The Bride Box

by Michael Pearce

  Karim plucked her arm. ‘I don’t understand, Mother. 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.

  ‘Then my husband was very angry. “Did you not share in those misdeeds?” he asked. “When we sported, I did not sport alone.” And it was true that we were wild when we were young. “You have brought shame into my family.” “Yours is the shame,” I said, “for you were a Pasha’s son and I was a simple girl and I was dazzled by your magnitude. You took advantage of my innocence.” “Innocence?” he scoffed. “You knew what you were doing. You had set your eyes on me and lured me into disgrace.” “There was no disgrace when a son was born,” I said. “When a son was born you walked proudly. It was only afterwards that you spoke of disgrace.” “And disgrace it was!” he said. “To bring forth a monster!” “No,” I said, “it was the hand of God, punishing us for our wrongdoing.”

  ‘He would not have it, and put me aside. But I notice that he has not married again. He fears another monster may come; and if it comes to him and not to me, then the world will know where the fault lies.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘So,’ she said. ‘You have heard the story. My husband wanted to hide him from the world. So I said, “You must hide me, too.” And so here we both are!’

  She shrugged again. Then she looked at Mahmoud. ‘But you have seen something in him?’ she said. ‘Something of what he might have been?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘You are misled by the ease of the words.’

  ‘It is not just the words,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Behind the words there is something.’

  She looked at him curiously.‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes. There is kindness, there is courtesy. There is sympathy.’

  ‘Too much of that,’ said the Pasha’s lady.

  ‘These things are not just words.’

  ‘But words are important. Give him the words and the rest will follow, my husband said, but at the end he was left only with the words.’

  ‘What was the school?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘The Khedivial. It was a good school. One of the best in Cairo. There was nothing wrong with the school. But it wasn’t right for him.’

  ‘I know the school. It is a little too military in style for me.’

  ‘That was the attraction for my husband,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘He thought it would strengthen Karim. He thought that was what he needed. Discipline. He thought he just wasn’t trying. Of course, it wasn’t that. No amount of discipline, drilling, saluting and that sort of thing could help poor Karim. When I saw that I took him away. My husband was angry. But why should I let the poor boy be shouted at when it was obviously not his fault?’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Mahmoud.

  She looked at him, surprised, then amazed. ‘You think so, do you?’

  ‘If he was struggling.’

  ‘Well, he was struggling. He needed help, not shouting.’

  ‘Did you try to give him help?’

  ‘I gave him lessons myself.’ She shrugged. ‘But that was not much good. I am not learned, as his father is. I did not know what was required. So I brought in a tutor. A well-meaning fool, who couldn’t seem to grasp that Karim was … different. I told him to go, and after that Karim was left to himself. He was happier like that. Sometimes though, I can see he is bored.’

  ‘There are places which can help.’

  ‘What sort of places?’

  ‘Schools. Special schools.’

  ‘At his age?’ She shook her head. ‘No, he would feel out of place.’

  ‘There are teachers with special skills. Trained to help people like Karim.’

  ‘In Egypt?’

  ‘Perhaps not in Egypt,’ conceded Mahmoud. ‘Not in Egypt yet,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘Ah, you’re not one of those! You believe in improving things, do you? Reforms? Don’t let my husband hear that!’ She leaned forward and touched him on the knee.

  ‘You’re very young,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mahmoud. ‘But these things happen. In Europe there are special skills for people such as Karim. Even as old as he is.’

  ‘But that’s Europe.’

  ‘We too can be like that,’ said Mahmoud.

  She looked at him curiously. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you are an odd one! Parquet officers must be different these days!’

  ‘Things are changing. People are changing.’

  ‘They won’t change fast enough,’ said the Pasha’s lady. ‘Not for people like Karim.’

  At least there had been no difficulty this time. Within the hour men were beginning to assemble in the yard. There would be fewer of them. The lady’s estate was smaller than the other one. He went out into the yard and watched them arrive. He took the clerk out with him and told him to sit down with his back against the wall. And to cover his face.

  The clerk needed no reminding. He unwrapped his turban and then wrapped some of the folds about his face. One or two of the men looked at him curiously but mostly they hardly even noticed that he was there.

  Some of the women servants came out from the house, as before at the other house, and stood there watching. There were not many exciting things to see on an estate in Upper Egypt.

  Osman came up to him. ‘They are all here, Effendi.’

  Mahmoud spoke to them as before. They listened uninterestedly, their faces blank. A train? A station? Denderah? None of it registered. ‘Do they ever go to Denderah?’ he whispered to Osman.

  ‘Not often, Effendi.’

  They stayed on the estate and worked. Which, of course, suited the Pasha and his lady. That was how things seemed to be in Upper Egypt. The fellahin were bound to the estate, as their fathers had been. They knew nothing other than work. How were they to be raised to take an interest in things? thought Mahmoud. It ate into them, this monotonous
labour in the fields. It reduced them. In Cairo life was vibrant. There was always talk, chatter. Did the men here ever talk when they were in the fields? Perhaps not. It was too hot, the work too draining. In the evenings after the day’s work was done perhaps then they could talk. But even then, he thought, after the work in the fields, they had probably been too emptied of energy.

  In a desperate attempt to get a flicker of interest, he moved on to the bride box. Even then, though, he got nowhere.

  He told them to sit down. Then, apparently casually, he began to stroll around. In doing so he passed close to the clerk sitting, face muffled, against the wall.

  ‘Well?’ he whispered.

  The muffled figure shook his head.

  ‘These are not the men, Effendi,’ the clerk said.

  So he had been barking up the wrong tree. The clerk had been mistaken and sent him on a wild goose chase. Or maybe, and this was not unlikely, the men who had brought the box had lied to him. They were not from the estate, neither of the estates. They came from somewhere else.

  And yet they had mentioned the Pasha specifically by name. And they had definitely meant the box to go to him.

  Obviously, there was someone in the area who had a grudge against him. It meant more casting around, he thought glumly, more time spent in this hell hole; while all the time Aisha and the children were having to get along without him.

  How long was he going to be here? Forever? He must be right. Someone had it in for him. He must have crossed someone back in Cairo.

  And he could do nothing about it! He had been stitched up nice and truly. That’s it, Mahmoud, goodbye to your career!

  He dismissed the men and for the first time they showed signs of life, even venturing a monosyllable or two of conversation as they left.

  The women servants turned away. Not much to see then! Disappointing.

  Nevertheless, he went over to them. ‘You knew Soraya,’ he said.

  ‘We knew Soraya,’ they said warily.

  ‘And saw her bride box?’

  There was division here: some had seen the bride box, others not.

  ‘It was taken away,’ someone explained. ‘And put in the barn. And then we did not see it any more.’

  ‘Did she show it to you?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Once,’ one of them qualified.

  ‘You went out to the barn?’

  ‘She showed it to me when it was still in the house.’

  ‘Just after she had come back?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘And did you think she had nice things?’

  ‘Quite nice,’ someone said.

  ‘Nice, but showy. I have nicer things.’

  ‘You have a bride box yourself?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘And when are you to be married?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Just waiting,’ explained another woman.

  ‘For someone to ask for her?’

  ‘For Abdul to make up his mind!’

  There was a general laugh.

  ‘And was Soraya, too, just waiting?’

  ‘It would seem so,’ some said.

  ‘Do you think she was wrong to bring her bride box here?’

  On the whole they thought it was.

  ‘It was too presumptuous,’ someone said.

  ‘Her man had not yet spoken for her?’

  He didn’t get a reply.

  ‘Perhaps he had not made up his mind?’ said Mahmoud with a smile.

  Again there was silence.

  ‘You women are all in trouble,’ said Mahmoud, smiling, ‘if your men are not going to speak!’

  ‘It wasn’t that.’

  ‘Ah? What was it?’

  But again there was silence.

  ‘The lady would not have it.’

  ‘Perhaps the lady did not want to lose her,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Having only just brought her back?’

  Again there was the silence.

  ‘She seemed to hold her dear,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘She did, at first.’

  ‘It was “Soraya do this, Soraya do that! Soraya come and sit near me, Soraya come and talk to me!”’

  ‘I expect she wanted to hear her own tongue?’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘Well, yes, but she could always have gone and visited her family if she had missed her own people so much!’

  ‘Does she miss them?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘I think she does. She is always sending them gifts.’

  ‘It was like that with the Pasha, too. He was always sending them gifts.’

  ‘At first.’

  ‘Well, he kept on with it. Even after …’ the woman stopped.

  ‘After the Pasha had put her aside?’

  ‘After she had come to live here with the young Pasha – even then he continued to send them gifts. Still does, they say. I wonder why? It’s not even that her people are … well, our people. They are all Sudanis. Gifts, messages, and I don’t know what else! They turn up at the house, and Ismail receives them graciously, which is more than he does with other people. He has to, or the Pasha will fall on him, he says.’

  ‘So what does he do with them when the Pasha is not at home?’

  ‘Sends them on to Cairo. Ismail even has to find the money. He doesn’t like it, of course, but he has to do what the Pasha has ordered, and no nonsense about it! But why the Pasha makes such a fuss over them, I cannot think. Particularly as he won’t have anything to do with his wife or son. It’s a strange old world!’

  ‘And she’s no better. Always sending messages. Suleiman is away now.’

  ‘No, he’s not. I saw him here this morning.’

  ‘Yes, he is. I saw him go. Late this morning. In a hurry.’

  ‘Well, I wonder what that’s about? Mind you, you never know. She won’t say and he won’t say.’

  ‘Who is Suleiman?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘My lady’s man.’

  ‘He works in the fields?’

  ‘No, no, he’s too grand for that. About the house. He’s another Sudani. Comes from the lady’s family. Always going back there to do this or that.’

  ‘Sudani?’ said Mahmoud. ‘Like Soraya?’

  ‘Closer. Soraya’s not really part of her family. Well, she is, but not really. A distant cousin. Very distant, I know, because I heard them talking once, she and the lady. They were trying to puzzle out the family connection. And not finding it easy, I must say. But it did exist. The lady remembers Soraya’s mother.’

  ‘And Suleiman went off?’ said Mahmoud. ‘This morning?’

  ‘Yes. In a hurry, like I said.’

  ‘That would be before the men came in from the fields?’

  ‘Just before. He was leaving as they were arriving.’

  ‘But …’ began Mahmoud.

  The Pasha’s lady had known that the servants would be parading before him, had agreed to it herself. And then she had done this! Made sure he wouldn’t speak to everybody. Not, almost certainly, to the one person with whom he wanted to speak.

  They had done it again. Tricked him.

  But this time there was a difference. He now knew exactly who the Pasha’s lady did not want him to speak to.

  One day Zeinab came back home to hear shrieks inside the house. She dropped the packages she was holding and rushed in. Leila was standing in the kitchen sobbing. She held her arms out and Zeinab, without thinking, grabbed her and held her close.

  Neither Musa nor his wife were to be seen. They had gone out to the market, Leila explained between sobs. They were buying a lot of things and Musa, unusually among Egyptian men, had gone to help carry them. And she, Leila, had tripped over the step and blooded her knee!

  She showed Zeinab the knee fearfully.

  It was indeed bloody but not a mortal wound, and Zeinab, who, in her father’s house would normally have shouted for a slave, reckoned she could cope on her own. She carried Leila, still racked with sobs, into the bathroom and sponged the blood
off.

  ‘Look!’ she said. ‘It’s all gone!’

  Leila peered doubtfully; then saw a part where the skin had come off and opened her mouth to roar again.

  ‘We’ll put a patch on it,’ said Zeinab hastily. There were, she knew, patches in the cupboard. Owen sometimes used one when he cut himself shaving. She found one and spread it over the wounded area.

  Leila, curious, cut off her scream in mid-roar.

  ‘It will be all right now,’ said Zeinab reassuringly.

  Still the little body heaved and Zeinab hugged her tight. Eventually the sobbing subsided, but Zeinab went on holding her. She found she quite liked the experience. It came to her that not all things should be delegated to slaves.

  Musa and his wife returned at this point. Musa’s wife rushed across and took over from Zeinab. And Musa patted his heart and said he had heard the shouts and feared Leila was dying.

  ‘Would you mind?’ asked Leila.

  ‘A bit,’ said Musa.

  Leila knew he was teasing her. She broke into chuckles and soon the incident was forgotten.

  But not by Zeinab. She had seen the way that Musa’s wife handled Leila, and she had observed the way her friend Aisha behaved with her children, and she guessed that this was the way mothers behaved with their children. When she came back into the kitchen, after collecting the purchases she had dropped, she gave Leila a hug.

  Leila put her arm round her neck and gave her a kiss. Then she climbed up on to Zeinab’s lap. ‘You have a lovely smell, Auntie,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you!’ said Zeinab. ‘It’s perfume.’

  ‘It’s in your ear,’ said Leila.

  ‘Not in my ear but behind it,’ said Zeinab. ‘Would you like to try some?’

  After this they were more at ease with each other. Zeinab even took her with her sometimes when she went shopping in the fashionable, almost entirely French, great stores.

  One day when they were out together, Leila tugged at her arm and said: ‘Auntie, why is that man looking at me?’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘He has gone away now.’

  ‘Are you sure he was looking at you?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’