‘There are places which can help.’
‘What sort of places?’
‘Schools. Special schools.’
‘At his age?’ She shook her head. ‘No, he would feel out of place.’
‘There are teachers with special skills. Trained to help people like Karim.’
‘In Egypt?’
‘Perhaps not in Egypt,’ conceded Mahmoud. ‘Not in Egypt yet,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Ah, you’re not one of those! You believe in improving things, do you? Reforms? Don’t let my husband hear that!’ She leaned forward and touched him on the knee.
‘You’re very young,’ she said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Mahmoud. ‘But these things happen. In Europe there are special skills for people such as Karim. Even as old as he is.’
‘But that’s Europe.’
‘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!’
‘Things are changing. People are changing.’
‘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.
‘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.
‘Well?’ he whispered.
The muffled figure shook his head.
‘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! Disappointing.
Nevertheless, he went over to them. ‘You knew Soraya,’ he said.
‘We knew Soraya,’ they said warily.
‘And saw her bride box?’
There was division here: some had seen the bride box, others not.
‘It was taken away,’ someone explained. ‘And put in the barn. And then we did not see it any more.’
‘Did she show it to you?’
They shook their heads.
‘Once,’ one of them qualified.
‘You went out to the barn?’
‘She showed it to me when it was still in the house.’
‘Just after she had come back?’
‘That is so.’
‘And did you think she had nice things?’
‘Quite nice,’ someone said.
‘Nice, but showy. I have nicer things.’
‘You have a bride box yourself?’
The woman nodded.
‘And when are you to be married?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Just waiting,’ explained another woman.
‘For someone to ask for her?’
‘For Abdul to make up his mind!’
There was a general laugh.
‘And was Soraya, too, just waiting?’
‘It would seem so,’ some said.
‘Do you think she was wrong to bring her bride box here?’
On the whole they thought it was.
‘It was too presumptuous,’ someone said.
‘Her man had not yet spoken for her?’
He didn’t get a reply.
‘Perhaps he had not made up his mind?’ said Mahmoud with a smile.
Again there was silence.
‘You women are all in trouble,’ said Mahmoud, smiling, ‘if your men are not going to speak!’
‘It wasn’t that.’
‘Ah? What was it?’
But again there was silence.
‘The lady would not have it.’
‘Perhaps the lady did not want to lose her,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Having only just brought her back?’
Again there was the silence.
‘She seemed to hold her dear,’ said Mahmoud.
‘She did, at first.’
‘It was “Soraya do this, Soraya do that! Soraya come and sit near me, Soraya come and talk to me!”’
‘I expect she wanted to hear her own tongue?’ said Mahmoud.
‘Well, yes, but she could always have gone and visited her family if she had missed her own people so much!’
‘Does she miss them?’ asked Mahmoud.
‘I think she does. She is always sending them gifts.’
‘It was like that with the Pasha, too. He was always sending them gifts.’
‘At first.’
‘Well, he kept on with it. Even after …’ the woman stopped.
‘After the Pasha had put her aside?’
‘After she had come to live here with the young Pasha — even then he continued to send them gifts. Still does, they say. I wonder why? It’s not even that her people are … well, our people. They are all Sudanis. Gifts, messages, and I don’t know what else! They turn up at the house, and Ismail receives them graciously, which is more than he does with other people. He has to, or the Pasha will fall on him, he says.’
‘So what does he do with them when the Pasha is not at home?’
‘Sends them on to Cairo. Ismail even has to find the money. He doesn’t like it, of course, but he has to do what the Pasha has ordered, and no nonsense about it! But why the Pasha makes such a fuss over them, I cannot think. Particularly as he won’t have anything to do with his wife or son. It’s a strange old world!’
‘And she’s no better. Always sending messages. Suleiman is away now.’
‘No, he’s not. I saw him here this morning.’
‘Yes, he is. I saw him go. Late this morning. In a hurry.’
‘Well, I wonder what that’s about? Mind you, you never know. She won’t say and he won’t say.’