by Parker Bilal
‘What do you want?’
Webs of sodium light filtered in from the street to brush at the glow from the screen. Seeing who it was, Abu Gomaa lowered himself unsteadily back onto his rickety chair, yelling at the dogs to keep quiet. He didn’t seem happy to have his little idyll disturbed.
Makana had nothing to offer but his cigarettes, which the old man was happy to help himself to. He tucked one behind his ear and lit up another for now.
‘The nights are long and cold this time of year. A man needs something to keep him company.’ The grey eyes followed Makana as he circled away, glancing at the little corner where Abu Gomaa had his bed against the wall. The air was thick with a fetid, animal smell.
‘What kind of dogs are those?’
‘Fighting dogs.’
‘Fighting dogs?’
‘It’s a special breed. They’re almost wild, mixed with Egyptian jackals.’ His eyes gleamed as a glint of light penetrated the dark. ‘I raise them myself. They bring a good price, if you’re interested.’
‘In dogs? No, thank you. How long have you lived down here?’
Abu Gomaa’s eyes narrowed cautiously, as if expecting a trap. ‘I came as a boy from Upper Egypt. You know that part of the world? Nothing there but darkness. I saw the lights here and I thought I was in heaven. After a week I never wanted to go back.’
‘So you’ve been living here ever since?’
‘You ask strange questions for a police inspector.’ Twin plumes of blue smoke streamed from Abu Gomaa’s nostrils. The doddery old man of their first encounter seemed to have been replaced by a keener, sharper model.
‘Tell me about Mustafa Alwan.’
‘What is there to tell?’ Cardboard boxes stacked along the wall appeared to act as a wardrobe. Something scuttled away in the shadows. No telling what life forms this living space might appeal to.
‘Well, you keep track of the vans, you must know the drivers.’
‘They come and go. They don’t have time to talk to an old man.’
‘What do you think Mustafa was doing on the Ismailia road?’
‘Who said it was him in that van, anyway?’ Abu Gomaa’s tone had hardened. ‘Did they identify the body?’
‘It looks like there were two men in that van. The driver was killed but it seems possible there was a second man who has vanished.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’ The eyes roved around the room, stopping anywhere that was not Makana’s direction. ‘Someone might have stolen the van. It happens.’
‘Then where is Mustafa Alwan? He is the one who signed it out, right?’
‘I’ll be honest with you.’ The old man’s eyes came to a halt on a spot on the floor. ‘He has a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘He drinks. May Allah show him compassion. He drinks and then he forgets.’
‘Why would Shaddad hire a man like that?’
‘Nobody in this world is perfect. You think a man should forfeit the chance to feed his family because he has a weakness? Everyone has weaknesses, even you, I would imagine.’
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong.’ The honeyed mewl of violins drew the old man’s attention back to the television. Makana stepped in to block his view but Abu Gomaa leaned over to one side to see around him. ‘I get the impression Alwan was making a bit of extra money on the side.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘I’m not asking you to squeal on him. I’m just asking if that sort of thing happens. I mean, he has the van in his possession and someone asks to borrow it.’ Makana glanced back at the row of parked vehicles before smiling. ‘You’re not telling me the drivers never try making a little extra on the side?’
‘I wouldn’t say it never happens.’ Abu Gomaa examined the tip of his cigarette as if it were an ancient artefact.
‘And you don’t think it’s odd he hasn’t shown up for work?’
‘Like I said, he drinks. He’ll disappear for a few days and then he’ll come back and everything will go back to normal.’
‘When did the drinking start?’
‘A few years ago. Right after the thing with his son.’
‘What thing with his son?’
‘The boy was born with a problem. The doctors said he couldn’t be saved.’ The watchman sat back, giving up the idea of watching his film. ‘We’re all in the hands of our Lord.’
Chapter Eighteen
The walls of the Café Riche were adorned with photographs of writers, journalists, playwrights, novelists and, above all, poets. Men and women, now long gone, who had devoted their lives to the task of trying to capture the nation in words, to paint its dreams and aspirations, to put its spirit into rhyme and reason. The black and white images floated through the low lighting as if from across the foggy sea of time. Not so much another era as another world. Once this had been the place where intellectuals gathered to argue and plot their dissent. There was said to be a secret door that allowed them to escape in the event of a police raid. Nowadays it catered mostly to tourists seeking to commune with the old spirit. A séance might have been more helpful, thought Makana.
Sami sat alone down at the far end of the room, bowed beneath the disapproving gaze of his idols. His forehead rested on the tablecloth and it remained there as Makana approached. The furry white eyebrows of the impassive waiter rose imperceptibly as he went by – a faint concession to the expression of an opinion.
As Makana sat down, scraping the chair back noisily, Sami lifted his head.
‘You look better with your eyes closed.’
‘Ah, our intrepid investigator. Have a drink with me.’
‘I’m not sure, I suspect you may have drunk the place dry.’
‘Nonsense. The day this place runs dry is the day I start swimming to Europe.’ He snapped his fingers in the air several times to no avail. The waiter appeared to have discovered a corner of the bar counter that needed determined polishing. ‘So, what brings you here?’
‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Well, mabrouk, you found me!’ Sami beamed, then his face grew serious. ‘You remember the old days? We were a team. Whatever you needed I got it for you. Am I right?’
‘I thought you were still helping me.’
‘Sure, but it’s different now.’ Sami squinted at the bar, pushing his spectacles up his nose. ‘Where’s he gone now?’
Makana looked over his shoulder. The waiter had indeed vanished into thin air. A conjuror’s trick, or then again perhaps rumours of a secret door were not unfounded.
‘Look, I understand, you and Rania are going through a difficult time. Every marriage has its ups and downs.’
‘This is not a marital dispute.’ Sami stabbed his index finger into the table. ‘This is about principles. We no longer want the same thing. Isn’t that sad?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want this country to come to its senses. I want the people to wake up.’ Sami struggled to light a cigarette, snapping his lighter ineffectively. ‘I can’t do that if I’m trying to raise a family. And what about Rania, what becomes of her work? If she gives that up you know who she’s going to blame, right? Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day.’
‘Maybe she’s old enough to make that decision herself. Maybe she thinks you both are.’
‘Come on, I can barely manage my life as it is.’ Sami upended the bottle of beer into his mouth and sucked at the dregs, peering over at the bar. ‘I can’t understand where he got to.’
‘Talking of work . . .’
‘Oh, yes. Sure.’ Sami juggled a cigarette between hands and mouth while fishing a notebook from his satchel. ‘I don’t know if I told you, but Ubay made short work of the password.’
‘Ubay told me himself.’
‘He did?’ Sami blinked. ‘Of course, he told you how to find me.’
‘He made me swear not to reveal my source.’
‘He’s a good kid. So talented. Th
at’s what gets to me.’ Sami screwed his eyes tightly shut. ‘There’s so much talent in this country, and it’s all going to waste. Imagine what this country could be. It’s just like this guy.’ Sami tapped the notebook.
‘Mourad.’
‘I mean, I look at him and I can feel his pain. I can see the way he’s thinking, how he’s trying to find a way out of this mess. That’s it. Everyone dreaming in their little niches.’
Makana couldn’t tell if this was the booze talking, or whether he was witnessing a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Either way, it wasn’t good. Then again maybe it was a symptom, the national malady: melancholia interrupted by flights of fantasy.
‘So what exactly is he involved in?’
‘Hard to say. He’s thinking outside the lines. He’s smart enough to try and erase his tracks, not good enough to fool us, of course. I thought maybe drugs, but this is the wrong mix, too much idealism and not enough wacky abstraction.’
‘What about political material?’
‘He’s not planning a revolution, if that’s what you’re thinking. Ah, finally.’ Sami waved the empty Stella bottle at the wayward waiter. ‘Suleiman, please, we’re dying of thirst.’
‘Maybe you’ve had enough for one night,’ said the white-haired waiter.
‘You’re worried about me? May Allah show you compassion. Bring us two.’
Suleiman’s face remained as impassive as the Sphinx. Silently he took himself back to the bar to fetch the beer.
‘Okay, where was I? Oh, yes, it’s all pretty vague, but he’s clearly up to something.’ Sami seemed to have sobered up in a matter of seconds. ‘As I was saying, drugs don’t really fit with the profile. He’s on all kinds of websites and blogs, under a number of assumed names, most commonly something called Che_4Masr. Not that original, but a play on the revolutionary poster-boy’s name that locates it specifically in Egypt. He’s also dabbled on 4chan and various other networking sites. He seems to connect to others in a group. They go into a room and the material there is cryptic. There are dates and times and nicknames. It’s some kind of operation, but I can’t figure out what.’ Sami swivelled the notebook around as the waiter arrived with the beer. ‘Thanks, Amm Suleiman.’
‘The night is long,’ said the waiter. ‘Tomorrow brings another day as fresh as an apricot.’
‘Another frustrated poet,’ muttered Sami. ‘Suleiman the Magnificent, we call him. What more could you ask for?’ He returned to the notebook. ‘Take this for example; new transport ready – fourteen.’ Sami looked up. ‘Fourteen what, it doesn’t say. Kilos, boxes, sacks? Another one talks of having to change the route, but doesn’t specify where to. Then there are references to people with funny names.’ Sami flicked up and down. ‘Like this, for example: Lasciac. No idea who that is.’
‘How about dates? Can you fix when these messages were sent?’
‘Well, they aren’t actually sent. They don’t go from one person to another. They are posted on a board. Only people with access can read them. They presumably know what all of this means.’
‘And the messages stop around the time he disappeared?’
‘You said he disappeared around the thirteenth, right? Messages were posted for the next ten days.’
‘By Mourad?’
‘It’s not clear who is posting them. Until we figure out which codename is who, we won’t know.’
‘Can you make me a printout of all the messages you found?’
‘Already done.’ Sami slapped a large envelope on the table. ‘What more could you ask for?’ The smile on his face froze as he poured his beer and Makana got to his feet.
‘That’s it? You’ve got what you came for and now you’re off? How about lending a sympathetic ear?’
‘I’m not going to sit here and watch you drink yourself under the table.’
‘Nobody asked you to.’
The waiter’s mournful gaze followed Makana to the door. A condemned man watching his last hope of salvation turn to dust.
Makana was so lost in his thoughts on the way home that the taxi driver had to nudge him.
‘Yallah, ya basha, they’re calling you.’
He pulled the telephone from his pocket and heard a voice he couldn’t place at first.
‘I had a word with Aljuka about that girl.’
‘And?’ It came to him that Fantômas was in the middle of a crowd somewhere.
‘Let’s just say you’re not his favourite person right now.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t think that’s the end of the story. I just think he needs time. He’ll come round to it.’
‘Can we try without him? I mean, she must be living near the church somewhere.’
‘It’s a possibility. Look, let’s give him a day and if he doesn’t come through I’ll take you there myself.’
‘As long as it’s not going to create problems for you.’
‘You’re trying to help us, right? When no one else cares? That’s enough for me.’
To Aljuka, Makana represented all that was bad with the world. Guilt by association. He was a Northerner and therefore he was one of them. In the old days they would hunt and trade Southerners as slaves. The current regime in Khartoum was the modern face of that same sentiment. The ones who bombed and razed villages, ran militias to do their dirty work for them, to murder old men and children, to rape their women. It was strange to be associated with the same people Makana had come here to get away from, but understandable perhaps, under the circumstances.
‘The brother is a long way from home,’ said the driver as he rang off. His eyes never left the road.
‘You could say that.’ Makana was suddenly weary of the world and all its petty problems.
‘Those are your compatriots, aren’t they, all those people sleeping in the maidan there by the Mustafa Mahmoud mosque? People are saying the Israelis are behind it, but they say that about everything, right?’
‘Why the Israelis?’
‘You know, to make themselves look good, saving Christians from the evils of Islam.’ The driver glanced across to see if Makana was following him. ‘They take them in as refugees. It makes us look like savages.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Oh, yes. They’re all trying to get into Israel. I wouldn’t mind going myself, except of course for the Israelis. Still, it wouldn’t be a bad life, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘No, I don’t know myself. Actually, to tell you the truth, I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. There’s room for everyone, I always say.’
Chapter Nineteen
The meeting with Professor Asfour was at the Manial Palace on Roda Island. Makana wasn’t sure why. When he asked Doctora Siham she had simply said, ‘He likes to walk.’ The palace had been home to Prince Mahmoud Ali Tewfik, uncle to the deposed King Farouk, but was now open to the public, for a small fee. Once upon a time the island had been a botanical paradise thick with rubber trees, banyans, majestic cedars and royal palms. The prince had dreamed of a ‘garden of a thousand delights’, throwing architectural folly into the blend in the shape of an orientalist fantasy of a Turkish castle. The buildings displayed a bizarre mix of variations on Ottoman, Syrian and Moroccan styles.
‘Have you never been here before?’ Doctora Siham was waiting outside the gates. Makana had to admit that he hadn’t. ‘This you have to see.’
She was dressed in trousers and a long jacket. Her hair was loose. This had a disconcerting effect on him, which was bad enough. Then, as they strolled beside a low building stretching along the perimeter wall, she seized hold of his arm and impulsively dragged him inside a dark and gloomy room. The air was aflutter with small wings as birds flew in and out through the barred windows. They perched hesitantly on the old iron, as if uncertain whether it was safe to enter, and it wasn’t hard to see why. The furniture was painted in gold and stood on carpets the colour of blood or wine, though it was probably sa
fe to say neither substance had flowed here in a while. The dusty atmosphere was stirred by a faint breeze from the river that grazed the heavy crystal lobes of the chandeliers, the tarnished candelabras, the tassels of the threadbare carpet. Very little light seemed to get in. Above a tray of glass eyes a poorly printed sign declared there were a hundred and eighty-two mounted gazelle heads, as shot by the king himself or his entourage. Some were no more than kids. One stared stubbornly off to the right, defiant in death.
‘I used to come here as a child, with my father. He was a professor of veterinary studies,’ she offered, which was more than Makana had learned about her in years. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ There was something uncharacteristically bubbly about Doctora Siham today. She seemed radiant. Unsurprising perhaps, Makana reasoned, given the presence of so many stuffed animals. Or did it have something to do with Professor Asfour’s imminent arrival? If ever one asked for a definition of decadence, Makana thought, this room would come close. A table made from an elephant’s ear, tusks and feet propped alongside. A tiny tortoise only thirty-six days old. A gold necklace adorned with heavy pendants, each made of the head of a baby bird, their beaks recast in gold. There was a cobra skin and a stuffed hermaphrodite goat from the island of Qumran which, according to the poorly typewritten card alongside, had apparently impregnated itself. Crocodile heads on ivory letter-openers. A cigar-cutter fashioned from rhinoceros horn. Stuffed monitor lizards, falcons, eagles, rats, even chameleons, along with lions, wart hogs, wild asses, scorpions. Gifts from visiting dignitaries. German medals from Jagdausstellung meetings in Berlin, along with hunting knives and sprung traps. A scarab beetle in a glass lens. Luminous, brightly coloured butterflies.