said his current wife. ‘She had the devil in her.’