Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

Zeinab let it pass but she remembered Owen’s worries that the slavers might try to steal Leila back and decided to keep her eyes open in future. Once or twice she saw a man look at Leila in a way that troubled her but in each case Leila said it was not the man who had looked at her before. Zeinab mentioned it to Musa’s wife and she said she would talk to Musa about it so that he could be on his guard, too.

Zeinab also told her friend Aisha about it, but Aisha said that men were always looking at young girls in a troubling way and she doubted if there was any real matter for concern. However, Zeinab thought she would mention it to Owen when he got back, which she hoped would be soon.

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 …’