The Bride Box mz-17

by Michael Pearce

  Last of all came the Pasha Ali Maher.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Owen, ‘what the guns were for?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about any guns-’ began the Pasha, but Owen cut in.

  ‘I know who they were for, of course, because they came to the madrassa and collected them. Both guns and people are now in my hands. But what were you going to do with them? Start an uprising? Surely not. Even in the Sudan it wouldn’t get anywhere. It would be too small. And the British army would be too big. And in Egypt you would get nowhere.’

  ‘That is a matter of opinion-’

  ‘Yes, I know. But it is not just my opinion. I have talked to a number of leading politicians, and do you know what their response was? They just laughed.’

  ‘They would,’ said Ali Maher bitterly.

  ‘I know about your hopes to unite the Sudan and Egypt politically. That is a perfectly sensible aim. Unlikely to succeed, but not completely foolish. There are others who think like you, both in the Sudan and in Egypt. But an armed uprising?’

  Owen gently shook his head.

  ‘That … that was not my intention,’ said Ali Maher.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I knew there was no hope of getting anywhere with that. My supporters are, as you say, not numerous, although they are more numerous than you think. Of course I knew that an armed insurrection was not likely to succeed. But that was not my intention.’

  He went on: ‘I intended to organize demonstrations. A lot of them. In the Sudan as well as in Egypt. Public demonstrations which would show the extent of the support there was for the movement.’

  ‘The movement?’

  ‘In support of the great cause of uniting the Nile Valley politically, so that it could speak with one voice.’

  ‘Yours, of course.’

  ‘I hoped that my voice would be heard, naturally. My voice among others. I hoped that once I had demonstrated the extent of my support the Khedive would feel compelled to take account of it and would call me into the Cabinet. With others, of course. It was not a case of supplanting the government but of augmenting it. I wanted to be taken seriously. To be able to shape the government’s position. Change it.’

  ‘In favour of unification?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why the arms? Cannot the arguments for your cause be put peacefully? In the normal political way?’

  ‘They would not be listened to.’

  ‘Oh, come! There are other politicians making the same points. You are not alone.’

  ‘But we are not listened to as we would be if the arguments were backed up with guns.’

  ‘Too small,’ said Owen. ‘Too few guns.’

  ‘I know. But if there were a number of incidents, all over the place, in the Sudan as well as in Egypt …’

  ‘You think it would create the illusion of numbers?’

  ‘Not just the illusion. The reality. People would see and would come to hear more. And so the numbers would grow. They would become real. But without guns …’ He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘And demonstrations all over the place, Captain Owen? Would not you pay attention to that? Would not the Khedive?’

  ‘Your defence is that you never meant to use the guns?’

  Ali Maher looked down at his feet. ‘We might well have used them. But sparingly.’

  Owen laughed. ‘In my experience,’ he said, ‘which is extensive, once these things start, they grow. You shoot at us, sparingly. We shoot back at you, sparingly. But it’s not seen or felt as sparingly. And so the incident grows, and in the end no one is firing sparingly! Believe me, Pasha, when soldiers shoot, they do not shoot sparingly. The police might do so, perhaps, with someone standing over them. But soldiers! Believe me, Pasha. I was a soldier once. I know!’

  To Ali Maher’s surprise, coffee was brought in.

  ‘This is unexpected, Mamur Zapt!’

  ‘Now that there is to be no shooting, we can allow some niceties. It does not, of course, affect the outcome. You will be sent for trial and you will be found guilty.’

  ‘But punished accordingly?’

  ‘It will be the Khedive who is punishing you, not the British.’

  Ali Maher laughed. ‘Preserving, as you say, the niceties. And, as you say, the outcome will be the same.’

  ‘Yes. Actually, I wished to speak to you about something else.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Karim.’

  Ali Maher’s face fell. ‘Do not speak to me of Karim. Please!’

  ‘I have to. We have to.’

  ‘My family will take care of him.’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘I shall tell them to. I have enough authority left to command in this.’

  ‘And your wife — will she do as you tell her, with respect to Karim?’

  Ali Maher frowned. ‘She will have to.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said.

  ‘She will have to do as my family ordains.’

  ‘But will she?’

  Ali Maher did not reply for a moment. ‘She is difficult, I know. Headstrong.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t do as they decree?’

  Ali Maher made a little gesture of hopelessness. He was silent again for a moment, then declared: ‘It is her fault. All her fault. If she had not given birth to a monster-’

  ‘I don’t think she has,’ said Owen. ‘Although to you it seems so.’

  ‘The boy has his qualities,’ Ali Maher conceded. ‘But …’

  ‘Would it not be best to leave him with her?’

  ‘No!’ said Ali Maher vehemently. ‘She is not to be relied on. She is herself not right in the head. Look how she sent that girl to me!’

  ‘Girl?’

  ‘The one in the bride box.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’

  ‘To be revenged on me! For the failure of her own marriage. Oh, I know her tricks! At heart she is still savage. This is one of her Sudani pranks. The bride box, don’t you see? Bride box. And the dead girl inside. It was a sign. Oh, I know her signs. It was to tell me that all I did ended in death.’

  ‘She sent the box to you? With Soraya inside?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Not Suleiman?’

  ‘Suleiman only did her bidding.’

  ‘He was that faithful a servant to her?’

  ‘He is from her tribe. From her family. So he would do as she required. Now do you see why I cannot leave Karim with her? If I am in prison, what might she do to the boy? She loves him, yes, but it is a mad love. It is sometimes like that with these woman who bear monsters. Their love is all the fiercer because they have brought forth a monster. How can I hand him over to her?’

  ‘But you did hand him over to her!’

  ‘I was a fool. I thought that while I was there in the background I could watch over him from afar. I couldn’t bring myself to be closer. I had wanted a boy so much. And then to find … this! So I had to put him away. And she seemed to love him — she did love him! So I thought it best … But now to have this … this crazed prank! Her mind has gone, it must have! How can I hand the boy over to someone like her?’

  ‘You are a faithful servant of the lady,’ said Owen.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Suleiman.

  ‘Even though she sometimes asks hard things of you?’

  Suleiman looked startled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is so.’

  ‘Take the boy, for instance. Karim. She expected your help with him.’

  ‘And rightly so. Was he not my mistress’s son?’

  ‘Nevertheless, afflicted as he was, it cannot always have been easy.’

  Suleiman shrugged. ‘In my country,’ he said, ‘it is the custom to treat the afflicted as one of the family.’

  ‘The family, then, was yours, as well as hers. And his?’

  ‘That is so, yes. That is how we see it.’

  ‘When he was a child it was easy. Easy still, although growing more difficult, when he was a youth. But when he grew
to manhood, and began to feel manly needs, then it became very difficult.’

  ‘That is so, yes.’

  ‘For her — and perhaps for you?’

  Suleiman did not reply.

  ‘Especially when Soraya came into the household.’

  ‘That girl was a trouble maker!’

  ‘She answered to Karim’s needs, though. And all might have been well, had she been content.’

  ‘She was treated well. Too well, in my opinion. It made her forget who she was.’

  ‘And she raised her eyes too far.’

  ‘Too far, yes,’ agreed Suleiman.

  ‘So what was to be done?’

  ‘The lady sent her away — rightly so.’

  ‘But it did not work out.’

  ‘It should have worked out,’ said Suleiman. ‘It was the right thing to do.’

  ‘And the wrong thing to bring her back?’

  ‘The wrong thing, yes. The boy pined, and the mother’s heart was torn.’

  ‘And Soraya had brought her bride box.’

  ‘She should have been sent away immediately!’

  ‘But she was not. Until it became too late.’

  Suleiman said nothing.

  ‘Something had to be done,’ said Owen. ‘Did the idea come from her or from you?’

  Suleiman just shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think it would have come from you,’ said Owen. ‘It was not your place. You merely did — faithfully — as you were told.’

  There was a long pause, and then Suleiman said, ‘I do not know how it came about.’

  ‘Soraya was sent home again. Her bride box, too. You were charged with seeing to it.’

  Suleiman did not speak but inclined his head.

  ‘But Soraya never got home.’

  ‘Men fell upon her.’

  ‘So you say. But no men have been found. The men who were carrying the bride box were sent away. Leaving you, Suleiman.’

  Suleiman bowed his head again. ‘I must answer for it,’ he said.

  ‘You must certainly answer for what you did. But is it right that you alone should be blamed?’

  Suleiman looked at him.

  ‘When you were merely being faithful.’

  Suleiman was silent for a long time. Then he said: ‘It is my place to be faithful.’

  ‘And there was much to be faithful to. The family, for instance: what was best for the family? And you could not leave out the master’s family. Duties are owed there, too. And there, it seemed, the duty was clearer. The master’s family was a great one. There might be a place for Karim in it. But not for Karim and his son, if son there should be. Lest the son should be like him. Was that how it was reasoned?’

  ‘It may have been.’

  ‘Or perhaps it did not even need to be reasoned. It just had to be understood. And someone like you, Suleiman, who had been in the family for a long time, understood that very well.’

  ‘It may have been so.’

  ‘The lady did not need to spell it out. Perhaps she did not even need to speak. You knew what was expected of you, and, as a faithful servant, you carried it out.’

  ‘It may have been so.’

  ‘Did she speak of it?’

  Again there was a long pause.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Suleiman. ‘But I do not recall.’

  Mahmoud received a letter from his friend Idris. It was postmarked Suakin, Sudan. The ‘Sudan’ was heavily underlined by Idris and there was a big examination mark beside it.

  Dear Mahmoud,

  As you will see from the postmark, I am in one of the outer rings of hell, recognizable by the heat. It is much, much hotter than even Upper Egypt. My brains are fried to a cinder. My sap is dried up. Beneath this huge open sky, with nothing between me and the sun, I shrivel.

  The heat! The flies! The stink of trocchee shells on the beach when I go there in search of air! The lack of anyone to talk to.

  And so I talk to you, or, at any rate, write to you. Do please write back to me, so that I will know that there is life beyond the grave! At the moment, as I dwindle, I fear that everything outside me dwindles. Hopes, ambitions, ideals are the first to shrink.

  As you see from the postmark — and, yes, they do have a post office, where the pilgrims go to get their documents stamped and everyone else to pay their taxes — I am in Suakin, the City of the Dead, as they so rightly call it. Once it was a big, thriving city, the main port on the coast, through which all the pilgrims passed on their way to Mecca, but the ships got bigger and the water needed to be deeper, and so the whole city had to move further up the coast and became Port Sudan. The houses now are empty. Only the mosquitoes and the flies now wing their way through the deserted streets. Only the occasional stray dog searching for offal. And behind the dog, me.

  Life has migrated, Mahmoud, and I alone am left to handle my master’s business. The taint of trocchee shells lies heavily upon me. The true smell of business!

  This place is backward beyond belief. Only today I heard that a slaver was expected in the town. Yes, like that, a slaver! Expected! I thought that sort of thing had died out years ago. And now … expected! Part of the natural scheme of things. Taken for granted.

  While you and I and fools like us work for the improvement of our country and believe that through our reforms we can make the world a better place! No, Mahmoud, it is not so. Here in the desert everything runs away into the sand. We achieve nothing. Evil goes on, as it has gone on for centuries. They tell me that many of the slaves are children, sold by their families, or kidnapped from their families. And much desired by the wealthy families of the Saudi peninsula. And perhaps they will be better off with them than where they are. Only it sticks in my gullet, Mahmoud. I don’t like it. This is not a world that I can believe in or accept.

  I thought it belonged to the past but tomorrow the slaver will come in with his caravan, quite openly, and settle down in the market-place to await the ship. No wonder the place stinks!

  I know that if I stay here I shall stink, too. And so, sooner or later, I shall come back to you, Mahmoud, all smelly but with a tiny part of my integrity intact.

  Write to me, Mahmoud, before I slip away into the sand, too, and become just a mirage, floating in the air, quivering, just another bad smell in the stale air.

  FOURTEEN

  Fish teemed in the tepid water, fish of all sizes and colours. There were pink fish, crimson fish, yellow fish, green, fish white and fish black. There was one striped white and black in rings like a bull’s eye. They nudged at the fallen stonework of the jetty, slid silently through the shadows, rose sometimes to sparkle in the sun.

  At the end of the causeway, as tall as the minaret of the adjacent mosque, was the Wakkala, once the glory of the port, its largest warehouse, then a caravanserai into which camels brought loads of cotton, ivory, gum, senna leaves and melon seeds.

  And slaves, of course, although these had walked behind the camels on their way to the Wakkala where they would await the boats that would take them across the Red Sea to the great slave markets of the Middle East.

  It was to the Wakkala that Abdulla, the slaver, had brought the slaves he had collected. They had arrived the night before, in not too bad shape, his informants had told Macfarlane, of the Sudan Slave Bureau, who had had the caravan watched from the moment it had crossed the border from Egypt into the Sudan.

  He had had time to cable Owen and ask him if he wanted to be in at the kill. Owen had said that he did. He had his own reasons for wanting to talk to Abdulla.

  He had taken the train down to Luxor and then on to Atbara, the big railway junction in the Sudan, and then another train, the old troop carrying one, on to Port Sudan, a camel’s ride from Suakin. He had reached the Dead City just before dawn and walked along the sea front, admiring the fishes, to the Muhafaza, about the only building still working in the deserted city. The Muhafaza was the old post office and the ottoman half-moon was still carved above its front door.

 
; It was where Idris, Mahmoud’s friend, now spent most of his time.

  This was where Owen was to meet Macfarlane and the Camel Corps soldiers he had brought with him. They had arrived during the night and now stood beside their camels outside the Muhafaza.

  ‘All right,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Shall we proceed?’

  The soldiers began to slip silently through the empty streets. Everything was dark and quiet. A few doors hung half open in the street and the occasional mashrabiya window — still beautiful, though lined now with sand and dust — leaned out above. As the sun rose and began to reach the streets there was sometimes a flash of blue as it caught one of the old plates embedded in the mud brick of the walls. The old builders had used anything there was to hand and that included the plates brought over the sea from China by the seafaring Muslim sailors.

  The soldiers stopped and then moved forward more cautiously. A whistle blew and the soldiers burst into the large courtyard of the Wakkala. The few men there looked up in shock.

  Over in one corner a group of children, huddled together against the wall, turned towards the soldiers, amazed.

  A tall Arab came out of one of the buildings. Macfarlane went up to him.

  ‘Greetings, Abdulla!’ he said. ‘I see you’re still at it.’

  The children would go back to Atbara and then Khartoum by train, where arrangements would be made to reunite them with their parents. Abdulla would be going to Khartoum, too, only with the Camel Corps soldiers.

  But first, Owen wanted to have a talk with him.

  ‘Slaving is one thing,’ said Owen. ‘Murder is another.’

  ‘Murder?’ said Abdulla.

  ‘Do you not remember Soraya?’

  Abdulla shook his head. ‘I had nothing to do with that,’ he said.

  ‘Did you not speak with her father?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘You tricked him. You spun a web with fine words.’

  ‘He was willing to be tricked,’ said Abdulla.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  Abdulla spread his hands. ‘That a fine future awaited her. If she played her cards right.’

  ‘Not so fine,’ said Owen.

  ‘It could have been fine,’ Abdulla insisted. ‘It was a worthy household. And she was well pleased.’