The Bride Box (24 page)

‘I wouldn't have seen them like this! What have you done, you terrible woman?'

‘I have done what I had to do.'

‘The police will track you down. And put you in prison. And then where will Karim be?'

‘They are already knocking on the door,' said the Pasha's lady. ‘The Parquet has already been.'

‘But this is a disaster!'

‘For Karim?' said the Pasha's lady. ‘Or for you?'

The Pasha put his face in his hands.

The Pasha's lady regarded him for a moment with satisfaction.

‘What is to be done?' he said hoarsely.

‘It is not as bad as it seems,' said the Pasha's lady. ‘And it is not quite as you think. You have always been ready to believe the worst of me. But it was not I who killed the girl.'

‘Not you?'

‘There are those who serve us loyally. They have an eye to what needs to be done. They are true to our family – yours, as well as mine. They could see that a marriage such as this would do great harm to the family. They decided it could not be.'

‘My people, or yours?' asked the Pasha.

‘Do not they serve us both?'

‘Who?'

The lady did not reply. She stood there thinking. Once she looked across the square where Karim was watching the trams delightedly. ‘One who wishes you well, and has always wished you and your family well.'

‘He took it upon himself?'

The Pasha's lady nodded. ‘I had sent the girl home. With her bride box. And on the way he must have decided that she should not come again.'

They remained talking for just a little longer. Once or twice the Pasha again put his head in his hands. If he had been the dominant one before, now it was she. He seemed to dwindle before Mahmoud's eyes. By the end he was almost in a state of collapse. The Pasha's lady, on the other hand, seemed to grow visibly. She dominated the exchanges now. Mahmoud could no longer hear what was said but rather thought that all of the lady's pent-up anger was being poured out on the Pasha's bowed head. He no longer spoke but listened in silence. At the end he drew himself up and almost tottered away.

The lady, perhaps weakened, too, found a seat and sat down by herself for a little while. Once or twice Karim looked back at her and she waved a hand to him. To show that all was well? Karim was clearly not sure. He kept looking at her and seemed to want to come over to her but then thought better of it and stayed where he was, watching the trams. A row broke out between two of the drivers. Both drivers descended from their trams and for a moment it looked as if they would come to blows. Such incidents were fairly common at Cairo's crowded streets and no one paid much attention. But the argument was sufficiently fierce as to draw Karim's attention and perhaps he forgot what had been troubling him before. His father now had gone away and his mother was sitting calmly by herself. Reassured, Karim concentrated on the trams.

Mahmoud wondered whether to carry on as he had intended and speak to the lady. He had read into her letter a possible plea for help. Now he was not so sure. She seemed able to look after herself pretty well. In the end his doubt was resolved for him by the lady catching sight of him and breaking into a welcoming smile. He walked across to her.

‘How nice to see you!' she said, as if surprised.

‘I got your letters,' said Mahmoud.

‘Oh?'

It was as if they were of no interest to her now.

‘Letters?' she said vaguely.

‘Notes, rather. To say that you were coming to Cairo.'

‘Oh?'

Again it was as if she had completely forgotten them.

Mahmoud decided that he had been reading too much into them.

‘I hope you enjoy your trip to Cairo,' he said. ‘And Karim, too.'

‘Karim, yes,' said the Pasha's lady. ‘It is a while since he was last in Cairo and he has forgotten. It is all very exciting for him. But also very confusing. In a little while he will begin to get headaches. A sort of migraine. Then I shall have to take him home.'

Mahmoud muttered something about medication.

The Pasha's lady smiled. ‘You are a nice man, Mister el Zaki,' she said, patting him on the knee. ‘And there are not many around.'

She stood up and Karim ran obediently back to her.

Later, he told Owen about it. Especially about the part concerning Suleiman.

‘A cable came in this morning,' said Owen. ‘They've picked up Suleiman and are sending him up to us.'

‘To you?' asked Mahmoud. It was always a vexed question, this: who really ran the show in such circumstances? The Mamur Zapt or the Parquet? The British or the Egyptians? Usually both sides took care to see that it did not come to a head. The British deferred to the Egyptian authorities, so long as the authorities did what they were told.

Here, the issue was simpler than it usually was. Suleiman had been picked up in the Sudan, which meant that he had been picked up by the British. Egypt had no powers in the Sudan. Which was another thing that rankled.

‘He will be repatriated back to Egypt,' said Owen carefully. ‘And I imagine to the Parquet.'

He had better send a cable to make sure that this was so.

‘Let me know how you get on with him,' he said. Mahmoud, bubbling up with pleasure, swore that he would. And, as a
quid pro quo
, passed on to Owen what he had learned from Idris. He had not really intended to do that, believing that the dealings of Idris's patrons were not a matter for the British. But in his delight he couldn't resist the temptation.

Owen's agents – different ones daily, so as not to arouse suspicions – kept continual watch on the warehouse and the madrassa. Nikos was busy tracking down who Ali Maher's political associates might be; and Georgiades shambled around, staying close to Nassir, and to Abdul, the porter, so as to be quite sure that they did not miss the moment when the arms were transferred to the madrassa. Nassir kept him informed about the dealings of his boss, Clarke Effendi, who seemed, however, to have dropped out of sight since he had returned to Cairo.

Suleiman duly arrived, under guard, at the Parquet, and Mahmoud went to interview him.

Suleiman, an assured, middle-aged Sudani from the Pasha's lady's family holdings on the coast, had been shaken by his unexpected arrest and then transfer to Cairo. He said nothing – was notably monosyllabic on everything, in fact – but his nervousness was betrayed by the constant switching of his eyes, as if fearing that a new attack could come from any quarter. He obviously recognized Mahmoud, although he had seen him only once, at the Pasha's lady's house, on that first day. Which made Mahmoud think that he had indeed been deliberately sent away.

‘So, Suleiman,' he said easily, ‘I catch up with you at last.'

Suleiman did not reply.

‘Despite your being sent away so that I shouldn't.'

He waited, but again Suleiman made no response.

‘So let me ask you now the question I would have asked if you had stayed with the others; it concerns Soraya's bride box.'

He waited, then went on: ‘It was sent away, wasn't it? By the mistress, yes?'

‘Yes,' said Suleiman, guardedly.

‘Along with Soraya.'

‘That is so,' Suleiman agreed.

‘Were you sorry to see Soraya go? You were to be married to her, were you not?

‘I was.'

‘And then you weren't. How was that?'

Suleiman hesitated. ‘The mistress wanted it otherwise.'

‘Because Soraya was proving unsatisfactory?'

‘Unsatisfactory, yes.'

‘Did
you
find her unsatisfactory?'

Suleiman shrugged.

‘She was to marry you. Surely she was satisfactory, then?

Suleiman said nothing.

‘To the mistress, perhaps, but not to you?'

‘To neither of us.'

‘Then …?'

‘She would have it so.'

‘But you didn't care for the girl?'

‘She was forward. She would not have been a good wife.'

‘To you. But perhaps to Karim?'

‘She would have been a bad wife to Karim, too.'

‘Why?'

Suleiman struggled for words. ‘It would not have worked out,' he said.

‘No? Why?'

‘It was unseemly. She ought never to have thought of it.'

‘Soraya, that is?'

‘Soraya, yes. She was raising her eyes too high.'

‘So the mistress sent her away. But, being compassionate, she had previously looked out another husband for her. You.'

‘Me, yes.'

‘But then she thought better.'

‘Yes.'

‘And sent her away. Back to her home.'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you go with her?'

Suleiman hesitated. ‘Not I, no.'

‘I was told you did. That you had command of her return?'

‘No.'

‘And saw to the bride box?'

There was a long delay before Suleiman responded. ‘I saw that it was done,' he said at last.

‘Did you not go with her?'

‘I may have done. Part of the way.'

‘But then returned?'

‘Yes.'

‘After having seen to her killing?'

‘No. No. I did not do that.'

‘But you had charge. Perhaps you merely said it should be done?'

‘I did not see to it. Not that. The charge was passed to others.'

‘Who?'

‘I cannot remember.'

Mahmoud raised his eyebrows. ‘The charge was passed to others? Whom you do not know?'

‘That is so, yes.'

‘A strange way of dealing with your mistress's charge! But perhaps she decreed that, too?'

Suleiman said nothing.

‘Someone killed her, Suleiman. Either you, or someone you charged with the task. For she did not get home, did she? How was that?'

Suleiman's eyes began to look around. ‘Perhaps bad men fell upon her,' he muttered.

‘I think they did. But one of the bad men was you, Suleiman.'

‘That is not so.'

‘Then who? You were in charge, Suleiman. Which man was it?'

‘I do not know. I do not know the men. They were bad men. They fell upon her.'

‘Did you not stop them?'

‘I could not stop them!'

‘So what did you do?'

‘I ran away.'

‘There were men with you. Did they run away too?'

‘Yes.'

‘Who were these men who were with you? Were they men in the mistress's service?'

‘Yes.'

‘Their names!'

‘I … I do not recall.'

‘I shall ask, Suleiman. And let us hope that they say what you say. Or it will go ill with you. Now tell me another thing: when you got home, did you speak of this to anyone? Think carefully before you speak, because I shall ask them.'

‘I … I did not speak of it to anyone.'

‘Not even after so dreadful a thing?'

‘I was afraid.'

‘Did you not speak of this to your mistress? Surely she questioned you when you returned?'

‘I spoke of it, yes.'

‘She did not speak of it to me.'

‘When I spoke of it, I spoke … generally,' said Suleiman, looking acutely miserable.

‘Now tell me the truth,' said Mahmoud.

It was Zeinab's turn to take the children to school that morning. Sometimes Musa took them and sometimes his wife; sometimes it was Aisha, Mahmoud's wife, and sometimes Zeinab. That morning it was Zeinab, which she quite liked. She would deposit the little girls at their kindergarten and then go on to call on friends – sometimes, indeed, Aisha – and occasionally to shop in the big French stores. Zeinab wasn't that interested in shopping but it was important for an emancipated Pasha's daughter to ensure that her turnout was
comme il faut
and in a dressy place like Cairo that required constant review.

The two little girls, Leila and Aisha's daughter Maryam, walked along hand in hand, chattering. Zeinab walked just behind them.

Somebody bumped into her, jostled her, in fact, and when Zeinab, taking umbrage, turned to address them, they spun away into the crowd.

When Zeinab turned forward again there were no longer two little girls but just one. Leila had vanished. A shocked Maryam, roughly thrust aside, her hand torn from Leila's, stood in mid-wail.

‘Where is Leila?' said Zeinab, also shocked, and stunned by the suddenness of it all.

It took her a moment or two to realize that Leila had been snatched away.

Zeinab grabbed Maryam by her hand, then picked her up and carried her as that was easier, and began to hurry around asking people if they had seen a little girl, dark, being taken away. The crowd was sympathetic and soon everyone was looking.

‘A little girl – Sudani!'

But Leila had disappeared.

A policeman was fetched. Others appeared, for Zeinab was not a Pasha's daughter for nothing, and threw her weight around.

When they didn't seem to be getting anywhere she commandeered an
arabeah
and went to the Bab-el-Khalk. The friendly McPhee, much agitated, had a dozen policemen in the street in a flash and, later, Garvin the Commandant added his reinforcement. In no time the streets were flooded with policemen.

But to no avail. Hours later they were forced to admit to themselves that little Leila had disappeared completely.

Z
einab, who had never quite realized how much she cared for Leila, was distraught. Gradually, however, her distraction turned to anger. Mostly her anger was directed towards Owen. What was the point of having a Mamur Zapt for a partner if when it came to the crunch he was as powerless as you were? Zeinab had been close to power all her life, but now, when that power mattered most, it had all somehow dissipated.

She couldn't understand Owen's attitude. He seemed so calm. Garvin, McPhee, Nikos, even Georgiades, they all seemed so calm, whereas she was boiling, raging. It was, she decided, because they were cold. All Englishmen were cold. They had cold exteriors, unable or unwilling to display the slightest natural emotion, and they were cold inside. They didn't feel as Egyptians did. Nor as Arabs did, nor as any decent human being would. Cold, that's what they were: cold. She felt that Owen should be tearing around the place 
doing
something; and yet all he did was sit silently in the house, before putting on his fez and going to his office, where, doubtless, he continued to sit silently,
doing nothing
!