The Bride Box mz-17

by Michael Pearce

  ‘It’s not evidence. It’s Soraya’s box!’

  ‘I suppose it would do no harm if it was dusted …’ said McPhee weakly. He looked around. ‘Ya Hussein!’ he called to an orderly sitting in the shade.

  ‘Effendi,’ said Hussein, springing up smartly.

  ‘Dust the box!’

  ‘Dust the …? began Hussein incredulously.

  ‘It’s dirty.’

  ‘Well …’

  Hussein pulled himself together. ‘Ya Ali!’ he called.

  ‘Ya Hussein?’

  Ali was, of course, the other half of the Hussein/Ali act. He came running — well, walking — round the corner.

  ‘Dust the box!’ said Hussein.

  ‘Dust the …?’

  ‘I will do it!’ said Leila.

  ‘Now, wait a minute, this is man’s work. You can’t just take a man’s work away. Not like that. What am I going to live on? What about my family. My wife? My children?’

  ‘Just bloody do it!’ said McPhee.

  ‘I will do it!’ said Leila. ‘Can I have a duster?’

  ‘Ali …’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Ali, going back into the building. He emerged with a soft chamois leather, bright yellow duster.

  Then he saw the box. ‘It’s that bride box again!’ he said, taken aback.

  ‘Soraya’s,’ said Leila.

  ‘Yes, well …’

  ‘It’s all dirty.’

  ‘Yes, well …’

  ‘Give it to me and I’ll do it!’ said Leila, taking the duster.

  ‘Now, now, wait a minute!’

  ‘This is man’s work!’

  ‘Do it then!’ snapped Zeinab.

  ‘Dusting a bride box? Look, lady …’

  ‘It’s not any old bride box; it’s Soraya’s bride box!’ said Leila.

  ‘Why, it’s that little girl again!’ said Ali.

  ‘I remember you!’ said Leila. ‘You were the nice man who …’

  ‘I suppose we could help a bit,’ said Hussein soft-heartedly.

  ‘Dusting a bride box, though! I never thought it would come to this. I mean …’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, but everybody’s watching …’

  Heads were popping out of every window. Including Nikos’s.

  ‘Everyone get back to work!’ shouted McPhee.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ shouted a new voice. It was Garvin, the Commandant of Police.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Everything in control!’ said McPhee swiftly.

  Hussein seized back the duster and he and Ali began dusting furiously.

  ‘Haven’t you men got anything better to do?’ demanded Garvin, coming out into the yard.

  ‘I’m afraid, Commandant, it’s my fault,’ said Zeinab, stepping forward.

  ‘Why, Zeinab, how nice to see you! But what are you doing here? Come inside.’

  ‘Must be a Pasha’s daughter at least,’ muttered Hussein.

  ‘The one they were sending that dog to, I’ll bet!’

  ‘Dog!’ said Leila, beginning to cry again. ‘In my sister’s bride box!’

  ‘Never mind, my little one!’ said Hussein, who had daughters of his own and only occasionally felt like selling them into slavery. ‘It’s not there now, and we’ll polish the box up so that it will look like new!’

  When Zeinab and Leila got back to the house, Owen had returned from Denderah. Leila was suddenly shy at this stranger, although she remembered him as the funny man who had pulled faces at her. She hid behind Musa’s wife in the kitchen and was only gradually coaxed out. Zeinab hadn’t realized that there had been a weight on her shoulders but was now conscious that it had gone. Owen was pleased to be back with Zeinab and in a comfortable house again. He had grown used to and liked Arab houses, but they had their disadvantages and he missed English armchairs. Besides, he had not really been in a proper house since he left Cairo. It was good to be back.

  It felt less good the next morning when he got into his office and saw the mountains of paperwork awaiting him. Nikos, he was convinced, had been building them up deliberately.

  He looked first at the Brotherhood but all was as it had been. When he realized the scale of the arms shipments he had wondered if they were something to do with it, but on reflection it did not seem so. This was a new lot, which in a way was more worrying.

  Nikos brought him up to date and then he had Georgiades in to give a report. All seemed satisfactory there, although he knew that it was now top of his agenda. The slavery issue was still there but had slipped down the agenda. The bride box was even further down. But something to do with it was niggling at the back of his mind and sooner or later he would have to give it his attention.

  Meanwhile, there was the paperwork. And what was this? A missive from Nuri Pasha? One of those. He sent it on automatically and without additional comment to the tax people.

  Towards the end of the afternoon he pushed all the papers aside and sat there for some time thinking.

  The next day was Friday, the Muslim sabbath, and all the government offices were closed. Many of the officials who worked in them were Copts, like Nikos, which meant that they were Christian. Nevertheless, they took the Muslim sabbath. And also the Christian Sunday, although there was argument about this. As it happened, Nikos didn’t usually bother about sabbaths, either Muslim or Christian, and he was in early the next morning when Owen arrived. Well, that was satisfying. It meant that Owen’s day was spoiled, which would teach him not to go gallivanting off from the office when there was work to do.

  Through the window he could hear the muezzin giving the morning call from the minaret, summoning the faithful to prayers. To his surprise Owen got up and left, putting his flowerpot-like red fez on his head.

  He took a train the short distance across the city, getting out not far from Nassir’s warehouse. Then he walked round the corner to the mosque Georgiades had told him about. Already the faithful were streaming in.

  The mosque was not one of Cairo’s larger ones. It consisted of porticoes surrounding a square court, in the centre of which was a tank from which worshippers could scoop up water for the necessary ablutions. Owen went across to it and washed his hands three times and then splashed water on his face and head, lifting up the fez to do so. Then he joined the rows of worshippers before the Mecca-facing wall, took off his shoes and placed them sole to sole on the matting before him at the point where his head would touch the ground, and sat back on his haunches.

  In front of him, on the exterior facing wall, was the mihrab, the niche which marked the direction of Mecca. To the right of this was the mimbar, or pulpit, and just in front of it was the dikka, a small platform on columns and with a kind of parapet. Beneath and in front of this was the desk which held a copy of the Koran, from which extracts were read during the prayers. At one point a muballigh would chant the equivalent of a hymn. Owen always liked the one about the spider showing favour to the Imam of Mecca by weaving its web in his cave.

  When the worshippers protected themselves, bowing their head to the ground, Owen bowed likewise. Between prostrations he studied the people in the mosque — unobtrusively, of course, since it was forbidden to let your attention wander.

  They were the usual mixture of Cairo rich and poor. In prayer all men were equal. A rich man or a man of rank might, however, bring his prayer mat with him.

  At the last moment before the prayers began a man came into the mosque with a servant carrying a particularly beautiful prayer mat, which he placed on the ground for his master. When the prayers were over, the servant rolled up the mat and carried it out again behind his master.

  The master was obviously a man of importance for as he left various people greeted him deferentially. A little group gathered around him and paused for a moment in conversation.

  ‘It is good to see rich and poor pray together,’ Owen said to the man beside him.

  ‘It is,’ agreed the man.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Owen, ‘who is that worthy
man?’

  ‘It is the Pasha Ali Maher.’

  Owen mingled with the worshippers as they came out into the sunshine. An unusual number of them seemed to be Sudanese.

  There was no reason why they should not be. Cairo was a city of many nationalities — Greeks, Italians, all the shades of the Levant, Ethiopians — and each nationality had its own church. This one appeared to be for the Sudanese. There were a lot of Sudanese in Egypt, usually acting as servants. Not always though: there were well-to-do Sudanese as well, usually merchants of some kind, sometimes professionals. So the fact that there was an unusual density of Sudanese here was not especially striking. What was striking was that the Pasha Ali Maher was prominent among them.

  Zeinab’s father, Nuri Pasha, was not one of the most devout of Muslims. Even so, he had been to the mosque that morning. The mosque he had gone to was the El-Merdani, which, apart from being one of the most beautiful of Cairo mosques, and therefore pleasing to Nuri’s highly developed aesthetic sensibility, was one of the most fashionable.

  It was the one attended by the Court Pashas and also, since Court and Government went together, the one frequented by leading politicians. It was a place where Nuri could meet old cronies and also hope to meet new ones. It was a way of keeping in the swim — au courant, as the Francophile Nuri liked to put it. His influence these days was not, alas, what it had been: Nuri had been a minister once but then on an issue of importance had made the mistake of taking the wrong side — on this occasion, surprisingly, the British — and had therefore been eternally damned in Nationalist eyes. However, Court politician to the last, he still had hopes. So he made a point of cultivating the rising suns, and went regularly to the El-Merdani Mosque.

  Owen, who knew his ways, fell in with him just as he was leaving.

  ‘My dear boy!’ cried Nuri. ‘You’re back!’

  ‘Got in yesterday evening!’ said Owen.

  ‘Then you will certainly need a drink!’ said Nuri, taking him by the arm. ‘And I know just the one to give you! It is the Saint-Loup. Just in from Paris. It is a little strong for my taste — too much gin. Destroys the balance, I think. But, then, it comes from America!’

  ‘It’s new to me,’ said Owen.

  ‘But then you’ve been away,’ said Nuri.

  ‘Not that long!’ said Owen.

  ‘But in the south! A wasteland, dear boy. An absolute wasteland! Why do you let yourself be sent down there?’

  ‘Interest.’

  ‘Surely not! In the south?’

  ‘A girl in a bride box,’ said Owen. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard?’

  ‘I did hear something about it. It sounds intriguing. And sent to Ali Maher! Of all men!’

  ‘Why of all men, Nuri?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a stick, you know.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about him.’

  ‘Then we shall certainly need a drink. How about the Savoy?’

  Owen wondered who was paying.

  Nuri waved a hand. An arabeah, one of the horse-drawn cabs of Cairo, drew in.

  The Savoy was not one of Owen’s favourite hotels. It had a nice terrace, admittedly, although there was nothing that you could see from it except the traffic going across the Nile Bridge. The reception rooms, however, were cool and airy. As Nuri said, it was a pleasant place to hang around in — depending, of course, on who you wanted to hang around with. Nuri’s tastes in that matter were not quite the same as Owen’s.

  They found a secluded alcove and prepared to sample the Saint-Loup.

  ‘By the way,’ said Nuri, ‘I sent you a note …’

  ‘And I sent it on,’ said Owen, ‘to someone who might be able to help.’

  This was true, although less helpful than it seemed. Nuri Pasha seemed relieved, however.

  ‘My dear boy!’ he said, affectionately patting his hand, in the Arab way, on Owen’s arm. The waiter, in full Arab robes, because this went down well with the tourists, of whom the Savoy was full, brought the two Saint-Loups in long glasses packed with ice, because, again, this went down well with tourists.

  Nuri took a long sip. ‘So, dear boy,’ he said, putting the glass down, ‘you wanted to know about Ali Maher?’

  ‘Please,’ said Owen.

  Nuri took another sip and then looked at his glass doubtfully. ‘A strange fellow,’ he said. ‘His mother, they say, was a Sudani, although it is hard to be certain among all his father’s wives. For some strange reason, certainly, he has always taken an interest in the Sudan. A taste for the savage, perhaps? He even took a wife from there himself. Although it worked out rather as you might expect. They had a boy, I gather, who wasn’t quite right in the head.’

  ‘I have met the boy.’

  ‘That is more than most people have. His father keeps him out of sight. It might be awkward, you see, from the point of view of his political ambitions.’

  ‘He has political ambitions?’

  ‘Yes. He’s trying to establish himself as a Unionist. You know, one of those fanciful fellows who works for the unity of the Nile Valley.’

  ‘The union of the Sudan and Egypt?’

  ‘A crackpot idea if ever there was one. But then, he’s a bit of a crackpot himself. A century behind the times. The Sudan was part of Egypt seventy years ago. It was where we used to go to get our slaves,’ said Nuri, with a tinge of regret.

  He was thinking, perhaps, of Zeinab’s mother, who had herself been a slave, although she had not come from the Sudan but from Middle Europe, another fruitful source of slaves to the Ottomans.

  ‘And you say that his Unionist interests extend to practical politics.’

  ‘He thinks they do. He thinks they could open a whole new area for Egyptian politics. “Dream on!” I told him. But the idea is not completely crazy. When I was young I occasionally thought along those lines myself. Occasionally. But then, of course, I grew up. I realized the British would never allow it.’

  ‘But still he dreams?’

  ‘An odd fellow, as I said. He lives in a sort of mental cocoon, cut off from the world around him, dreaming his dreams. He’s always been like that. He comes from a good family but in his youth he seemed to go wild. He took off for the Sudan. The ancestral pull of the wild. Or just the influence of his mother. Anyway, he stayed there for some time. Went native. And when he came out he was a changed man. Began talking politics. Had seen the light. Been given a vision. Thought he could lead his people out of the wilderness. “Ali,” I told him once, “you are not, believe me, another Mahdi!” He looked uncomfortable, and said: “Of course not!” But, you know, I rather fancy that he had that in his mind. Or some idea like that. Egypt and the Sudan joined together, perhaps, with him as its leader. Crackpot, as I say; but I think he takes the idea seriously.’

  ‘He sees himself as Khedive?’

  ‘I don’t think that. Not any longer. It’s more that he thinks if he makes enough noise, the Khedive will have to notice him and take him in.’

  ‘Into the government?’

  ‘I know! Crackpot! But not completely crackpot. His ideas start by being sane. But then, somehow or other, they go off the rails. Do you know what I think? I think it’s in the family. That boy of his. Well, I think it’s in him, too. In Ali Maher himself.’

  TWELVE

  ‘It hasn’t happened again, then?’ said the Greek.

  ‘Just the once,’ said Nassir.

  ‘That’s a relief!’ said Georgiades.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nassir. ‘She was some looker!’

  ‘Yes, but, I mean, you wouldn’t want to be spending all your time doing that.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nassir.

  They both laughed.

  ‘A married man like you!’ said the Greek.

  ‘Just because you’re married, doesn’t mean you don’t notice,’ said the clerk.

  ‘The veil was made for men like you!’

  ‘She wasn’t wearing a veil.’

  ‘She wasn’t wearing a veil?’

>   ‘Not a real one. Just one of those half ones you see on posh ladies. And all filmy, so that you can half see through them.’

  ‘I worry about you, Nassir!’

  ‘You ought to be worrying about him!’

  ‘Clarke Effendi?’

  ‘Yes, Clarke Effendi. I never supposed he was like that.’

  ‘Bowled over like that, you mean? Well, these quiet ones sometimes are, you know. They keep it shut in, and then suddenly it breaks out. Bang! Like that! Feel like it myself, sometimes.’

  ‘Even with a wife like yours? It’s you we should be worrying about!’

  ‘I keep it bottled up.’

  ‘Well, you surprise me, my friend. The things one learns when one gets to know people!’

  ‘Oh, she’s quite safe from me. But what about you, Nassir, will you be going along there now you know where she lives?’

  ‘She’s probably got a husband who’s an all-in wrestler.’

  ‘But you know where she lives?’

  ‘In the Tisht-er-Rahal. Just off the Derb-el-Akhmar. Where it becomes the Sharia el Tabarneh.’

  ‘By the Mardam Mosque?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I know it well.’

  He should. It was where Owen lived.

  In his mail that morning Mahmoud received a letter. It was addressed to him personally at the Parquet.

  It was from the Pasha’s lady, who said that she was now in Cairo. She had brought Karim with her and they were staying at a small hotel called the Atbara near the Sukkariya Bazaar. It was a Sudanese name and the Sudanese Bazaar was nearby, on the other side of the Sukkariya. It was one of the poorer bazaars but there were some interesting shops specializing in the inlaying of mother of pearl and the general working of trocchee shells. Set against the dark wood usually used in Cairo they were very effective. Just beyond the end of the street was the famous mosque of El Azhar, which was also the great university.

  Mahmoud turned the letter over in his hands. Why this sudden rush of letters from the Pasha’s lady? And why to him?

  He thought he could answer that one. He was probably the only member of the Parquet that she knew personally, and the Egyptian way was always to go through the personal.