Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

‘Yes, I thought so. It was your mention of a bride box that led me astray. For this was no bride box, Effendi. A bride box must be treated with respect and the men who brought this had no respect. “This is to go on the train,” they said. “How can it?” I said. “When it does not even have a label!” “Label?” they said. “What is that?” They were ignorant men, Effendis. Fellahin from the field.

‘“A label,” I said, “is to show where the parcel is to go to. It is a piece of paper,” I said, seeing that they still did not understand. “Like this.”

‘“It has writing on it!” they said.

‘“Well, yes,” I said. “It would have.” They conferred among themselves. “Do it, then!” they said. For, Effendis, there was not one among them who could read and write.

‘“Very well, then,” I said. “But you will have to tell me what to put. First, who is it to go to?”

‘“The Pasha,” they said.

‘“Which Pasha?” I asked.

‘“Our Pasha.”

‘“Look,” I said, “there are Pashas all over the place. What is his name?”

‘“Our Pasha,” they said. “Ali Maher.”

‘“Right,” I said. “And where is this to go to?”

‘“His house.”

‘“His house where? He has dozens.”

‘“His big house. In the city.”

‘“Cairo, yes?”

‘“Yes, Cairo.”

‘“The street?” I asked.

‘“Street?” they repeated.

‘“The name of the road in which he lives,” I explained. They looked at each other.

‘“Surely if it says it is the Pasha Ali Maher, that will do?” they said. I sighed.

‘“There are hundreds of Pashas in Cairo,” I explained. “And hundreds of streets.”

‘“Hundreds of streets?”

‘“Look,” I said. “I’ll put down The Pasha, Ali Maher . And maybe it will get to him. Right, now what is it?” I asked. They spoke among themselves.

‘“What is that to you?” they said. And looked at me threateningly.

‘“Nothing!” I said quickly. “But I need to know what sort of thing it is. Because I have to fix the price.”

‘“Price?” they repeated.

‘“Everything has a price. Sending something by train costs money.”

‘“Oh, yes,” they said. “And who does the money go to? You, I suppose?”

‘“Not me,” I said hastily. “It goes to the government.”

‘“It goes to Ali Maher, I’ll bet!” said one of them.

‘“No, no,” I said. “It goes to the government. To pay for the railway.” They spoke among themselves.

‘“Tell us how much it is,” they said at last.

‘“That depends on what sort of thing it is,” I said. “Which is what I asked you. Is it, for example, a piece of furniture — a table, say?”

‘“Table? Are you mocking us? Anyone can see it’s not a table!”

‘“I give you that as an example. What sort of thing is it? What class of thing? Is it, for instance, a present?” They laughed.

‘“Yes, yes,” they said. “It is a present.”

‘“Right then,” I said, and told them how much it was to cost. They looked blue.

‘“That is a lot of money!” they said.

‘“It is the normal price,” I said. “The one the government determines.”

‘“And what is the cut you get?” they asked. I told you, Effendis, they were ignorant men.

‘“Without the money,” I said, “it does not travel.”

‘Well, they put their heads together, and there was much counting of milliemes . But in the end they found what was required. So I made out the ticket and gave it them. “This is to say that you have given me the money, lest anyone say you haven’t.”

‘“It would be a bad thing for them if they tried that!” one of them said.

‘“Keep the ticket,” I said. “Then there can be no dispute.”

‘“And now it can go?” they asked.

‘“Now it can go,” I confirmed.

‘“What a to-do about a small thing!” they said.

‘And then they went away and I was glad. To tell the truth, I did not greatly care for them.’

Denderah station was just a place where the train stopped to take in water for the engine. Its most conspicuous feature was the water tower that Leila had described. There was no platform and only the single building where the clerk presided. Apart from the Inglesi who came to view the temple, he said, there were few passengers.

‘And the village?’ asked Owen.

The clerk pointed over the long halfeh grass to some doum palms in the distance.

‘So,’ said Owen, ‘you are Mustapha the basket maker?’

Mustapha looked up, startled, from the reeds he was holding between his toes. ‘I am, indeed, Mustapha,’ he said uneasily.

Owen crouched down to one side of him, a little to his front. Mahmoud had taken up a similar position on the other side.

‘Tell us, Mustapha: are you a family man?’

‘God has blessed me,’ Mustapha said warily.

‘With children? How many?’

‘Five,’ said the basket maker, not without pride.

‘That is blessed indeed. And are they still with you?’

‘Three are.’

‘And the other two?’

‘Have gone away,’ said the basket maker, hesitating.

‘Oh, indeed? How so?’

There was a pause.

‘They married,’ the basket maker said, after a moment.

‘Both of them?’

‘Both.’

‘How old were they?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Both of them?’

‘The oldest was thirteen,’ said the basket maker unwillingly.

‘And the youngest?’

‘Nine.’

‘Nine. That is young to get married.’

‘She was ready for it.’

‘Shame on you, Mustapha!’ said a woman’s voice from the back of the crowd that had gathered.

‘Peace, woman!’ said the basket maker angrily. ‘She wished it. When her sister went, she wanted to go, too.’

‘Ah, but not into marriage,’ said Owen.

‘A man offered for her, and she was willing!’

‘Ah, yes, but what did he offer?’

‘A good home. Well provided.’

‘Better than yours, perhaps? Especially since you took a new wife.’

‘He knows all!’ someone called out.

‘What if he does?’ said the basket maker angrily. ‘There is no law against taking another wife.’

‘There is against selling a child, though,’ said Mahmoud.

‘She went to a good home! She wanted it.’

‘Whose home?’

‘A man’s. I do not know his name.’

‘You sold your daughter to a man and you do not know his name?’

‘I did not sell her.’

‘How much did he give you?’

The basket maker rose to his feet furiously. ‘I shall not listen!’

‘You will,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Sit down!’

The basket maker hesitated, then sat down. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

‘The Parquet,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And this is the Mamur Zapt.’

Owen was never sure how well the title was known outside Cairo, but there was a little ripple of astonishment in the crowd that had gathered. Owen and Mahmoud didn’t mind the crowd. Sometimes it had its advantages.

‘What do you want from us?’ said Mustapha sullenly.

‘The truth. What is the name of the man you sold her to?’

‘I … I do not know. I have told you!’

Mustapha shook his head unhappily.

‘You don’t know? Or you won’t tell?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Your daughter goes to a house and you don’t know where it is?’

‘A long way away,’ muttered the basket maker.

‘Ah, there I believe you,’ said Mahmoud.

‘What is this?’ Mustapha broke out angrily. ‘Why do you question me? She wished to get married; a man made a good offer — what is wrong with that?’