by Parker Bilal
Abdelhadi was rummaging through his keys until he found one that fitted the cheap padlock on the metal trunk underneath his bed.
‘You weren’t too worried when he went missing?’
‘Not really. I mean, he always keeps odd hours. He often disappears for days with no explanation.’
‘Disappears where to?’
‘I don’t know. He never says.’
‘You’re friends, you say?’
‘Well, you know how it is. We both have our own circles, but obviously, sharing a room brings you together.’
‘Sure, I can see that.’
Abdelhadi bent down to reach into the trunk. He rummaged underneath a messy heap of clothes to produce a slim laptop from underneath.
‘I don’t like to take chances. There are people on this corridor who are . . . mischievous.’
‘I see. You don’t mind me taking this, do you?’
‘It’s to help find him, isn’t it?’
‘I hope so.’
After considering the situation, Abdelhadi handed over the laptop. Makana weighed it up.
‘You weren’t really that close, were you?’
The slight young man rubbed a hand over the back of his head. ‘The truth is he made fun of me. He and his friends. I was amusing to them.’
‘Because of your beliefs?’
‘Because of who I am. I take my faith seriously, and they, well, they live frivolous existences. That’s all I can say.’
‘Well, you’ve been most helpful.’
Abdelhadi hesitated. ‘Can I just say that I didn’t put those pictures on it. I found them there.’
‘Pictures?’
‘You know, of women?’ He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, eyes roaming from side to side. A bird longing for a way out of his cage.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Makana.
Sami was alone in the Bab al-Luq office. The place was deserted apart from him. Makana knew from experience that journalists were not given to normal daylight working hours. No doubt it was still too early for most of them. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the surrounding buildings, lighting up the grubby windows with a soft flame. The Masry Info Media Collective – MIMIC they called it – comprised a loose affiliation of like-minded individuals who shared basic amenities in exchange for a minimal rent. Still, there was a rapid turnover and you could never be quite sure who you might meet. The exceptions to that rule were Sami and his wife Rania, the unofficial godparents of the project.
The familiar woolly-haired figure peered round the side of the computer monitor. Sami Barakat looked as though he had seen better days.
‘So where did you sleep last night?’
Sami took off his glasses and peered myopically around him. ‘Here, actually.’
‘Aren’t you a bit past that kind of thing?’
‘I would understand that coming from anyone else, but you live on a houseboat with less to your name than a hermit in a cave.’
‘I take it that means you and Rania haven’t sorted things out yet.’
‘Ah, no, not exactly.’
‘I’ve brought you something.’ Makana set Mourad’s laptop on the table and explained where it came from. Sami gave a whistle as he opened it up to take a look.
‘Well, it’s a good machine. Must have cost him some money.’
‘Really? Are they expensive?’
Sami gave Makana a despairing look. ‘Apple PowerBook. These things are not cheap.’
Which begged the question of where Mourad had got the money.
‘He had a job in a fast-food place by the Hunting Club.’
‘You’d have to burn a lot of hamburgers to afford one of these.’ Sami ran an appreciative hand over the smooth cover. Makana dislodged a heap of folders and printed sheets to sit down in a nearby chair.
‘So maybe he had something else going for him.’
‘How did you come by it anyway?’
‘His roommate.’ Makana hooked a metal wastebin with his foot and drew it towards him as he reached for his cigarettes. ‘I’m not sure what he was using it for but you might find some interesting material on it. Anything that’s more recent than say ten days ago is not going to be of interest. Can you go back that far?’
‘Sure, assuming there’s no problem getting through the security wall. Our friend didn’t happen to give you a password, did he?’
Makana stopped, lit match in hand. ‘Is that important?’
‘One of these days you’re going to wake up and realise you’re living in the twenty-first century, and believe me it’s going to come as a terrible shock.’
‘I’ll take your word on that.’
‘Any idea what we’re looking for?’
‘Could be anything at all. Political meetings, activism of any kind.’ Makana raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘Okay, so anything unusual. Let’s give this a try anyway.’ Sami flipped open the laptop and began clicking keys. It didn’t take long for him to give up. ‘It’s password-protected. I don’t want to lock it. I’ll let Ubay take a look.’ He put the laptop to one side and picked up a pencil which he started flipping round his fingers. ‘I see your friend Mek Nimr is in the news again.’
Makana felt a prickle on the back of his neck. ‘What did you hear?’
‘He was in Washington recently. Apparently, he’s a rising star, head of some new intelligence unit, counter-insurgency, something like that.’
‘Why Washington?’
‘The Americans are probably interested in taking a look at his address book. Khartoum was like the Club Med of terror suspects for about a decade.’
It came as a jolt to realise that the man who had once tried to have him killed had just grown more powerful. Once upon a time, Mek Nimr had been his adjutant. They had been friends, of a kind. Colleagues, in any case. Mek Nimr had not done well enough at the police academy to become a detective like Makana. Instead he had remained in uniform, until regime change came in 1989. After that his star had risen fast, and by all accounts showed no sign of slowing.
‘I must have missed that.’
‘Well, you should watch out.’ Sami wagged a warning finger. ‘With all this rendition going on they might decide to trade you in for some of our Islamists. You could find yourself on your way home with a hood over your head.’
It was a novel thought. ‘They must have more important things to do with their time.’
‘Never underestimate the security services. They can always think of some reason to make life miserable for someone. Just look at us.’ Sami tilted back his chair to balance on the rear legs and clasp his hands behind his head. ‘In February, the president announced multi-party elections. The problem being that he needed to hold a referendum to change the constitution. The only people who swallowed that little story were the Americans, which is who it was meant for.’
Protests were met by riot police and pro-Mubarak supporters – the bultagia, gangs of paid thugs. Naturally, the news was not reported by the state media, but other sources were emerging.
‘The media is diversifying. It’s no longer possible to keep everyone in the dark all the time. Things have changed.’ Sami reached over to help himself to one of Makana’s Cleopatras. The sun had gone now and shadows swam through the long room.
‘People came together. An amazing sight. For the first time communists and Islamists were united. The younger generations are starting to realise that it’s about changing the system, not just about improving things for yourself.’
Makana was put in mind of Mourad’s friends. Fadihah and Ihab. They seemed to be working towards some kind of idea of change, but what form exactly did that take? The state was a huge and ponderous machine. Engineering elections made as much sense as anything. Nobody on the inside wanted change, not really, they were doing too well the way things were. And as for the world at large, well, they too seemed just fine with the current status quo. When the elections results came in and the president
duly won, albeit by a margin of only eighty-eight per cent, everyone had applauded him, including the Americans, confirming what everyone in this part of the world already knew, that Western leaders were a bunch of fawning hypocrites who were content to watch people suffer under a repressive dictatorship while lauding the benefits of democracy.
‘Between the president’s cronies running the country like it was their own private country club, and the Salafists who want to drag us back into the Middle Ages, we’re struggling just to stay afloat. What’s amazing is that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, there are still those who believe that given a real chance, democracy might just work.’
‘Admit it,’ said Makana. ‘Underneath all that cynicism there is an optimist trying to get out.’
‘Listen, this will come as a surprise to you, as you persist in believing we’re still in the Stone Age.’ Sami tapped the screen in front of him. ‘Forty years ago people couldn’t read. That’s changed. Across the region, illiteracy rates have been inverted. From seventy-five per cent we now have thirty per cent. The world has been turned upside down. It’s no longer that easy to pull the wool over people’s eyes.’
‘There’s a difference between knowing what’s wrong and being able to change it.’
‘We know what’s needed. The problem is that I don’t think we understand what it’s going to take to get it.’
‘There can be no revolution without violence?’ Makana recalled Ihab’s words.
‘And to think that sometimes I have the feeling you don’t listen to a word I say.’
‘I spoke to a couple of Mourad’s friends.’ Makana flicked ash at the wastebin. ‘I’m not sure what they believe in.’ He got up to leave, but paused at the door. ‘I don’t have to tell you that if you ever need a place to stay . . .’
Sami grinned. ‘What you’re really saying is it would be better if I sorted things out with Rania.’
‘I’m glad we understand each other.’
‘Sometimes we all need someone to tell us what we know is right.’
Makana left him with his thoughts. Sindbad was waiting by the old Datsun outside the building. About to start tucking into a large pot of koshary, he looked up guiltily as Makana appeared.
‘I wasn’t sure how long you’d be,’ he said, nodding at a smaller pot on the dashboard.
‘That’s thoughtful of you,’ said Makana. ‘But I had thought we might try something else.’
Sindbad stared mournfully at the steaming heap of lentils and pasta in his lap and sniffed.
‘What did you have in mind?’
Chapter Fifteen
Westies was just getting into its early evening stride. Already cars were nudging by, hooting their horns for attention. More than a fast-food restaurant, it seemed to be a place where young people could meet. They leaned on their cars under the deep shadows of the banyan trees having important conversations about who knows what. In the doorway, Makana managed to avoid being flattened by a large man emerging weighed down by a stack of paper bags and boxes around which he could barely see, all of which gave off the same warm, sickly sweet odour.
‘Busy tonight?’
Ruby seemed happy to take a break from whatever she was doing, ticking numbers off a form. She smiled a greeting and checked the counter where her staff were busy running around, all in different directions at once. She seemed in complete control of what, to Makana, was organised chaos.
‘Oh, this is nothing. It doesn’t start to get busy for another couple of hours.’ Makana made a mental note not to try coming here late in the evening. ‘Did you find Mourad?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. That’s partly why I came back to see you.’
‘Sure.’ Either Ruby was excited to be part of an investigation, or she was actually concerned about Mourad’s welfare.
‘There was a girl here last time. She was mopping the floor over there.’ Makana pointed and Ruby turned her head to look. ‘Small, possibly from South Sudan? I think her name is Estrella.’
Ruby rolled her head and Makana followed her across the room. Sindbad was gazing at the menu with the concentration of a man with a renewed interest in his education. One of the boys came running up to ask about something but Ruby sent him away with a curt remark. She led Makana to an empty table in the corner.
‘Look, I know Estrella, but I’d rather this stayed between us.’
‘You mean she’s working here illegally?’
‘People tell us the papers are on the way, so we give them the benefit of the doubt.’
‘The owners don’t mind?’
‘Are you kidding? They positively encourage it. It means we pay them less. She’s not officially on the payroll, so I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.’
‘That’s not a problem, but I would like to speak to her. Is she here today?’
‘No.’ Ruby tilted her head to one side. ‘You get used to the fact that the only reason people keep coming in to work is because they haven’t found anything better yet. Sooner or later they all find something.’
‘So when was the last time you saw her?’
‘Two days ago, the day you were in here.’
‘She hasn’t been back since then?’
‘I don’t even have a telephone number.’
‘Isn’t that unusual?’
‘Like I said, people come and go. I never know who I’m going to find when I come in. Why the interest?’
‘I saw her somewhere else, a church.’
Ruby frowned. ‘Makes you sound more like some kind of Sufi visionary rather than an investigator.’
She might have a point, Makana conceded. Wasn’t that how things often went, feeling his way in the dark?
‘Only I thought you were interested in her because she was close to Mourad.’
‘They were close?’ Makana waited.
‘It was all a bit weird, but who can tell why a guy is attracted to one girl and not another, right? Anyway, I never understood why he was always hanging around her, talking to her when he thought nobody was watching.’
Ruby seemed disappointed, which suggested that perhaps she had imagined something might develop between herself and Mourad. That might have explained her concern.
‘Are you saying there was some kind of romantic connection between them?’
‘What else? I mean, he was discreet about it. Maybe he was embarrassed.’ Her gaze held Makana’s to make sure he followed her meaning.
‘You mean, because of the colour of her skin?’
‘That and the fact that she’s a Christian.’
‘Was that a problem?’
‘Some people teased her. You know, the usual jungle noises and so forth.’ Ruby rolled her eyes. ‘The kind of people working here are one step up from apes, and I mean that in the kindest possible way.’
‘How did she take that?’
‘Well. She’s tough. And she had her defenders.’
‘Mourad?’
‘Mourad.’ Ruby studied her hands for a moment. ‘Most people just kept quiet. If I was there I would tell them to shut up, but that didn’t mean anything – they’d just wait until I was out of range. Mourad always came to her defence. He was genuinely outraged by such behaviour and would lecture them on how they were a disgrace to their country.’ Ruby chuckled at the memory. ‘He could be pretty intense.’
‘How serious was this romance?’
‘Oh, I’m not even sure there was an actual romance between them.’ She hesitated. ‘I got the feeling she represented something to him.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Ruby paused. ‘He would talk about things. Africa. He had a thing about Africa. It would annoy him that we in this country think of ourselves as something different, superior, when we’re on the same continent. We should forget about the Middle East and think about making Africa great. You know he started out studying agriculture?’
‘Before he switched to engineering.’
‘Exactly. He
told me he once dreamed of going up the Nile and building huge farms to feed the continent.’
Mourad the idealist, Mourad the dreamer? Was he drawn to Estrella because of what she represented rather than who she was? How did all this connect to his disappearance? Had his dreams collided with the harsh wall of reality?
‘Did Mourad take a lot of interest in girls generally?’
‘Not really.’ Ruby’s tone was dismissive. ‘I mean he’s handsome, lots of girls liked him, but you know, he’s that sort of person who are just not aware of the effect they have.’
‘He talked to you?’
‘Sometimes. If he was on late we would talk after we’d finished closing down.’
‘Did he ever talk about politics?’
‘Politics didn’t interest him. It was all corrupt in his view. You had to change things from within, from beneath. I’m not sure what he really meant by that.’ Ruby gave a shrug. ‘I can’t see it myself, but people believe what they want to believe.’ She was smiling to herself now. ‘He was funny, the way he talked. He said we’re all prisoners of this world. Just like this city. We just take it for granted that it can’t be changed.’ Ruby rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘Crazy. Nobody ever says things like that.’ She glanced around her as if to remind herself of her surroundings. ‘Nobody.’
Sindbad had decided to give the fast-food revolution a chance. Armfuls of paper bags now rested on the back seat, filling the car with an overpowering, sweet odour. Makana waved him on.
‘Why don’t you go home, feed your children. I’ll make my own way.’
Sindbad protested, but Makana insisted. He felt relief as the Datsun puttered away and then he turned and found another taxi in less time than it took to raise his hand.
Of course it was a risk, driving all that way across town without an appointment and this late in the day, but a recklessness had somehow entered proceedings. Something told him that Doctora Siham would be working late. He wasn’t disappointed. A crack of light at the far end of the long subterranean corridor told him he was not wrong. When he pushed through the swingdoors, however, he found the forensics lab deserted. All he could detect was a faint scent of perfume floating over the usual mix of formaldehyde and cleaning fluids. When had he started noticing what kind of perfume she wore?