Free The Bride Box by Michael Pearce

Abdulla came on his behalf.’
    â€˜Without telling you the man’s name?’ said Owen incredulously.
    â€˜He said it didn’t matter.’
    â€˜So you knew it was not a question of marriage?’
    â€˜Be careful, Mustapha!’ counselled the wife, from beside the wall.
    â€˜I hoped it
would
become a question of marriage,’ said Mustapha, turning to her. ‘She is a beautiful girl. Was it not likely that someone should ask after her?’
    â€˜Asking after her is one thing,’ said Owen. ‘This is another.’
    â€˜It could have led to a proposal. That is what I hoped.’
    â€˜You hoped, even though you knew it was a slaver who asked?’ said Owen sceptically.
    â€˜I hoped, yes!’ said Mustapha defensively. ‘There is nothing wrong with hoping, is there, and was it not likely that when the asker had seen her more closely, he would wish it to be? That is what I reasoned. And so I bade her take her bride box with her.’

FOUR
    T hey set off early, when the sun was poking up above the horizon, huge and blood-red, like an enormous orange. It shot up with what seemed to Mahmoud, who was not one for sunrises, incredible speed. The redness on the sand disappeared and was replaced by a soothing grey, which soon become less soothing – indeed, so bright and glaring that it hurt the eyes. The morning, which had been pleasantly cool, warmed up. The heat began to press down on his shoulders. Soon after, the first drops of sweat started to fall on the patient neck of the donkey, and at about the same time he began to discover new muscles in his thighs and new sources of pain.
    After a while, he realized that the sand had given way to cultivated fields of durra. The green was more soothing on the eye. But then the durra grew taller and he was soon riding through great banks of it, which trapped the heat and attracted the insects. They came in swarms and lay black on the neck of the donkey, on the thighs of his trousers and on his arms. He had to keep brushing them from his face. It was sheer misery. As he had known it would be!
    He told himself it was only for a short time, that he would arrest the men and then get back to Cairo. And never, never leave Cairo again! Much less return to Upper Egypt.
    The clerk urged his donkey up alongside Mahmoud.
    â€˜Effendi, they will kill me!’
    â€˜No, they won’t.
    â€˜They will see my face and know me.’
    â€˜Cover your face, then.’
    â€˜They will still know me,’ said the clerk despondently.
    â€˜I will find a way that you can see and not be seen.’
    Happier, but not happy, the clerk fell back.
    Ahead of him, through the sand, he saw a large white house.
    He stopped and told the clerk to stay out of sight. Then he went on. There was a bell-rope by the door. He pulled. After some minutes a man came to the door.
    â€˜The Pasha? He’s not here.’
    â€˜Very well, then. Take me to the one in charge.’
    The servant slipped away and sometime later another man appeared. He looked at Mahmoud suspiciously and disdainfully.
    â€˜The Pasha is not at home.’
    â€˜No? That is a pity, for there are questions I have to put to him.’
    â€˜You will have to put them in Cairo, then.’
    Mahmoud was irked. This was no way to receive a stranger. And most unusual.
    â€˜Perhaps you can help me.’
    â€˜I don’t think so.’
    Mahmoud, tired after his long ride, boiled over. ‘This is the Parquet. I come on the Khedive’s business. Summon all the servants!’
    The man hesitated. ‘The Pasha …’
    â€˜I am here in the Pasha’s interest. I have spoken with the Pasha.’
    â€˜They are in the fields …’
    â€˜Fetch them from the fields, then.’
    â€˜It will take some time.’
    â€˜I will wait. But I do not propose to wait long. If they are not here shortly I will put you in the caracol.’
    The man flinched.