The Bride Box mz-17

by Michael Pearce

  Zeinab had picked up Leila from the kindergarten that morning. She often did so these days. They would usually go to the Hotel Continentale for an ice cream, which you could have sitting out on the terrace. Leila liked that because while you sat there you could watch the tumblers turning cartwheels along the street in front of you and the street sellers parading up and down with their monkeys. Sometimes the street sellers would poke their wares through the balustrade at the tourists. The tourists at the Continentale were European or American but not English, which suited Zeinab. The English usually went to Shepheard’s.

  After they had had their ice creams they would walk home for lunch. By this time, after the morning at school, Leila would be getting tired. If it was Musa, not Zeinab, who was with her, he would usually pick her up at this point and carry her but Zeinab just held her hand. When they got home they would have lunch in the cool of the kitchen — there would be no cooking in the kitchen until Musa’s wife was preparing the evening meal. By that time Leila would just be getting up, as she went to bed after lunch for an hour or so.

  Zeinab increasingly liked these moments together with Leila. They brought a bit of peace into her life, too; and whereas at one time she had enjoyed her morning gossips with her friends in their homes or the big European style — indeed, Parisian style — shops, now she liked the artless chats about the morning’s school that she had with Leila and with Leila’s friend, Aisha’s daughter.

  Like Aisha, too, she was missing her other half. Owen had not been away for very long but she was used to having him around, and with him away everything felt slightly odd. Which was, perhaps, another reason for her turning increasingly towards Leila. She wondered what it would be like when Owen got back. She hadn’t really seen much of him with children and wondered how he would get on. When she had seen him with children they had seemed to get along very well, but having a child constantly in the house was different.

  And would Leila be constantly in the house when Owen got back? This, he had told her, was a temporary arrangement, a means of safeguarding the child until they had got the slavers behind bars. When they had — and Zeinab was quite confident that Owen would do that — what then?

  Mahmoud had got in that evening, tired after the journey and a little subdued. Aisha couldn’t make out whether things had gone well or whether they hadn’t. She knew he was angered and depressed at being so cavalierly, as he felt, summoned back to Cairo before he had quite finished the case. Why had he been? Aisha feared that he had crossed some political bigwig with influence in the Parquet. This had happened before, and was always likely to happen, with Mahmoud so fierce about his political commitments. Aisha was with Mahmoud every inch of the way on these, but sometimes she wished that his career progression was a smoother one.

  He seemed a little downcast, which, again, was not unusual with him at the end of a case. No matter how successful he had been, somehow it always fell short of what he had hoped. This was usually part of a passing phase and she hoped it was the same this time.

  A lot, apparently, turned on this man Suleiman. But he, it seemed, was now in the Sudan, where Mahmoud could not reach him. Mahmoud, in fact, was not too despondent about this. He knew that if he could not reach him, Owen probably could. There were advantages sometimes, thought Aisha darkly, in the English having power all over the place. Mahmoud had told her about this poor girl. It had put Aisha in an untypical fury. To treat a young girl like that! It was typical of the way women were treated in Egypt. And she was proud, very proud, that it was her husband who was leading the battle against it.

  Mahmoud was glad to be home. It was frustrating to be dragged away just when he felt he was getting somewhere. But it wasn’t the end. Either he would still get somewhere or, if they had put someone else on the case, then that someone else would. Soraya would not go unavenged. It might take time — more time than he had thought — if, as now appeared, the politicians were taking a hand in it. If they were, there would be a struggle in the Parquet. But there were enough young men in the Parquet these days for the battle not to be hopeless. And he himself would take a hand in it. Now that he was back in Cairo he could play an active part in any politicking. They would see!

  But, meanwhile, he was feeling a little puzzled. Just before he had got on the train a man had dashed up to him. He had been sent, he said, by the Pasha’s lady. And he was to tell Mahmoud that the Pasha’s lady had been summoned to Cairo, too. By her husband. And would shortly be arriving.

  This was an unexpected turn of events. He had thought that the Pasha and his wife were so utterly at loggerheads that there could be no prospect of them coming together; much less of the Pasha actually inviting — or perhaps it was summoning — her. Or of her agreeing to come if he did.

  And why was she telling him — and going out of her way to tell him?

  The thought came to him that perhaps she wanted someone to know. In case she didn’t come back.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Well,’ said the genial Greek, as he stuck his head in at the warehouse the next morning. ‘So it’s all safely stowed, is it?’

  ‘It is,’ said Nassir, ‘and I can breathe again!’

  ‘And have a cup of coffee?’

  ‘I don’t know that I should,’ wavered Nassir. ‘He might come in early to have a look around.’

  ‘He was in last night, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was. I don’t mind that. He wanted to make sure everything was all right. Well, that’s his way. But he should have gone away afterwards. Some of us have lives to live, you know.’

  ‘Is that what you told him?’ said the Greek admiringly.

  ‘Well …’ said the clerk, tempted. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘More than your job’s worth?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘But once it was all settled, you’d have thought …’

  ‘You would. You would have thought he’d have gone home, instead of fussing around. But he didn’t. He had to go over it all again, making sure everything was as it should be. Not just the lot that had just come in, but everything else! Fussing around. And what made it worse was that he had sent me off.’

  ‘Sent you off?’

  ‘Yes. Before we’d even got back to the warehouse. Just like that: on a whim. He’d seen some kid or other out with her mother and wanted me to follow her and find out where she lived! Now, if it had been the mother, I’d have understood. She was a real looker. But a kid! I mean …!’

  ‘He’s not …’ said the Greek, hesitating. ‘One of those?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. As I say, I’d have thought the mother was more in his line. But you can never tell with him. He’s full of quirks. Whims. I don’t know what it was all about but he had me follow them. And then when I got back, he wanted to know all about it. Where they had gone, that sort of thing. Well, they’d gone to have an ice cream, like any sensible mother would when she’d got her kid hanging about her on a hot afternoon.’

  ‘Did you tell him that?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘You should have. Probably not got any kids himself so wouldn’t know.’

  ‘That could well be true.’

  ‘Not got any family of his own?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. Going off on those long journeys of his all the time. What woman would stand it?’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he wanted to know? To find out what ordinary life was like?’

  ‘Seems a funny thing to do to me. But that’s what he did. Sent me off after them. And, you know, he’d made such a fuss earlier about the consignment and the way it was handled. Me at the front, him at the back. And then he sends me away after some kid!’

  ‘A nutter!’ judged the Greek. ‘They’re all like that, these bosses.’

  ‘Well, this one is a prize specimen.’

  ‘Look, how about that coffee? I can see this must all have been a strain for you.’

  ‘So now you’ve got it all in,’ said the Greek over coffee, ‘is
that it for a while?’

  ‘No. It’s got to go out again. In a few days’ time.’

  ‘Have I got it wrong, or did you say it had to go to a madrassa?’

  ‘You’ve not got it wrong. The one round the corner.’

  ‘Round the corner? Why didn’t they take it there in the first place, then?’

  ‘Safer in the warehouse, I suppose. You don’t want it hanging around in the madrassa. They’ve only got the one room in the mosque.’

  ‘And the kids, I suppose. They’d have it to bits in a moment.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that! My hair’s grey enough as it is.’

  ‘Well, once it gets there, it’s out of your hands, anyway.’

  ‘That’s right. And not a moment too soon.’

  The clerk couldn’t stay long. There was always the chance that Clarke Effendi would come round.

  ‘Keeps you up to the mark, I can see.’

  ‘It’s only for a short time. Then he goes away again.’

  ‘He doesn’t fuss around at the madrassa?’

  ‘Once it gets there, it’s not his concern.’

  ‘Moves on, I suppose. Quite quickly. You say they’ve not got much room there.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why bring it here, then? I take it that it’s for other places as well as the madrassa. Other madrassas, I suppose. Tables and chairs, that sort of thing.’

  ‘They could certainly do with some. Although I’m not sure it’s that. Clarke Effendi doesn’t always tell me.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think it is,’ said the Greek. ‘It’ll be part of all the money the government is spending on schools. Too much, in my view.’

  ‘And in mine …’

  Georgiades, sweating in the heat, padded patiently round the corner to the madrassa the clerk had mentioned. It was in a mosque, as Nassir had said. Not strictly in it, but on the steps in front of it, where other people, too, besides the teacher and his pupils, had gathered beneath the pillars in the shade. The pupils at the moment were young children, gripping their slates tightly. From time to time the teacher would pause in his recitation and get them to write a text, usually a verse from the Koran. They would hold up their slates to show him and he would check to see that they had got it right. For it wasn’t simply a matter of getting the letters and spelling correct, it was also doing justice to the Holy Word.

  Behind them, on the outskirts of the group, were older boys not involved for the moment but waiting more or less patiently for their turn. And behind them, also sitting on the steps, were a lot of casual onlookers, talking quietly among themselves but benefiting, too, from hearing the Holy Words.

  ‘Good words!’ said the Greek, sitting down with his back to a pillar and mopping his face.

  One or two of the people around him nodded. He tried to draw them into conversation but found their talk hard to follow. They weren’t very forthcoming, either, so after a while he abandoned the attempt. Sitting there with his back to the pillar in the heat, among the gentle hum of the teacher’s words, and the conversation around about him, he dozed off.

  When he awoke he heard people talking. They were different people from the ones he had been sitting by before; they were more talkative. They were talking about beds, a congenial topic for Georgiades just at the moment.

  They came from outside Cairo. You could hear it in their voices. But he wasn’t at once able to place them. Then he caught the work ‘angareeb’. An angareeb was a sort of rope bed, more common in the south of Egypt than in the city, but not unusual among the less well-to-do. There were no springs, no bottom layer, just rope, interwoven to form a comfortable, slatted surface, without even the give of a hammock.

  Now they were talking about andats. He knew vaguely what they were, although again the word was unfamiliar. A foreign term for a foreign thing. You didn’t find them in Egypt. Thank goodness, for they appeared to be a species of stink bug: a sort of winged louse, from what he could make out. If you trod on one it gave off a most abominable smell. Sometimes they fell into the soup.

  Soup? Had he misheard? No, they were talking about a child who had swallowed one by mistake. They had to call a hakim, a doctor.

  Georgiades didn’t like the sound of this and was glad when they turned to another topic. It was, however, another medical matter. One of the speakers apparently had marital difficulties. He blamed his wife. She blamed him. Whoever was to blame, the problem appeared to be that appetite was inadequate.

  ‘Why don’t you try trocchee shells?’ someone suggested.

  Trocchee shells? Georgiades came suddenly awake.

  ‘What do you do?’ said the afflicted man doubtfully. ‘Swallow them?’

  ‘No, no, not just like that. First you grind them into powder. The Saudis are always doing it.’

  ‘Trocchee shells? I don’t think that sounds very nice. Not to eat, I mean. Hey, wait a minute! That’s another thing with a nasty smell, isn’t it? Are you having me on?’

  ‘No! No, apparently it works a treat. In Saudi they’re all trying it.’

  ‘Dirty bastards!’

  ‘I know someone … five times a night!’

  ‘How do you get hold of it?’

  ‘There’s a chap round the corner … His boss is big in it … Trocchee shells, I mean. That’s what he trades in. You make them into buttons.’

  ‘Trocchee shells?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But how do you …?

  ‘No, no, normally they just get made into buttons. But in Saudi Arabia, apparently, they grind them into powder, and then away you go!’

  And now Georgiades got it. Angareeb, andat, trocchee shells, the way they spoke … The people here were all Sudanese.

  Mahmoud was to be put on to another case. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Mercy,’ said his boss. ‘Why should you fry in the sticks when there’s work to be done here?’

  ‘I don’t like to leave it unfinished …’

  ‘You’re not. According to what you say in your report, you’ve about finished it already. It’s just waiting for us to pick up this bloke Suleiman, and our friends in the Sudan will do that for us. They’ll send him here and he’ll sing sweetly and after that it’s only a matter of picking up some hooligans in … what was the name of the place, if it has a name? Denderah. And any fool can do it. We’ll send someone down. We might even get the police to do it. They cock up most things but they ought to be able to manage a simple arrest. It’s just manhandling. You’ve done all the brain work.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ said Mahmoud weakly. ‘It’s not quite wrapped up yet …’

  ‘It will be,’ said his boss confidently. ‘When you get this bloke Suleiman here.’

  ‘It will be me that gets to question him, will it?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘I expect so,’ said his boss vaguely. ‘Anyway, it will be brought to court, so you’d better start pulling things together. Wasn’t there a bride box in it somewhere?’

  The bride box had all this time been resting quietly in the yard at the Bab-el-Khalk, the police headquarters where Owen had his office. It had been left sufficiently far away from the main building for the smell to be manageable and it had become less unpleasant with the passage of time. At first, people had wondered what it was doing there but as the days passed they ceased to wonder and took it so much for granted that they hardly saw it. If anyone raised a question they were given the answer: ‘The Mamur Zapt has decreed it,’ which stopped argument.

  One day Zeinab had to go in to the Bab-el-Khalk on an errand for her father. It was a trivial errand, a misplaced form or something, to do with her father’s taxes. Nuri Pasha tried to avoid having anything directly to do with the tax authorities, and usually sent any tax return via Owen in the hope — misguided, of course, as most of Nuri’s financial dealings were — that it would impress or even cow the Egyptian Finance Ministry. Owen always sent it on immediately without comment. Nothing good ever resulted from Nuri’s tactics b
ut he clung to them in hope. What, after all, was an eminent son-in-law (or might-be son-in-law) for? Believing that Owen was still away in the south, he decided on this occasion to make use of his daughter’s service instead.

  Zeinab, who, although cavalier with finances, especially her own, knew something about the way the system worked under the British, warned him that nothing would come of it and that he would do far better to get a good accountant. But Nuri shrank from accountants, particularly ones who knew what they were doing and who might discover what he had been doing, and persuaded her to keep to the usual time-honoured ways of Egypt. He even put a wad of notes in her hand, which she gratefully accepted but knew better than to use for the purpose he intended. Nuri Pasha was also a great believer in the personal touch, especially when it was delivered by a pretty girl. And what were daughters for, etc …?

  Zeinab had nothing better to do that afternoon so agreed to go to the Bab-el-Khalk, stipulating, however, that all she would do would be to deliver the letter. ‘Drop it on a desk.’ Nuri Pasha had sufficient confidence in his daughter to believe that even dropping a letter on a desk would have an impact if it was done by her.

  She took Leila with her. She had got into the way of taking her on brief expeditions and quite liked the experience of walking along hand-in-hand with the little girl.

  When they entered the yard at the Bab-el-Khalk Leila saw the bride box and at once burst into tears. She broke away from Zeinab and rushed over to it.

  ‘It’s Soraya’s box!’ she cried. ‘And it’s all dusty. They haven’t been looking after it properly!’

  One or two orderlies standing nearby moved hastily away at this point. Nikos looked out of a window and then quietly closed the shutters.

  McPhee, the eccentric but tender-hearted Deputy Commissioner, came out of his office and gave her a square of Turkish delight. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right!’ he said, distressed. ‘It will clean up!’

  ‘But it ought never to have been allowed to get like this!’ cried Leila.

  ‘It’s evidence, you see, and evidence shouldn’t be tampered with,’ said McPhee.