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over and done with and we can get on with our lives again.”
    â€˜And we told him,’ said the omda, ‘that what she said was wisdom. But still he wouldn’t have it. “Must I suffer, just for daughters?” he said.
    â€˜â€œI was a daughter once,” she said.
    â€˜â€œYou were with me in this,” he told her.
    â€˜â€œI was wrong,” she said, “and will go to the Mamur Zapt and tell him so.”
    â€˜â€œHe will have you whipped,” said Mustapha.
    â€˜â€œHe won’t,” she said. ‘“He will put me in jail. Nor will he whip you if you go to him.”
    â€˜â€œHe will put me in jail,” said Mustapha, “which is worse.”
    â€˜â€œYou will go to jail anyway,” we told him. “And justly so. Wipe the slate clean before you go, and then at least we will be able to remember you without shrinking.”’
    â€˜So now he will speak?’ said Owen.
    â€˜Yes, Effendi.’
    â€˜You have done well.’
    He got up from the wall.
    â€˜Show me his house.’
    He had forgotten how deep the poverty of rural Egypt was. The house was bare. There was not even a bed, just some shawls thrown down casually in a corner. There was no table. Just a rough native chest in which things were stored. There was a brazier for a fire to cook on, a sack of durra. The wife would prepare the meal outside. The children would eat, and naturally sleep, outside. How had Soraya succeeded in preparing the things for her box? Everything here was a wrestle with life.
    The house was dark and low. There was only the single room. If Mustapha had been just that little bit wealthier he would have had a water buffalo, which would probably have shared the house with them. In the yard outside there were one or two hens and a pile of the basket maker’s raw materials.
    The omda had entered the house with him, followed by a small crowd of people.
    â€˜Do you wish the elders to stay?’ asked Owen. If they did, they could act as witnesses.
    Mustapha made a gesture of indifference.
    â€˜Right, then, stay,’ said Owen, ‘that you may see that what is done is justice.’
    Mustapha, prompted by his wife, ran through what he had told Owen already. In the case of Leila there was little to add. He had heard that there were slavers in the district and one evening, when he had been drinking – and had, he said, been provoked by his daughters – had decided to put an end to it and at the same time to turn them to profit.
    â€˜And you urged me!’ he said, turning to his wife.
    â€˜I did. It had become impossible to live with them. Particularly Soraya.’
    The sale of Leila had gone through without difficulty. He had gone to see the chief slaver and the deal had been struck at once.
    â€˜One moment,’ said Owen, ‘the chief slaver. Was that the white man?’
    â€˜No. He stood mostly to one side. There was an Egyptian in charge at the caravan.’
    And that, as far as Leila was concerned, was about it. Money had changed hands, Leila had been passed over and, as far as Mustapha knew, had joined the other children in the caravan.
    â€˜And Soraya?’
    This had been less straightforward. Yes, the slaver had wanted her. But not for himself. He already seemed to have known about her because it was he who had raised the question of her sale to Mustapha. He seemed to be acting on behalf of someone else, someone who had seen Soraya and taken a fancy to her. He had asked the slaver to act as intermediary and would pass her back to the slaver when he had finished, so that the slaver would be doubly in wealth.
    For the buyer was prepared to pay quite a lot for Soraya. Mustapha had by chance overheard the sum the slaver was expecting and it was considerable. It had quite taken Mustapha’s breath away. The size of the sum was what had made Mustapha think that the buyer must have more in mind than the