Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

‘Then my husband was very angry. “Did you not share in those misdeeds?” he asked. “When we sported, I did not sport alone.” And it was true that we were wild when we were young. “You have brought shame into my family.” “Yours is the shame,” I said, “for you were a Pasha’s son and I was a simple girl and I was dazzled by your magnitude. You took advantage of my innocence.” “Innocence?” he scoffed. “You knew what you were doing. You had set your eyes on me and lured me into disgrace.” “There was no disgrace when a son was born,” I said. “When a son was born you walked proudly. It was only afterwards that you spoke of disgrace.” “And disgrace it was!” he said. “To bring forth a monster!” “No,” I said, “it was the hand of God, punishing us for our wrongdoing.”

‘He would not have it, and put me aside. But I notice that he has not married again. He fears another monster may come; and if it comes to him and not to me, then the world will know where the fault lies.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘So,’ she said. ‘You have heard the story. My husband wanted to hide him from the world. So I said, “You must hide me, too.” And so here we both are!’

She shrugged again. Then she looked at Mahmoud. ‘But you have seen something in him?’ she said. ‘Something of what he might have been?’

‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud.

‘You are misled by the ease of the words.’

‘It is not just the words,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Behind the words there is something.’

She looked at him curiously.‘You think so?’

‘Yes. There is kindness, there is courtesy. There is sympathy.’

‘Too much of that,’ said the Pasha’s lady.

‘These things are not just words.’

‘But words are important. Give him the words and the rest will follow, my husband said, but at the end he was left only with the words.’

‘What was the school?’ asked Mahmoud.

‘The Khedivial. It was a good school. One of the best in Cairo. There was nothing wrong with the school. But it wasn’t right for him.’

‘I know the school. It is a little too military in style for me.’

‘That was the attraction for my husband,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘He thought it would strengthen Karim. He thought that was what he needed. Discipline. He thought he just wasn’t trying. Of course, it wasn’t that. No amount of discipline, drilling, saluting and that sort of thing could help poor Karim. When I saw that I took him away. My husband was angry. But why should I let the poor boy be shouted at when it was obviously not his fault?’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Mahmoud.

She looked at him, surprised, then amazed. ‘You think so, do you?’

‘If he was struggling.’

‘Well, he was struggling. He needed help, not shouting.’

‘Did you try to give him help?’

‘I gave him lessons myself.’ She shrugged. ‘But that was not much good. I am not learned, as his father is. I did not know what was required. So I brought in a tutor. A well-meaning fool, who couldn’t seem to grasp that Karim was … different. I told him to go, and after that Karim was left to himself. He was happier like that. Sometimes though, I can see he is bored.’

‘There are places which can help.’

‘What sort of places?’

‘Schools. Special schools.’

‘At his age?’ She shook her head. ‘No, he would feel out of place.’

‘There are teachers with special skills. Trained to help people like Karim.’

‘In Egypt?’

‘Perhaps not in Egypt,’ conceded Mahmoud. ‘Not in Egypt yet ,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Ah, you’re not one of those! You believe in improving things, do you? Reforms? Don’t let my husband hear that!’ She leaned forward and touched him on the knee.

‘You’re very young,’ she said.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mahmoud. ‘But these things happen. In Europe there are special skills for people such as Karim. Even as old as he is.’

‘But that’s Europe.’

‘We too can be like that,’ said Mahmoud.

She looked at him curiously. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you are an odd one! Parquet officers must be different these days!’

‘Things are changing. People are changing.’

‘They won’t change fast enough,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘Not for people like Karim.’

At least there had been no difficulty this time. Within the hour men were beginning to assemble in the yard. There would be fewer of them. The lady’s estate was smaller than the other one. He went out into the yard and watched them arrive. He took the clerk out with him and told him to sit down with his back against the wall. And to cover his face.

The clerk needed no reminding. He unwrapped his turban and then wrapped some of the folds about his face. One or two of the men looked at him curiously but mostly they hardly even noticed that he was there.

Some of the women servants came out from the house, as before at the other house, and stood there watching. There were not many exciting things to see on an estate in Upper Egypt.

Osman came up to him. ‘They are all here, Effendi.’

Mahmoud spoke to them as before. They listened uninterestedly, their faces blank. A train? A station? Denderah? None of it registered. ‘Do they ever go to Denderah?’ he whispered to Osman.

‘Not often, Effendi.’

They stayed on the estate and worked. Which, of course, suited the Pasha and his lady. That was how things seemed to be in Upper Egypt. The fellahin were bound to the estate, as their fathers had been. They knew nothing other than work. How were they to be raised to take an interest in things? thought Mahmoud. It ate into them, this monotonous labour in the fields. It reduced them. In Cairo life was vibrant. There was always talk, chatter. Did the men here ever talk when they were in the fields? Perhaps not. It was too hot, the work too draining. In the evenings after the day’s work was done perhaps then they could talk. But even then, he thought, after the work in the fields, they had probably been too emptied of energy.

In a desperate attempt to get a flicker of interest, he moved on to the bride box. Even then, though, he got nowhere.

He told them to sit down. Then, apparently casually, he began to stroll around. In doing so he passed close to the clerk sitting, face muffled, against the wall.

‘Well?’ he whispered.

The muffled figure shook his head.

‘These are not the men, Effendi,’ the clerk said.

So he had been barking up the wrong tree. The clerk had been mistaken and sent him on a wild goose chase. Or maybe, and this was not unlikely, the men who had brought the box had lied to him. They were not from the estate, neither of the estates. They came from somewhere else.

And yet they had mentioned the Pasha specifically by name. And they had definitely meant the box to go to him.

Obviously, there was someone in the area who had a grudge against him. It meant more casting around, he thought glumly, more time spent in this hell hole; while all the time Aisha and the children were having to get along without him.

How long was he going to be here? Forever? He must be right. Someone had it in for him. He must have crossed someone back in Cairo.

And he could do nothing about it! He had been stitched up nice and truly. That’s it, Mahmoud, goodbye to your career!

He dismissed the men and for the first time they showed signs of life, even venturing a monosyllable or two of conversation as they left.

The women servants turned away. Not much to see then! Disappointing.

Nevertheless, he went over to them. ‘You knew Soraya,’ he said.

‘We knew Soraya,’ they said warily.

‘And saw her bride box?’

There was division here: some had seen the bride box, others not.