The Bride Box Read online

  ‘And at the same time it keeps people off.’

  ‘Well, it would.’

  ‘Giants and sages! That’s a pretty powerful combination.’

  ‘I’m not that keen on it myself.’

  ‘That’s just my point. No one is. So the boxes will be all right.’

  ‘Has the boss seen it?’

  ‘Came here himself just to take a look.’

  ‘And he thought it was OK?

  ‘Just the place,’ he said. Mind you, there was a bit of a worry. There was a kid around when he came and he didn’t like that. He worried that she might have seen something or heard something. But Ali said, “What could she have seen? There weren’t any boxes here then.” “Yes, but she might have heard something,” says the boss. “What could she have heard?” asked Ali. “And would she have understood anything?”

  ‘But the boss still fretted about it. He’s like that, you know. Worries about everything. Doesn’t like to leave anything to chance. Wanted to know who this girl was. “Maybe we ought to do something about her,” he said. I think, as a matter of fact, he did do something about her.’

  ‘He didn’t …?’

  ‘No. Just saw that she was taken care of. But then it went wrong somehow. And now he’s worried about her again. Thinks we ought to do something. We’re supposed to be keeping an eye out for her.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen any signs of a kid.’

  ‘Nor have I. But I’m just telling you. In case you do see her.’

  EIGHT

  Mahmoud’s daughter, Maryam, went to school. This was uncommon even among his colleagues at the Parquet. Having themselves got where they were by education, they were all in favour of it for their own young. For their sons, that was. Even among the relatively liberal Parquet lawyers, valuing of education and ambition for their offspring did not extend as far as educating their daughters, too.

  Or in any case, only a bit. When their daughters grew old enough for their fathers to notice their existence and to start planning for their marriages a few of them were sent to special European-style finishing schools so that they might not be totally boring to their husbands when they got married, who were also likely to be bright Parquet lawyers.

  Mahmoud, however, thought differently. Only the best was going to be good enough for his children, male or female, and he meant to see that right from the start they received an education along progressive Western lines. There were in Cairo one or two kindergartens chiefly for the children of well-to-do Europeans. It was to one of these that he decided to send Maryam.

  When he learned what it was going to cost him he almost changed his mind. Young Parquet lawyers, no matter how bright, were not highly paid. Aisha, however, his strong-willed and equally liberal wife, who was just becoming aware of some of the arguments about the ‘New Woman’ that were currently occurring in France, did not agree. Equality of the sexes had to begin very early – indeed, from birth – and her adored Maryam was certainly going to receive as good an education as any brother.

  Mahmoud, logical to the last, had to admit the force of this point of view: so Maryam went, hand in hand with her mother, to the kindergarten every morning.

  And where she went, could not Leila go too? Or so Zeinab thought. Aisha was not sure about this. Leila was an adorable child, but was she as capable of benefiting from advanced education in the way that her own perfect daughter certainly would be able to?

  And then there was the question of cost. Owen was barely richer than Mahmoud and Leila, damn it, was not even their daughter. Zeinab hadn’t the faintest idea about money except that she knew Owen hadn’t got any; so she applied, as she usually did, to her father. Nuri Pasha didn’t know much about money either – he left all that sort of thing to his steward – but he did know that he had less than he thought he did. However, he was interested in the latest French fashions when it came to ideas. He had brought up Zeinab very much au courant with them and had made no difference between her and his son, a decision much assisted by the fact that he couldn’t help noticing that Zeinab was about twice as bright as her brother.

  So he saw no reason why Leila shouldn’t be educated, and the fact that she was the next best thing to a slave’s daughter was no problem to him. Hadn’t Zeinab’s own mother started off as a slave? And she had developed into the most beautiful courtesan in Cairo. It may be that Leila could do the same! She was a bright little girl, according to Zeinab. Why not? Stranger things had happened. So he didn’t mind paying for Leila to go to the kindergarten; it could even be looked upon as an investment.

  So off now went Leila every morning, hand in hand with Maryam, usually with Aisha or Zeinab but sometimes with Musa’s wife in attendance.

  The warehouse clerk and the Greek were by now great buddies. Rare was the morning when Georgiades did not drop in to take the clerk round the corner to the coffee house they favoured. The clerk felt that he was doing the Greek a good turn by lending a sympathetic ear to his tales of marital woe; and, besides, as he confessed to Georgiades, there wasn’t much happening in the warehouse at the moment. ‘But it will all be different next week,’ he said.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Well, Clarke Effendi is returning and bringing with him many goods, which will all have to be put in their right places and accounted for – and, no doubt, there will soon be billing to be done.’

  ‘Bales and bales of gum arabic?’ said the Greek. ‘And trocchee shells?’

  ‘And other things, too.’

  ‘Pretty slave girls?’ prompted Georgiades.

  ‘I should be so lucky!’ said the clerk. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no such luck. But sometimes there is a special consignment.’ He put up his hand. ‘Don’t ask me what it is,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. Clarke Effendi keeps all that to himself.’ He laid a finger along his nose. ‘He handles it all himself. Everything! The goods come in and then go out and neither I nor anyone else is allowed to go near them. Nor even the paperwork. Especially not the paperwork. Clarke Effendi does it all. “The less you know about it, the better,” he says. “If you don’t know anything, you can’t tell anyone anything. It’s better like that.” And,’ said the clerk, ‘I think it is better. Because the old bastard is up to something, you can be sure. And the less I know about it, the better.’

  ‘There is wisdom,’ said the Greek admiringly. ‘It’s a wise man who knows when it’s best not to know something!’

  ‘Of course, I have to know a bit,’ said the warehouse clerk. ‘I have to know when a consignment like that is coming in, so that I can make space for it. And it’s not just any sort of space; it’s got to be over in a corner, where people don’t come upon it by mischance. And it’s got to be in the usual place in case he wants to move it by dark. In fact, he usually does want to move it by dark. That’s another thing, you see. What people don’t see, they don’t think about, he says.

  ‘But once or twice I’ve had to be there to see to the moving – make sure the right boxes are collected. It would never do to have the wrong box picked up. And that would be easy to do in the dark. Of course, we’ve got torches, but still, it helps if someone who knows about it is there to see to it. Actually, he likes to see to that himself. Never trusts anybody else when it’s important. I suppose that’s why he does so well. Why he’s a rich man and I am not!’

  ‘There are costs to being rich,’ said the Greek. ‘That’s what I always tell my wife. You’ve got to be thinking about your money all the time.’

  ‘The risk!’ said the warehouse clerk.

  ‘Suppose it went wrong?’ said the Greek.

  ‘Ah, then you’re in trouble!’ said the clerk.

  ‘I’ll bet you didn’t say that to Clarke Effendi, though!’

  ‘You’d win your bet!’ said the clerk. ‘That’s another thing he says. “No silly questions, no sharp answers!”’

  ‘And that’s true, too,’ said the Greek.

  ‘Still, there are things that I know and that he do
esn’t know. How to get hold of a reliable porter in Cairo, for example.’

  ‘Can’t trust the buggers!’ said the Greek.

  ‘You’ve got to stand over them. And although he’d prefer to do that himself, that’s not always possible.’

  ‘So you have to do it?’

  ‘That’s it!’

  ‘Even at night!’

  ‘Even at night. Especially at night!’

  ‘Because of the temptation to wander off and have a drink?’

  ‘He’d go mad!’

  ‘I’ll bet he would. But that’s what they’d do if you weren’t standing right behind them.’

  ‘You can’t afford for it to go wrong.’

  ‘Not when there’s a Pasha involved.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s the way the land lies, is it? I don’t envy you.’

  ‘Just occasionally. I don’t do it every time, of course, and I don’t know about the other times. But I know what I know.’

  ‘And you’re not saying!’ said the Greek, chuckling.

  ‘Too true, I’m not!’

  ‘Well I think he’s a lucky man to have you to call on.’

  ‘Well, I think he is, too. It’s not easy to get things done the way he likes them done. There’s more to it than he thinks. Just getting the stuff here is not that straightforward. It comes in by train, you see, and has to be fetched from the station. Nothing to it, you might think. Just a matter of porters. But porters have to be found, and porters have to be stood over, like I said, or else they’ll get it wrong. And then he’d go mad!’

  ‘Do you use the same porters every time?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I should think you would. If he’s like you say, you’d want to be sure of your porters. And if you’ve found some you know to be reliable, I think you’d stick with them.’

  ‘Well, I do, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Go to the same ones every time?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I reckon you’ve done well if you’ve found some reliable ones.’

  ‘It’s not easy. In a place like Cairo. Where porters are always drifting away. Offer them some money and they’re off!’

  ‘Does he pay well?’

  ‘No.’

  Georgiades pursed his lips. ‘That makes it tricky,’ he said.

  ‘It does. That’s what I always tell him. “You don’t know the half of it,” I say.’

  ‘He’s a lucky man to have you to rely on.’

  Further along the street was a barber’s shop. Well, not quite a shop – this was a poor area – but certainly a barber. He worked from the pavement, where he had put a chair, an old cane chair, on which he sat his clients. His equipment was on the ground beside him: two pairs of scissors, one for hard work, the other for fine: a razor, of the cut-throat variety, a shaving brush, a tin bowl and a large pewter jug containing the hot water he had to fetch from the café up the road where Georgiades and the warehouse clerk went for their coffee. And there was a length of cloth, not overly clean, which he tied round the neck of his client. From time to time he shook it into the gutter.

  There was always a circle of onlookers gathered round the chair, sitting on the pavement, offering advice or critical judgement or just generally chatting. The barber was good at chatting and the people who came to join him were regulars. Some passed the day there.

  The Greek ambled along the street, paused when he saw the barber and hovered uncertainly. The chair was empty at the moment and the barber spread his apron cloth invitingly. Georgiades sat down. ‘Short back and sides,’ he said.

  ‘It’s pretty short already,’ said the barber doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you want a haircut?’

  ‘My wife says I need one.’

  ‘Perhaps she was thinking of your beard?’

  ‘I haven’t got one!’ protested Georgiades.

  ‘Maybe that’s the problem. You’ve got a lot of stubble there.’

  ‘My hair grows quickly!’

  ‘It does on some people.’

  ‘I shave every morning, you know, and by ten o’clock it looks as if I haven’t touched it.’

  ‘It’s the jowls – they hide the hair, and you can’t cut closely, and then as the day wears on, the hairs come back from behind the flesh.’

  ‘This is getting personal!’ said Georgiades.

  ‘No, no, it’s just a technical observation. I’m right, aren’t I?’ he appealed to the onlookers.

  ‘It’s true he’s a bit fleshy,’ one observer piped up.

  ‘I can’t help that!’

  ‘No, he can’t. And stop going on at him. Some people carry a lot of weight. It’s the way they are.’

  ‘It’s certainly the way I am,’ said Georgiades.

  ‘All he needs is a shave!’ someone else shouted.

  ‘You could be right,’ said the barber.

  ‘All right, a shave, then.’

  ‘Go on,’ the crowd advised. ‘Make it nice for his wife. She doesn’t want to be scraping herself against his bristles all the time. That’s the problem. It’s not his hair.’

  ‘A shave, then,’ said the barber. ‘As smooth as a baby’s bottom.’

  After this promising beginning, the conversation flowed, and soon the Greek was in a position to ask about the porters.

  ‘Reliable ones,’ he stipulated.

  ‘You’ll be lucky!’

  ‘I know, but a chap who works in one of the warehouses here was telling me that he reckoned he’d found some.’

  ‘All the warehouses use porters!’

  ‘Yes, but some are better than others. This bloke I was talking to seemed to need especially good ones. He worked for a foreign Effendi, you see, who was always on to him.’

  ‘Would that be Nassir?’

  ‘It might be. I didn’t quite catch his name. But he said he worked for a foreign Effendi who was often away – a trader. Gum arabic, I think. And trocchee shells.’

  ‘That definitely was Nassir.’

  ‘Why do his porters have to be so special?’ asked someone. ‘That’s just ordinary work.’

  ‘Sometimes they have to move stuff at night,’ said Georgiades. ‘And then, I suppose they’re working without supervision.’

  ‘Why do they have to move the stuff at night?’

  ‘God knows! But apparently they do. Anyway it sounded as if he’d got some good porters, and I just wondered if anyone knew who they were? Because I could certainly use them.’

  ‘They come from outside, I think.’

  He meant outside the quarter. Cairo was a very localized place as far as ordinary people were concerned.

  ‘They do mostly,’ said someone. ‘But I think he makes use of Abdul.’

  ‘Well, Abdul is very good. If you want someone who’s reliable, he’s your man.’

  ‘How could I get hold of him?’

  ‘You’ll find him just along the road. At the trough there. When he’s not working, that is, which is most of the time.’

  Yet further along the road was another business conducted entirely on the pavement. It consisted of a large flat tray resting on a layer of cinders and filled with cooking oil, usually olive or sunflower. Beside the tray was a cloth on which were lying various pieces of meat and sundry vegetables. From time to time its attendant would drop a piece of meat or a few vegetables into the cooking fat. They would sizzle and turn brown. When they were done he would fish them out and hand them, usually on a piece of paper, to whoever had requested them. Then they would sit on the pavement and eat them.

  For this was a restaurant. It did not cater for the exalted (it was not even like the place Georgiades and the warehouse clerk attended just along the road) but for porters, donkey-boys, warehouse workers and the humbler men who did menial jobs round about. And, like the barber’s shop, it was a humming social centre.

  Georgiades stood over the tray, obviously tempted. The smell of frying onions rose enticingly into the air.

  ‘Try some!’ invited the cook.
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  Georgiades sat down. The cook ladled some onion slices on to a square of paper and put it in front of Georgiades.

  ‘Yes?’ said the cook anxiously.

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgiades, and handed the square back for more.

  ‘And something else?’

  ‘Aubergines?’ said Georgiades hopefully.

  The cook pointed. ‘In the pot,’ he said.

  Georgiades held out the square.

  ‘And …?’ said the cook.

  ‘Beans.’

  ‘Beans, yes. And …?’

  Georgiades held up his hand. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘My wife says I eat too much anyway.’

  ‘How could she say that?’ said the cook, affecting amazement. ‘A slim fellow like you!’

  ‘That’s what I say. But somehow she’s not convinced.’

  There were several other men squatting around the tray. They pointed out, in the friendly, intimate Egyptian way, the best aubergines and helped him to extract them from the pot.

  ‘One thing I do like,’ said Georgiades, ‘is a good aubergine! With onions, of course. They’re good for you, did you know that?’

  ‘Of course they’re good for you!’ said the cook. ‘They keep headaches off.’

  ‘I find they’re good for my back,’ said one of the customers.

  There was some discussion about this.

  ‘You need onions if you’re a porter,’ said the Greek.

  ‘You do,’ various people assented.

  ‘Talking of porters,’ said the Greek, ‘is Abdul here, by any chance?’

  A man raised his hand. He had a great strap round his shoulders to assist carrying.

  ‘You look a big, fine fellow,’ said the Greek.

  The porter grinned. ‘What is it this time?’ he said. ‘A piano?’

  ‘I’ll bet you could manage it.’

  ‘I could.’

  He meant single-handed.

  ‘I’ll be back for you!’ said Georgiades.

  In fact, someone else called for Abdul, and off he went.

  Later in the afternoon, however, he returned. The Greek had eaten a lot of aubergines by that time and had gone away. But he was standing at the edge of the little square, from where he could keep an eye on the pavement restaurant, and when Abdul reappeared, he went up to him and suggested a beer. Strictly speaking, as a good Muslim, he shouldn’t touch alcohol, but, as he said, in his job you needed a lot of liquid, so he went off with Georgiades around the corner.