The Bride Box by Michael Pearce

sat down on the ground beside her husband.
    â€˜Is there an omda?’ asked Mahmoud, referring to a village headman.
    â€˜Yes, Effendi.’
    â€˜Fetch him.’
    It took a little time. Meanwhile, Owen and Mahmoud sat patiently there on the ground, the crowd growing all the time. The people sat there quietly, but Owen knew they were taking everything in. That could be helpful later, if only as a check on what the basket maker had said. In a village like this everyone knew everything. What was perhaps more to the point, they know what was
not
being said.
    At last a man came pushing through the crowd. He looked worried. ‘Effendis?’
    â€˜Salaam Aleikhum,’ said Owen and Mahmoud together, politely.
    â€˜And to you, Salaam!’ returned the omda.
    â€˜I am from the Parquet,’ said Mahmoud, ‘and this is the Mamur Zapt.’
    There was no doubt about the Mamur Zapt being known to the omda. He became tense. ‘You come from Cairo?’ he said. ‘It is a long way.’
    â€˜Even there we hear of things. We hear, for example, that children have gone missing from your village.’
    The omda went still. ‘One of them went to get married,’ he said, after a moment.
    â€˜So it is said. And the other?’
    â€˜I do not know.’
    â€˜The one who went to get married: do you know the name of the man to whom she was to be married or the place of her new home? No? Is that the way things are done in Denderah?’
    The omda was silent for a moment. ‘It is the way they were done on this occasion,’ he said quietly. ‘But not the way they should have been done. I knew nothing about it until after she was gone.’
    â€˜Did you not make enquiries?’
    â€˜We wondered, and asked. But her father said that he had received a good offer and that the matter had to be closed quickly.’
    â€˜Without any celebration?’
    â€˜There would be celebrations, her father told us. But they could be elsewhere.’
    â€˜How could you be sure she was to be wed?’
    â€˜She took her bride box, Effendi.’
    â€˜And so you thought that …?’
    â€˜What else could it mean?’
    â€˜I have seen the bride box,’ said Mahmoud. ‘But not the things that she put in it. Have you seen them?’
    â€˜No, Effendi!’ said the omda, shocked. ‘How could we?’
    â€˜I think they may have been tipped out and left. In which case they must be lying around somewhere. Perhaps not far from the village. And if they were left like that, some of them may have been found and brought back here. Have they been?’
    The omda, still shocked, turned to the villagers. ‘Have they?’ he asked.
    There was a mutter of denial.
    â€˜Look for them,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And if you find them, bring them to me. No one will be punished just for having these things, but I need to know about them.’
    â€˜They were Soraya’s things!’ a woman said indignantly. ‘She was making ready for her wedding. They should not have been treated like that!’
    â€˜Where is Soraya?’ someone asked.
    Owen and Mahmoud exchanged glances. Owen nodded.
    â€˜She is dead,’ said Mahmoud.
    Mustapha’s new wife collapsed, weeping. Mustapha bowed his head to the ground and seemed to be trying to push his face into the sand. Some women at the back of the crowd began to wail.
    There was no lock-up in the village. There was no constable, either. Mahmoud told Mustapha and his wife to stay in their house and made the omda responsible for seeing to it. Then he and Owen walked over to the village well and sat down on the little mud-brick wall that was built around it. People would come to them, they knew; but it would take time.

    First, the omda himself came. ‘Would Your Excellencies like tea?’ he said anxiously. ‘Or perhaps beer?’
    â€˜No beer, thank you,’ said Mahmoud.
    Owen shook his head.