Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

‘Again, Idris, I wonder if you have completely understood. Are you sure you have to send part of the consignment to the Sudan? Is not the Sudan where trocchee shells come from, not go to?’

‘I am not talking about trocchee shells.’

‘No? What are you talking about, then?’

‘That, I cannot reveal to you.’

‘All right, be like that, then!’

‘I told you I have two jobs. The trocchee shells are one. This is another.’

‘So it is not trocchee shells that you are dividing?’

‘No. Mahmoud, it does not matter what I am dividing. I don’t want to go to the Sudan! ’

‘Why go, then?

‘Duty.’

‘Oh, come, Idris!’

‘You and I both serve a great ideal, Mahmoud. Duty calls. In a hell-hole like the Sudan, the call is muted, I will allow: but it is still there. I wish it weren’t. Oh, how I wish it weren’t!’

‘Have courage, man; you may return alive.’

‘Or I may not.’

‘Whereabouts in the Sudan are you bound for?’

‘I don’t know, exactly. Somewhere between the Red Sea Hills and Port Sudan. Between the Devil and the deep sea, Mahmoud. Both are equally undesirable.’

‘Well, Idris, when you get there, will you send me a postcard, so that I will know where to come to collect your body?’

‘Mahmoud, is it even possible to send postcards in the Sudan?’

‘Of course it is. There is a very good postal service there.’

‘I will send you one, then. In fact, I will send you more than one. So that you will know that my life still flickers.’

As Mahmoud walked away, he felt slightly uncomfortable. If Idris did send him a postcard, he would know where Idris had gone — and, presumably, where his part of the consignment had gone, too.

Did that matter? Mahmoud rather feared that it did. Because what was this mysterious consignment? It couldn’t be ordinary goods, or Idris would have said. It was something he had to be guarded about. So what could it be?

Mahmoud had an uneasy suspicion that it might be arms. Idris appeared to have been sent on some sort of political mission. He had always been a bit of a hot-head. At university he had always taken up extreme positions. Well, was that so bad? reflected Mahmoud. So had he himself. So had most students.

But Idris had always carried them further than most of their friends, had talked more wildly, had always been in the forefront of demonstration against the government. But that was just Idris. Except that Idris had gone on for longer, had gone on after he had left university, when most others had let themselves be swallowed up by work. They had sunk into respectable, responsible jobs — as Mahmoud had himself. True, he had kept the ideal burning bright, had constantly worked for it in his off-duty moments. But that was not quite the same as devoting your life to it full-time. Idris had committed himself totally to the cause and gone on committing himself. You shouldn’t let yourself be fooled by his flippant manner. Idris wasn’t the fool he sometimes pretended to be.

This business that he was presently engaged in, whatever it was, was serious. There could be no doubt about that. And it was, of course, political.

Nothing wrong with that, in Mahmoud’s eyes. Except … except that a lot depended on how it was political. If it was violent, Mahmoud didn’t like it. He had a distaste for any form of terrorist or quasi-terrorist activity. Well, he would, wouldn’t he, as a member of the Parquet. He wanted change but he wanted it to come by peaceful means. He was used, of course, to being accused of siding with the Pashas and the British. And there was, he had to recognize, some truth in the change. But, committed as he was to change, he was also committed to the law. That, after all, was why he had chosen to become a lawyer. He believed that through the law his vision of a better Egypt could be accomplished. Through politics, yes, but above all through the law. Politics in the end had to be subject to the law. And he knew that too often in Egypt it wasn’t.

He had thought it through over and over and had arrived at a position which satisfied him. But every now and then something cropped up which jarred it. As now. Should he follow up what Idris had let slip and see if there really was something questionable, illegal, in what he was doing? And did it matter if there was? There were lots of things that for an Egyptian official it was convenient not to know. Was he making too much of this? Should he not just forget about it?

He knew what the worldly wise Owen would say: at least wait for the postcard!

There were still camel trains coming in, although less frequently, and smaller ones now. When they reached the midan they came to a halt while their drivers tried to find a space for them. When this failed they sometimes tried to force their way in among the camels already there. Often the camels resisted and bit and lashed out with their hind legs at the newcomers. Then the camel herds would rush in with their whips and try to restore order. There were bitter arguments.

Owen was hovering around, keeping an eye on new arrivals when he saw Karim again. This time he was carrying a gun.

‘That’s a fine gun!’ said Owen.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Karim proudly. ‘It’s one of the new ones, with the new improved sights.’

‘May I look?’

It was one of the new service rifles, which were only just being issued to the army. Owen wondered how it had been obtained. He squinted through the new sights.

‘Be careful!’ said Karim anxiously.

‘It’s not loaded, is it?’

‘No, but my mother says you’ve got to be very careful with guns. No loaded guns in the house! Nor anywhere where there are people. That’s the rule and she’s very strict about it. It’s been the rule ever since Ibrahim died.’

‘Ibrahim?’

‘From my mother’s side of the family. He used to come up and see my father a lot. That was when we lived in the old house. And when he came he used to let me play with his gun. Well, one day I was playing with it, when it went off. And Ibrahim fell down. And then …’

He stopped.

‘And then?’ prompted Owen.

Karim looked puzzled. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘I don’t always remember things. My mother says I must try harder. It’s important, she says. And I do remember some things. But I don’t remember others. I do remember, though, that Ibrahim fell down. And then my mother took the gun away from me. I cried, but she said I was too small. So she took it away and made the rule. No guns in the house!’

‘A very sensible rule,’ said Owen. ‘But what about Ibrahim?’

‘I don’t remember. He didn’t come to the house again. He fell down. And perhaps he was put in a box? Or was it someone else who was put in a box? I think he was just wrapped up. I don’t remember. But my father was very angry and said I had to go. And my mother said it wasn’t my fault. Ibrahim ought to have known better. And she said that if I went she would go with me.

‘So she and I went to the other house. And my father went away up to Cairo. And Ibrahim stopped coming. But sometimes people do come up from the Sudan still. Only, of course, it’s no good them going to the old house these days. My father’s not there. So they come to us. My mother likes to see them and have a good chat. About the family and that sort of thing. And then she sends them away. I don’t know where to. Perhaps to Cairo? I think they want to see my father. There’s a lot of business to do. Only now, of course, they have to go up to Cairo, which is much further for them, and they don’t like it. My mother says it would be better if my father came down here. But he won’t. I think it may be because of me.’