The Bride Box by Michael Pearce

do you? Reforms? Don’t let my husband hear that!’ She leaned forward and touched him on the knee.
    â€˜You’re very young,’ she said.
    â€˜Perhaps,’ said Mahmoud. ‘But these things happen. In Europe there are special skills for people such as Karim. Even as old as he is.’
    â€˜But that’s Europe.’
    â€˜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!’
    â€˜Things are changing. People are changing.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Well?’ he whispered.
    The muffled figure shook his head.
    â€˜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!