Between the columns, on the roof, were paintings. The paintings were of the holy scarab beetle and some curious winged globes. Looking at them more closely he saw that they were in patterns. Gradually he realized that the patterns were astronomical. He was looking at the famous signs of the Zodiac: Leila’s ‘marks of the giants’.
‘So this is where you came with Soraya,’ he said to Selim, whom he had brought with him.
Selim shrugged. ‘It was a place to go, where we would not be seen,’ he said.
‘And Leila came, too?’
‘She stood outside to warn us if anyone should be coming. She wouldn’t go in. She said it was a bad place and smelt of the dead. However, she agreed to keep watch for us.’
‘And did anyone come?’
‘Once, as I told you. One day the slaver came.’
‘How did you know he was the slaver?’
Selim shrugged. ‘They had spoken of him in the village. I knew he was the man.’
‘What sort of man was he?’
‘A Sudani.’
‘You are sure?’
‘I am sure. I heard him speak.’
‘This was at the temple?’
‘Yes.’
‘You heard them speaking together?’
‘Yes, we were hiding behind the pillars. They had come suddenly and Leila had had no time to warn us.’
‘So you heard what they were saying?’
‘A little, yes. We dared not go too close.’
‘What were they talking about?’
‘There was talk of deliveries.’
‘Slaves?’
‘I do not think so. For they spoke of a consignment and where it could be stored. The slaver said that the temple was a good place because it was big and had many rooms, in some of which, deep inside, things could be stowed and no one would find them. People were afraid of the temple and did not like to go in. The white man said that it sounded ideal, and the slaver said that he would show him a place. Then they both went off deeper into the temple and Soraya said we should go now that there was the chance. Particularly as Leila was sure she had been seen.’
‘So you went and did not see the place they had gone to?’
‘No, but later I went back on my own, when there was no one there. I did not like going; I was afraid I would lose my way and never get out. Still, I went.’
‘And did you find the place?’
‘Yes, I am almost sure. It was in a room at the back of the temple. It was off another one so well concealed that unless you knew it was there and where to look, you would not find it. But I had a torch with me and saw marks in the sand where they had been, and I followed the marks. And when I got there I knew it was the place because I found an old box and in it I found a shell.’
‘A trocchee shell?’
‘No, no. A gun shell. A bullet. One they use in rifles.’
‘That is very interesting. Could you show it to me?’
‘I have it at home.’
‘I would like to see it. And perhaps the place where it was left.’
When they came out again into the sunlight Owen’s eye was caught by a flash from one of the nitre tanks. For a moment he thought there must be some water in it, but then he realized it must be from the tar. Odd, he thought, that the connection between the temple and warfare should be so long-standing and still continuing.
Now that he had emerged victorious, Ismail, the head of the Pasha’s household, was prepared to be conciliatory. He sent a servant with them to show them off the estate. They went by a different route from the one they had come by.
‘It is quicker,’ said the servant.
The path led through a field of berseem, food stuff for the animals of the household, and then through thin acacia shrub. Through the scrub they occasionally caught a glimpse of the Nile. Then they turned away and headed inland. A road forked off, and on it a dead donkey was lying, buzzing with flies.
‘It is to attract the jackals,’ said the servant. ‘For the master to shoot.’
‘The master? He is here, then?’
‘The young master.’
‘Ah, the son.’
‘The son, yes. He stays with his mother.’
‘And he shoots jackals?’
‘What else is there for him to do?’
The servant stopped when they got to the fork. ‘Keep on this way,’ he said, ‘and it will take you back to Denderah.’
‘And the other path?’
‘Leads you to the other house.’
‘Where the Pasha’s lady lives?’
‘That is so, yes.’
The servant turned back and they continued on their way.
For only a little way. Then they stopped, and after a moment or two turned back.
‘What are we doing?’ said the clerk. ‘That is the way to Denderah!’
‘We will go somewhere else first.’
This arm of the fork was more overgrown and they had to push past scrub branches which dangled across the path.
There was the sudden crack of a rifle shot and a branch in front of them jumped suddenly. The clerk hurled himself to the ground.
Mahmoud stepped back behind a tree. ‘Stop shooting!’ he shouted. ‘There are people here!’
There was no reply. And then a man pushed out of the bushes ahead of them. ‘Frightfully sorry!’ he said, speaking in English, not in Arabic. He came forward, one hand held up before him apologetically.
He was an Egyptian, however, not English, a man in his mid-twenties. His hair was already beginning to recede, leaving the top front of his head bald and shiny, and there seemed something odd about him.
He was immaculately dressed in a newly laundered white shirt and newly pressed trousers. ‘Frightfully sorry!’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t know you were there. We don’t get many visitors. And, anyway,’ he said in a puzzled voice, ‘I don’t know how I came to miss it! I don’t usually. I think I may have caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye and been distracted. Yes, that would be it! I don’t see how I could have missed it otherwise. I saw it quite clearly. A big fat one perched on a bough. An easy shot. Frightfully sorry! I hope you’re all right?’
‘No damage done,’ said Mahmoud.
‘Oh, good!’ He looked down at the clerk still lying on the ground. ‘And what about you?’
The clerk rose sheepishly.
‘You look all right. Not a scratch, as far as I can see. But, I say, you must come back into the house! Have a drink or something.’
He went up to the door, which had remained closed, and hammered on it. ‘Yussef! Osman! Wake up!’
The door opened slowly.
‘Come on, Yussef, it’s only me. Except that I’ve brought some visitors. This is …?’
‘Mahmoud el Zaki. The Parquet.’
‘Mr el Zaki. Nearly shot him. And this is his man. Take him into the kitchen and give him some water. Cold water, that’s the thing! On a hot day like this. Especially if you’ve been shot at.’
The clerk, a little hesitantly, followed behind.
‘Don’t worry, you’re all right now. No shooting inside the house, that’s the rule. She’s very strict about it. No shooting inside the house! Mother!’ he called. ‘We have visitors. Come and meet Mr el Zaki!’
He led Mahmoud into what was obviously a reception room, the exact replica of one you would find in a rich man’s house in Cairo, with a marble floor which sloped slightly down to a little indoor pool in which a fountain was playing. At one end of this room was a traditional dais, spread with leather cushions. He sat, or rather lay, on the dais and indicated that Mahmoud should lie beside him.
Then he jumped up to greet an elderly lady who had come into the room.
‘This is my mother. You must meet my mother!’
She came forward. She was dressed in the conventional burka but her veil was pushed aside. She had sharp, intelligent eyes.
‘This is Mr el Zaki, Mother. He has come to visit us.’
&nb
sp; ‘I heard shots,’ she said.
‘That was me. I nearly shot Mr el Zaki.’
‘It was as well that you didn’t.’
‘He came by the back path, you see, and I was not expecting him.’
‘Even so, you should be more careful.’
‘Sorry, Mother! I saw a great fat pigeon-’
‘Where is the gun now? Have you put it away properly?’
‘Left it at the door.’
‘Unloaded?’
‘Yes, Mother. Unloaded. I made sure.’
She nodded. ‘Good.’ Then she turned to Mahmoud. ‘And what brings you here, Mr el Zaki?’
‘I am from the Parquet.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘The Parquet! This is an honour. It is not often that Cairo remembers us.’
‘I am investigating a case.’
‘Down here? I thought the Parquet never stepped out of Cairo!’
‘We do occasionally. When the case is important.’
‘So this one must be.’
‘Yes, it is. It concerns something sent to your husband.’
‘A bomb, I hope?’
‘Not quite, no. But equally shocking. A bride box.’
‘Are you insane?’
‘No. It was sent from Denderah. By people from this estate.’
‘Now I know you are insane! A bride box? To my husband? I would have thought he’d had enough of marriage. And should it be going to him anyway? I would have thought it would be sent to her. Whoever she is.’
‘The thing is, you see, the bride box was not empty.’
‘Well, no, it wouldn’t be.’
‘It contained the body of a young girl.’
The woman’s hand flew up to her throat.
‘A young girl?’
‘Whom I think you know,’ Mahmoud added.
FIVE
‘What do you want?’ asked the Pasha’s lady.
‘I want to talk to your servants.’
‘Why?’
‘Because servants from the estate brought the bride box to the railway station at Denderah and put it on the train.’
‘I do not think you can be right,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘It is a long way from here to Denderah on foot. Especially carrying a box.’
‘Perhaps a cart?’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying. A cart? How do you think I could spare a cart? This is a small estate. Our carts are in use.’
‘It wouldn’t take long to get there and back. It could be done in an afternoon.’
‘And who by? Do you think I can spare servants as easily as that?’
‘Nevertheless, I would like to talk to them.’
‘All of them?’
‘All those who work in the fields.’
‘They are in the fields now.’
‘Call them in. As you said, this is a small estate. It would not take long.’
The Pasha’s lady laughed. ‘You do not know our fellahin,’ she said. ‘Let them lift their heads and they won’t put them down again! Not today, they won’t!’
‘I would not ask it if it were not important.’
‘Have you tried the main house?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I need to try yours.’
The lady laughed again. ‘Got nowhere, did you?’
‘I talked to the men.’
The lady raised her eyebrows. ‘Ismail let you?’
‘He had them come in, and I talked to them.’
‘Well, that is a surprise!’
‘As I said, it is a matter of importance.’
She stood for a moment, undecided.
‘I shall not keep them long,’ said Mahmoud.
‘It is the interruption,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘The afternoon will go to pieces.’
‘I would not ask it if it were not important,’ he said again.
‘I do not see how it could be our people,’ said the lady, wavering. ‘My Osman makes sure they keep their heads down. As does Ismail. That is what they are there for. Would you like to talk to Osman first?’
‘It needs to be all.’
She hesitated, and then made up her mind.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will tell him to bring them in. But you must allow two hours.’
‘Two hours!’
‘Yes, Osman has to get there, and they are not all together. They are scattered over different fields. And then they all have to get back here.’
‘Very well,’ said Mahmoud, submitting to the inevitable.
The lady swept out.
‘Would you like to see my guns?’ asked the Pasha’s son, at a loss for conversation.
‘Guns?’
‘I have a collection of them.’
‘Well, yes, I would, please. And, may I ask, what is your name?’
‘Karim. And you are Mahmoud?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I will show you.’
He led Mahmoud along a corridor and then into a small room with racks for rifles. Dozens of them.
‘These are all yours?’
‘Yes. They are my collection.’
There was an old, toothless man in the room. He grinned at them and gave a half-bow.
‘Ali looks after them. He oils them and that sort of thing. You have to look after them because the sand gets in them and then it is dangerous.’
They were sporting guns, the sort of guns you would find in an English gun room. There were even some fowling pieces. Mahmoud was not an expert on guns but was impressed.
When they left, Ali locked the door.
‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Karim. ‘Not with guns.’
They went back to the mandar’ah, the reception room.
‘Where have you been?’ asked the Pasha’s lady.
‘I have been showing Mr el Zaki my guns, Mother.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, shrugging.
‘Your son has a fine collection, my lady,’ said Mahmoud.
‘There is not a lot else in his life,’ the Pasha’s lady said.
She sat down on the dais and indicated that Mahmoud was to sit there too.
‘So,’ she said, ‘tell me about this bride box. And this young girl.’
‘She had worked here, I understand. Her name was Soraya.’
‘Soraya!’ said Karim.
‘She did indeed work here. For a short while. Then I found her unsatisfactory and dismissed her.’
‘But then you took her back?’
‘Well, I was sorry for her. Perhaps I had been too hasty. And there were connections, you see, between my family and hers. Her mother came from my part of the world. Not Egypt. The Sudan. And when her mother died, I thought she would be lonely. Well, I was lonely, too. I wanted to hear my own people’s speech again. Somebody told me about her and I thought, why should she not come to me and we can talk together? Her father — that awful old man — was willing. Indeed, eager. He thought he might make something out of it. And she … I think she was glad to get away from him. But it didn’t work out. She was uncouth. I know I said there were connections between my family and hers but they were very remote connections. My family was rich, hers was poor. And her manners were … unsuitable. Her mother, her proper mother that is, had tried, but with that awful old man around I don’t suppose she had much of a chance. Anyway, she proved unsuitable, so I sent her home.’
‘But then brought her back?’
‘A mistake. I shouldn’t have done.’
‘And then you sent her away again?’
‘Yes. And I don’t know what happened to her after that.’
‘Did she not bring her bride box with her the second time?’
The Pasha’s lady hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘she did. I don’t know what she thought she was doing. I made her put it in one of the barns. And I suppose she took it with her when she left. And goodness knows how she happened to finish up inside.’
Karim plucked her arm. ‘I don’t understand, M
other. Soraya’s box? And she was put inside?’
‘I will explain it to you later.’
‘But ought she not to be let out of the box?’
‘She is no longer there. I will explain it to you.’
‘But, Mother …’
‘Go now. Go to your room.’
‘But …’
‘Now!’
Karim left the room obediently.
‘He is simple,’ said Karim’s mother, after he had left. ‘You will have seen that.’
‘Yes. It is sad. I feel for you. He is a nice boy.’
‘Yes,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘He is.’
‘And he speaks well. He speaks English well.’
‘The words are there but not the sense. We did not realize at first. We sent him to a good school. A good English school. His father had hopes. “The English are masters now,” he said. “Let him be brought up as an Englishman. Then he, too, will be one of the masters.” But it was not to be. It soon became apparent that he was not … as the other boys were. At first we thought it was because he had difficulty with the different language. But then we saw that it was not. He had the words. The words came easily. But not the sense. After a while we saw that the sense was not there.
‘We brought him home, here. His father did not wish anyone to see him. He was ashamed. He blamed me. “What have you brought into the family?” he said. “There are two sides to a family,” I said. “Perhaps the fault is on your side.” “There has never been a monster on my side,” he said. “The boy is not a monster,” I said. “He is a good boy.”
‘“But he will never be a good man,” he said. And it was true. As he grew up it became apparent that something was missing. We kept him here. His father did not want anyone to know that his son was not as other boys were. He turned his face from him, and from me also. “Take him away,” he said. “Take him into another house.” “If I take him, I will go with him,” I said. “Go, then,” he said. “For I do not wish to set eyes on him. Nor on you, either, who have brought this thing into the family.” “God has brought him,” I said. “And he has brought him as a punishment for your misdeeds.” For I knew that my husband had not led a good life before he married me.
The Bride Box mz-17 Page 7