The Bride Box mz-17 Read online

  But was it Denderah? Leila had certainly said so. That was where she lived, she had said, and if she had lived there presumably her sister had done too. That was where the box had started. Or had it? Leila had thought that was the name of her village but she was a little girl and had not been too sure. Owen tried to question her about the village, but it seemed a village like any other: houses, a street (sort of), a kind of square. Doum palms. A water wheel pulled by an ox. The river? Not far away but the village had not been quite on the river.

  That was where she had lived and thought she had got on the train. When she had slipped away, in the late night or early morning, from the other children, evading the guard, she had walked and walked. She didn’t know the way; she had just followed the tracks the caravan had made. It was easy. There were no other tracks to confuse her. The caravan had kept away from other people.

  So she had walked and walked, and been very hungry and thirsty, but a woman had given her a bowl of durra and let her have a drink from her water skin. And she had gone on walking until she had seen her village. She had intended to go back to her house but she had met a woman, a neighbour, who had recognized her, and said that she should not go back because her mother would beat her again.

  She hadn’t known what to do. She had asked the woman, Khabradji, if she knew where Soraya was, and the woman had clicked her tongue and said no. She could well be a long way away by this time. Khabradji had given her some water and some bread and had let her sleep in the sand behind her house but had said she must be gone by morning or her man would be angry.

  So Leila had gone to sleep behind the house, but she had been cold in the middle of the night and had woken up. As she was lying there she had heard the train and the thought had come to her that she might get on it and go far away, far away from her nasty new mother and from the white man and the men with whips.

  And she had walked over to where she knew the train would be. It was dark and no one had seen her. The train had stopped and the driver had got out and was squatting at a brazier with the other men. And they were drinking tea.

  And another man was doing something to the engine. He had climbed up on to the top of it and had swung across — she wasn’t quite sure what he had swung across; it was like a huge arm — and he had put one end of it into the engine and then said ‘Taib!’ — arabic for ‘it is well’ — and another man, who was standing beside a sort of tall tower, to which the arm was attached, had also said ‘Taib’, and then there had been a gurgle as of water, and she thought the train might have been drinking. Well, that would be reasonable, wouldn’t it? A train needed a drink, like everyone else. And after a while it had stopped drinking and the man had swung the arm back, the driver had got back into his cab, and Leila had guessed that the train was soon going to start, so she had crept under a carriage and found a place.

  Owen asked her about the station. What station? There wasn’t one, not a big one as in Cairo. There was no platform or anything. There was just a little building for ‘the man’ and the water tower. And the piles of gum arabic stacked beside the line to be picked up by a goods train at some point.

  When people came — yes, people did come; she had seen them on other occasions — they took a horse and carriage and drove into the town. The drivers knew they were coming and shortly before the train arrived the carriages would draw up. Sometimes the people rode on donkeys.

  There were often a lot of people. The ladies were ‘Inglesi’, although not all of them were English, and they wore beautiful long dresses and big hats and looked beautiful. Although they were sometimes very hot. Even under the hats the sweat was running down their faces. And they were forever calling for water. And the men wore suits and they also had big hats, although different ones.

  And what did they go into the village to see?

  Leila shuddered. ‘The Place of the Giants,’ she said.

  From what she said it sounded like a temple. Was there a temple at Denderah? He rather thought there was. He would have to ask McPhee, the Assistant Commissioner, who was interested in such things.

  But there were many places with temples in Egypt.

  He asked her about this one.

  Yes, she had been there. But she didn’t like it. It was frightening. Big and dark, although it had got lighter since the Pasha had ordered some of the sand to be cleared away. But it was still dark and there were lots of places from which boys could jump out at you. But even they were frightened, she thought. The fact was, it was not a good place. It was not a decent, holy place, not a good Muslim place. There were spirits there, bad spirits. And you knew that was so because — she crept closer to Owen and whispered in his ear — of the magic marks. Right up there on the front, for everyone to see!

  Owen went in to see McPhee to check if there was a temple at Denderah. This was a mistake since once the Assistant Commissioner got started on Egyptian antiquities you couldn’t get him to stop.

  ‘Ah, Denderah!’ he said reminiscently. ‘The Temple of Hathor. It’s very late, you know. Roman. The earliest name you find there is Cleopatra, that vile woman!’

  ‘Oh, really? You feel that, do you?’

  ‘Definitely! Sexually abandoned.’

  ‘Well, I’ve always thought that-’

  ‘No, no, Owen. You have a romantic view of her. That’s Shakespeare’s doing. “The chair she sat in …” You know, that sort of stuff. A marvellous picture, but quite untrue. She sold herself for power, you know!’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to sell yourself, that might be worth doing it for.’

  ‘No, no, Owen. It’s her honour she’s selling as well as her body.’

  McPhee had always seemed to Owen to have a Boy Scout’s view of life.

  He put Cleopatra reluctantly to one side.

  ‘Apparently the temple has some unusual markings …’

  ‘Oh, yes, the famous Zodiac.’

  ‘Famous Zodiac?’

  ‘Yes, on the portico. You see, the sign of the Lion comes first, showing that the summer solstice was then in that sign. Not like now, of course, when it’s in Cancer.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘At Esne the sign of Virgo comes first.’

  ‘Extraordinary! Well, I’d better be getting along …’

  ‘Of course, this shows that in Egypt the precession of the equinoxes was already well known.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘Of course, it may simply be that the Egyptian astronomers wanted to represent two successive states of the sky-’

  ‘Yes, yes. Well, thank you. I’m afraid that now I must be-’

  ‘That in which the summer solstice was in Leo, and consequently the Vernal equinox in Taurus, instead of Aries.’

  ‘Yes, yes, most interesting. But I’m afraid I-’

  ‘As opposed to that in which the summer solstice was in Virgo and consequently the vernal equinox in Gemini.’

  ‘Most interesting. Well, I must be getting along …’

  ‘Champollion thinks-’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. Thank you. I’m afraid I have to be …’

  He edged out of the door.

  They could be Leila’s ‘magic marks’! In which case, yes, the halt where she had got on the train was at Denderah. And Denderah was the village she came from.

  THREE

  ‘A bride box?’ said the clerk at Denderah station doubtfully. ‘No, Effendi, I do not remember a bride box. And, surely, if there had been one, I would have remembered it. They are not things you see every day. And usually, Effendi, a bride goes with it. A woman does not like to be parted from her box. Surely if there had been a box, there would have been a bride. There would have been singing and dancing and much merriment. A thing like that I could not but have marked. But there has been nothing like that here!’

  ‘I think it is possible,’ said Mahmoud, ‘that the two were separated in this case, the bride and her box. And you might not have recognized it as a bride box, for it was stitched into a bag. Like th
is one here.’

  He pointed to a package in the mail bag behind the clerk’s desk. ‘Only much bigger, of course. This big!’ He spread his arms.

  ‘In that case it would not have been with the ordinary mail, then. All parcels have to be weighed, and that would be too big to be weighed on these scales. It would have to be weighed on the weighing machine I use for commercial packages: oil cakes and such things. And now I think I remember … Come with me, Effendis. It should be on the list.’

  He led them to a little goods shed, in which was a large weighing machine. Beside it was a list pinned to a board.

  ‘Yes, I thought so. It was your mention of a bride box that led me astray. For this was no bride box, Effendi. A bride box must be treated with respect and the men who brought this had no respect. “This is to go on the train,” they said. “How can it?” I said. “When it does not even have a label!” “Label?” they said. “What is that?” They were ignorant men, Effendis. Fellahin from the field.

  ‘“A label,” I said, “is to show where the parcel is to go to. It is a piece of paper,” I said, seeing that they still did not understand. “Like this.”

  ‘“It has writing on it!” they said.

  ‘“Well, yes,” I said. “It would have.” They conferred among themselves. “Do it, then!” they said. For, Effendis, there was not one among them who could read and write.

  ‘“Very well, then,” I said. “But you will have to tell me what to put. First, who is it to go to?”

  ‘“The Pasha,” they said.

  ‘“Which Pasha?” I asked.

  ‘“Our Pasha.”

  ‘“Look,” I said, “there are Pashas all over the place. What is his name?”

  ‘“Our Pasha,” they said. “Ali Maher.”

  ‘“Right,” I said. “And where is this to go to?”

  ‘“His house.”

  ‘“His house where? He has dozens.”

  ‘“His big house. In the city.”

  ‘“Cairo, yes?”

  ‘“Yes, Cairo.”

  ‘“The street?” I asked.

  ‘“Street?” they repeated.

  ‘“The name of the road in which he lives,” I explained. They looked at each other.

  ‘“Surely if it says it is the Pasha Ali Maher, that will do?” they said. I sighed.

  ‘“There are hundreds of Pashas in Cairo,” I explained. “And hundreds of streets.”

  ‘“Hundreds of streets?”

  ‘“Look,” I said. “I’ll put down The Pasha, Ali Maher. And maybe it will get to him. Right, now what is it?” I asked. They spoke among themselves.

  ‘“What is that to you?” they said. And looked at me threateningly.

  ‘“Nothing!” I said quickly. “But I need to know what sort of thing it is. Because I have to fix the price.”

  ‘“Price?” they repeated.

  ‘“Everything has a price. Sending something by train costs money.”

  ‘“Oh, yes,” they said. “And who does the money go to? You, I suppose?”

  ‘“Not me,” I said hastily. “It goes to the government.”

  ‘“It goes to Ali Maher, I’ll bet!” said one of them.

  ‘“No, no,” I said. “It goes to the government. To pay for the railway.” They spoke among themselves.

  ‘“Tell us how much it is,” they said at last.

  ‘“That depends on what sort of thing it is,” I said. “Which is what I asked you. Is it, for example, a piece of furniture — a table, say?”

  ‘“Table? Are you mocking us? Anyone can see it’s not a table!”

  ‘“I give you that as an example. What sort of thing is it? What class of thing? Is it, for instance, a present?” They laughed.

  ‘“Yes, yes,” they said. “It is a present.”

  ‘“Right then,” I said, and told them how much it was to cost. They looked blue.

  ‘“That is a lot of money!” they said.

  ‘“It is the normal price,” I said. “The one the government determines.”

  ‘“And what is the cut you get?” they asked. I told you, Effendis, they were ignorant men.

  ‘“Without the money,” I said, “it does not travel.”

  ‘Well, they put their heads together, and there was much counting of milliemes. But in the end they found what was required. So I made out the ticket and gave it them. “This is to say that you have given me the money, lest anyone say you haven’t.”

  ‘“It would be a bad thing for them if they tried that!” one of them said.

  ‘“Keep the ticket,” I said. “Then there can be no dispute.”

  ‘“And now it can go?” they asked.

  ‘“Now it can go,” I confirmed.

  ‘“What a to-do about a small thing!” they said.

  ‘And then they went away and I was glad. To tell the truth, I did not greatly care for them.’

  Denderah station was just a place where the train stopped to take in water for the engine. Its most conspicuous feature was the water tower that Leila had described. There was no platform and only the single building where the clerk presided. Apart from the Inglesi who came to view the temple, he said, there were few passengers.

  ‘And the village?’ asked Owen.

  The clerk pointed over the long halfeh grass to some doum palms in the distance.

  ‘So,’ said Owen, ‘you are Mustapha the basket maker?’

  Mustapha looked up, startled, from the reeds he was holding between his toes. ‘I am, indeed, Mustapha,’ he said uneasily.

  Owen crouched down to one side of him, a little to his front. Mahmoud had taken up a similar position on the other side.

  ‘Tell us, Mustapha: are you a family man?’

  ‘God has blessed me,’ Mustapha said warily.

  ‘With children? How many?’

  ‘Five,’ said the basket maker, not without pride.

  ‘That is blessed indeed. And are they still with you?’

  ‘Three are.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘Have gone away,’ said the basket maker, hesitating.

  ‘Oh, indeed? How so?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘They married,’ the basket maker said, after a moment.

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘How old were they?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘The oldest was thirteen,’ said the basket maker unwillingly.

  ‘And the youngest?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Nine. That is young to get married.’

  ‘She was ready for it.’

  ‘Shame on you, Mustapha!’ said a woman’s voice from the back of the crowd that had gathered.

  ‘Peace, woman!’ said the basket maker angrily. ‘She wished it. When her sister went, she wanted to go, too.’

  ‘Ah, but not into marriage,’ said Owen.

  ‘A man offered for her, and she was willing!’

  ‘Ah, yes, but what did he offer?’

  ‘A good home. Well provided.’

  ‘Better than yours, perhaps? Especially since you took a new wife.’

  ‘He knows all!’ someone called out.

  ‘What if he does?’ said the basket maker angrily. ‘There is no law against taking another wife.’

  ‘There is against selling a child, though,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘She went to a good home! She wanted it.’

  ‘Whose home?’

  ‘A man’s. I do not know his name.’

  ‘You sold your daughter to a man and you do not know his name?’

  ‘I did not sell her.’

  ‘How much did he give you?’

  The basket maker rose to his feet furiously. ‘I shall not listen!’

  ‘You will,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Sit down!’

  The basket maker hesitated, then sat down. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

  ‘The Parquet,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And this is the
Mamur Zapt.’

  Owen was never sure how well the title was known outside Cairo, but there was a little ripple of astonishment in the crowd that had gathered. Owen and Mahmoud didn’t mind the crowd. Sometimes it had its advantages.

  ‘What do you want from us?’ said Mustapha sullenly.

  ‘The truth. What is the name of the man you sold her to?’

  ‘I … I do not know. I have told you!’

  Mustapha shook his head unhappily.

  ‘You don’t know? Or you won’t tell?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Your daughter goes to a house and you don’t know where it is?’

  ‘A long way away,’ muttered the basket maker.

  ‘Ah, there I believe you,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘What is this?’ Mustapha broke out angrily. ‘Why do you question me? She wished to get married; a man made a good offer — what is wrong with that?’

  ‘And you cannot tell me the name of the man, nor the place of his home? Good offer, indeed! Would her mother have thought so? Her true mother?’

  ‘When you have five children, you cannot do as well for them as you would like. She knew she would have to marry. In our village all the children know that. She had known that for a long time.’

  ‘Long enough to make ready a bride box?’

  ‘The offer came sooner than I had expected.’

  ‘So she didn’t have a bride box? Unlike her sister?’

  ‘Her sister had a bride box, certainly. She had more time to prepare one.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I have seen it.’

  There was a stir of amazement in the crowd.

  A woman pushed through the people. She was poorly dressed and didn’t wear a veil. Her cheeks were cut with tribal marks and her hands were dyed with henna. She was shouting angrily, ‘What is this? What is this? What are you doing with my man?’

  ‘Asking questions,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Which have to be answered.’

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘About your daughters. Your new daughters. The ones who were in your husband’s house when you came but are not there now.’

  ‘Well, what of it?’ the woman said, more warily. ‘They have gone away, that is all. Who asks these questions?’

  ‘The police,’ said someone in the crowd.