by Parker Bilal
‘We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.’
‘Are you Sabbour?’
‘Who wants to know?’ There was a stiffening in his shoulders, as if surprised to be addressed by his own name, when it was painted in two-foot letters across the wall outside.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘My loss?’ The man set down his glass on the workbench alongside him and squinted through the smoke of his cigarette.
Makana nodded at the old pasha’s palace across the street. ‘The kid they found over there. Ihab was your nephew, wasn’t he?’
The frown deepened. ‘What’s it to you?’
Although the entrance was the width of a simple garage, the interior of the workshop space expanded into a high, gloomy cavern. A tinny radio was playing in the background somewhere. Violins working themselves up into frenzy seemed out of place in this setting. Makana slipped past the car that was stationed near the entrance. The bonnet was up and the engine partly dismantled. He felt the man’s eyes following him.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
A row of vehicles blocked a narrow passageway that led further inside. Beyond that he could see more vehicles parked in the gloom. He edged his way sideways through the gap. He still hadn’t seen what he was looking for. To get anything through here would have been like taking a jigsaw puzzle to pieces and putting it back together again.
‘Amazing how well you make use of the space in here.’
The man had moved away from the counter, hands hanging by his sides. He followed Makana slowly.
‘Is there something you want?’
Once through the bottleneck the area opened up into a wide, tin-roofed parking space filled for the most part with dusty, obsolete vehicles. There was an air of desolation in here, a catalogue of mechanical time. A forgotten museum of automobile history. A tyreless rust-coloured Volkswagen Beetle sat alongside a Ford Cortina with no seats and a Fiat Topolino, circa 1950, that was now home to a family of cats. He didn’t see what he had been hoping to find. Something was missing. He found that. A space between the neatly aligned vehicles. Freshly vacated. The ground clear of dust. Broken earth darkened by engine oil.
Makana paused. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of an arc flying towards him. A fragmented reflection in the mottled chrome of a side mirror. The wrench flew past his ear, so close he felt the air part. It slammed into the roof of the Volkswagen. Makana turned to face his attacker, only to receive the full brunt of Sabbour’s weight, which sent him flying backwards. He bounced off the sloping rear of a Citroën Berliner and slid to the ground. Sabbour moved fast for a big clumsy man. He loomed over Makana.
‘Did you kill him?’
‘Why would I come here if I had killed him?’ Makana held up a hand for a moment’s respite. It wasn’t needed. The fight had gone out of Sabbour. The wrench was the length of Makana’s forearm. Sabbour’s nostrils flared as he breathed in, but his anger was no longer aimed at Makana. The wrench smashed into the side of the Citroën, leaving a dent. It seemed a shame to treat an old car like that, but if it meant not taking his frustration out on Makana then he had no complaints.
‘I found him. Call your brother if you don’t believe me.’
‘My brother?’ Sabbour looked sceptical. The good news was that he lowered the wrench a fraction. ‘What are you, police?’
Makana shook his head. ‘I’m looking for a friend of his, Mourad Hafiz.’
With a long sigh, Sabbour straightened up. He tossed the wrench to the ground and stood with his hands hanging limply by his side. It wasn’t that the fight had gone out of him, more that he was unsure where to direct his rage. Sabbour screwed up his face and ran a hand over the damage he’d just inflicted.
‘They cut him open, I heard.’
Makana got to his feet and dusted himself off, careful to make no sudden moves. ‘I’d like to find out who did it.’
The mechanic said nothing. He drew a cigarette from a pocket in his overalls with a smooth, practised movement. A lighter came out of the other side somewhere. He picked up the wrench again and swung it as if trying to decide what to hit.
‘You knew what he was up to, didn’t you?’
‘I mind my own business.’ Sabbour’s shrug had the same practised ease as his cigarette skills. Makana was willing to bet he had been in prison. He had the look of a man who had lost his way at some stage and was now doing his best to claw back whatever dignity remained. Hard to believe that he was the brother of a pompous judge in his fancy gown and salon stuffed with Louis XIV furniture. The black sheep of the family. The reckless uncle. The one you might go to when you needed a sympathetic ear, someone to help with something a little chancy.
‘Ihab was a good kid.’
‘He was.’
‘A little high-strung, a little wild.’ Sabbour’s grin revealed a gold tooth. ‘I was like that when I was young.’
‘He liked you. That’s why he came to you for help.’
‘Kids up to some kind of prank. I thought the whole thing was harmless.’
‘How did it work?’
Sabbour nodded at the empty space. ‘I kept the van here for them. When they needed it I let them take it. I thought it was something that would pass. At that age, you know. They usually tried to give me some money. I only took what I needed for repairs and so on.’
‘So you didn’t ask too many questions?’
The mechanic shrugged. ‘You know how it is with these kids. They don’t really know what they want to do with their lives.’
‘You know where they were going with your van?’
‘Sure. I mean, they told me some of it.’ Sabbour stared at him sullenly. ‘Are you really trying to find the people who killed him?’
‘If I can.’
‘They weren’t doing anyone any harm.’ The mechanic’s cheeks sucked inwards as he drew smoke into his lungs. He was breathing heavily and hefted the weight of the wrench in his hand. ‘If I get my hands on the sons of bitches who did this . . .’
‘What they were doing was risky. You must have known that when you agreed to help them.’
The wrench thumped into his hand. Sabbour looked off to the side. ‘You know how it is,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t want to think too much about it. I liked that he needed my help, I just didn’t think it was that serious. I didn’t think.’
‘They must have stepped on somebody’s toes.’
‘I’ll tell you what I believe.’ The wrench shook in Makana’s face. ‘I believe they forgot to pay someone off. Forgot or refused. I don’t know there’s much difference when it comes to paying rats like your lot.’
‘My lot?’
‘Whatever.’ He made a throwaway gesture.
‘Do you know where they would take them?’
The mechanic stubbed out his cigarette and stared at the ground for a time. Then he gave a loud sniff and turned and walked back towards the front of the workshop.
‘What did you do time for?’
The weary eyes flicked up to meet Makana’s. He didn’t look away. A man coming to terms with his misdeeds.
‘It was mostly dealing with stolen goods. Nothing too serious.’ A small cubicle over by the entrance was lined with grubby glass upon which newspaper was taped in some attempt at decoration. Yellowed sheets of newsprint adorned with images of faded starlets, singers and actresses who would now be middle-aged matrons, wherever they were. He sought out a packet of Cleopatras and a lighter.
‘My brother helped me to get this place when I got out.’
‘How many trips did they make?’
‘Two or three, maybe more. I didn’t keep track.’
‘Whoever did this won’t stop with Ihab. They’ll go after Mourad and the girl, Fadihah, as well. Ihab would want to help his friends, don’t you think?’
‘You’re not related to those other two, are you?’ Sabbour examined the tip of his cigarette.
‘Which other two?’ Makana looked up. He alrea
dy knew what the answer was going to be.
‘They said they were police. They had that dishonest look of superiority on their faces. They knew all about me.’
‘Describe them.’
‘One of them tall and ugly, the second short and even uglier.’
‘What kind of car did they drive?’
‘A Mazda the colour of horseshit.’
‘Tom and Jerry.’
‘They didn’t give their names, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that.’
‘Hakim and Karim, they are called. If you think of anything else you’d like to tell me, just give me a call.’ He handed Sabbour a card with his number on it. ‘It might help. One last thing, the van they used. What was it?’
‘An old Toyota Hiace. Red. About twenty years old. They wanted something inconspicuous, nothing fancy. They thought it was perfect.’
Sindbad was waiting for him outside in the street. He had spent the day looking for Fadihah with no luck. Now he was tired and eager to get home. As they drove he began grumbling about there being too many cars on the streets.
‘I swear, if I was the president I would impose a ban. Like, say, you could have red cars one day and blue cars another.’ Sindbad punctuated his spiralling thoughts by leaning on the horn. ‘But what am I thinking of, it would never work. People just do what they like.’
Makana wasn’t paying much attention. He was recalling the poem on the wall of Mourad’s room. Freedom ain’t freedom when a man ain’t free. Get on board our Freedom Train! That is what they had been doing, running refugees up to the Israeli border, giving them a chance at a new life in a new country. A modern-day freedom train, the kind of thing that might appeal to a bunch of wide-eyed idealistic students looking for excitement. Only something happened and things took a more serious turn. What was it that precipitated the change? Was this the point at which Tom and Jerry entered the picture?
Makana tried calling Fantômas, only to be rewarded again by the distant rhythms of drums and singers. They crossed the river back into Mohandiseen. Outside the mosque a commotion threatened to spiral out of control. Blue and red flashing lights indicated the presence of dozens of emergency vehicles – police cars, vans and ambulances. Rows of prison trucks formed a wall along the southern end of the square. Officers in riot gear, bearing shields and batons, jostled the crowd. What they were trying to do wasn’t clear. Sindbad cast a wary eye over the scene.
‘Better come back another time, ya basha. This doesn’t look good.’
‘I’ll be all right. Go up a couple of streets and wait. I’ll find you when I’m done.’
‘Just watch out.’ Sindbad shook his head. ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’
The situation had deteriorated since the last time Makana had been here. The tension was visible in the faces of the men and women on the square through the cordon of armoured shoulders and helmets, and in the tense features of the policemen. They were afraid, and that wasn’t a good sign. As a rule, when the forces of law are afraid violence soon follows.
What had happened, Makana wondered as he made his way round the perimeter looking for a familiar face. The wise thing, he knew, would be to leave, come back when things had settled down, but he sensed he didn’t have the luxury of waiting. Time had run out for Ihab and soon it would be the turn of others.
‘They’re all mad,’ offered a young conscript in riot gear. His helmet was too big and had tipped forward over his eyes. He pushed it back. ‘They brought this on themselves.’
‘They should clear the square now,’ another officer added. ‘Before it gets out of hand.’
‘It’s already out of hand.’
Makana left them talking as he pushed his way forward, slowly drawing nearer to the south end of the grassy square. Paving stones and iron railings had been ripped up to use as weapons. The road was strewn with broken concrete, bottles, clothes, an abandoned shoe. At the centre of the conflict was a confrontation between a group of black-uniformed Central Security Forces men and angry youths. As they jostled back and forth he picked out the vivid white tracksuit and jangling gold chains of Aljuka.
‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Makana turned to find Fantômas standing alongside him.
‘I was looking for you.’
Glancing over his shoulder, Fantômas steered Makana through the crowd, away from the scuffles. They stopped to allow a phalanx of charging policemen through. Between them a boy, no more than seventeen, was dragged backwards, his feet ploughing the ground, a trail of blood glistening in his wake.
‘Hey!’ Makana called out, but Fantômas was dragging him away, off to the side, through the lines of police and bystanders.
‘You should know better than to get involved.’
It was unusual for him, but Makana felt an emotion stirring inside him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He was angry. They reached a clearing in a tree-lined street, a faint reminder of what this residential neighbourhood looked like normally. On the balcony of an apartment building a family clutched their arms to them against the chill and watched proceedings below.
‘Take a good look.’ Fantômas pointed a finger over Makana’s shoulder. ‘Those people have been here for three months, trying to restart their lives. Put yourself in their shoes. Your fate is in the hands of some UN filing clerk who has no idea what he’s doing in this country, let alone what’s going on outside his door. But responsibility falls on his shoulders. He has to decide if you are a genuine asylum seeker, or a liar. If he turns you down you have one chance to appeal. After that you’re finished, stuck here for ever.’
‘I have trouble understanding exactly where you fit into all of this.’
‘Me?’ Fantômas smiled, a hard, cynical grimace. ‘I came here with nothing. Rags on my back, no papers to prove who I claimed to be, that I’d been in the resistance in Darfur, that my parents, my wife, my baby were murdered by the Janjaweed militia. Nothing. Just my story. Sometimes that’s not enough. Once you realise you’re nobody, you can become anything.’
Makana needed a cigarette. His hands trembled as he lit one. Why now? What was it about this situation that upset him so? He knew the answer. He’d just never really asked the question. He understood the frustration. Perhaps it was guilt that had made him steer clear. Not his own guilt, but that of his fellow countrymen, the Northerners, the ones who had never reacted, who had remained silent in the face of war, persecution and injustice. Silence in the face of mass injustice was an omission of conscience. Guilt by association. It made him a part of it.
‘I need to find Estrella.’
Fantômas gave a click of annoyance. ‘Why don’t you just drop it?’
‘Why would a girl like that get pregnant?’
‘Why does any woman get pregnant?’
‘She knew she was being vetted for the trip to America. She must have known they would find out.’ It was hard to read the other man’s face in the shadows. ‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew that she had to find another way out.’
Fantômas gave a roll of the head. ‘Desperate times, desperate measures.’
‘She knew what Mourad and his friends were up to. She went to him and asked him to help. She wanted him to get her out of this country. Why did she need him? Was it because she was pregnant? Because the Americans turned her down?’
‘Just leave it, Makana. Drop the whole thing. It’s too big.’ Fantômas was backing away, hands raised before him. ‘This is not your fight. This is our fight. Go back to where you belong.’
With that Fantômas turned and strode away. Makana watched him go. Somewhere nearby a siren started up and then stopped. As he made his way towards where Sindbad was waiting in the next street, he passed by a handful of policemen who were resting against a wall. They broke into nervous laughter as he went by.
Chapter Thirty-two
An hour later found Makana standing outside the Le Pacha floating restaurant in Zamalek feeling faintly absurd. What exactly did he think he was doing? In-between he had managed
to go home and do his best to make himself presentable. A freshly laundered and ironed shirt and his newest jacket had been all he could summon, and still he felt like a sheep dressed up for the butcher’s knife. Even now, he hesitated at the entrance and considered one last time making up an excuse. The truth was he had been trying to think of one that would stand up to scrutiny, and found himself coming up short. His plight was not helped by the fact that the entrance lobby was lined with mirrored panels. As if he wasn’t self-conscious enough already. Bright lights only added to his torture, glaring down on him as he walked in. In a passing glance at his reflection he saw his father. Aged. His face drawn. Lines around the corners of his eyes and flecks of grey in his otherwise dark hair. His courage threatened to desert him completely and he turned, thinking there was still time to escape, only to find Doctora Siham standing before him. He was stunned into silence. She looked quite unlike anything he could ever have imagined. Her hair, released from the dull scarf she wore when on duty, pinned up out of the way beneath surgical caps, now flowed down to her shoulders. It seemed to shine and move with an energy of its own. But he didn’t really have time to study the hair because he was too busy trying to take in the rest of her. She was wearing a dark blue dress that elegantly accentuated her figure without flaunting it. Around her bare shoulders she had wrapped a colourful shawl to keep away the evening chill.
‘I’m sorry I’m late.’
Momentarily at a loss, Makana studied his watch. They were both precisely on time. The awkwardness threatened to congeal into embarrassment, with neither one quite knowing what kind of greeting was appropriate in this situation.