by Parker Bilal
‘Poetry for the lady?’
Makana looked up to see the boy leaning over his shoulder.
‘I couldn’t write poetry even if I wanted to.’ He took the cigarettes and tore open the packet. ‘So, tell me where you know her from. Where did you have these lessons?’
‘Oh, she used to come to the church school and teach us.’
‘You’re a Christian?’
‘Me? No way,’ said the boy quickly. ‘No, they have a gym and everything. They even give you food.’
‘Sounds wonderful. How much are the cigarettes?’
‘Half price. I can get you a whole carton if you like.’
‘Where do you get cigarettes that cheaply?’
Eissa shrugged. A shout came from the door. The bawab, Abu Salem, the building’s porter, stood there clutching the arm of a scrawny boy of about ten. ‘This one says he’s with you.’
‘And what of it?’ retorted Eissa, back to his usual self. ‘He helps in the kitchen.’
‘The kitchen? This one still has mother’s milk on his face!’
Eissa put his arm around the younger boy’s shoulder and led him through behind the counter.
‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ the old porter muttered to Makana. ‘They come and go as if they own the place and not a man between them.’ He raised his voice. ‘If this goes on I shall have to speak to Yousef.’
‘Yousef?’ echoed Makana.
‘He’s a friend of the owner, who has another place he runs across town. Yousef takes care of business for him.’
Yousef appeared to have a hand in everything. He certainly seemed to take an interest in Makana. No sooner had he sat down to work than Yousef turned up. Pushing heaps of folders to one side, he perched himself on the corner of the desk and stretched a rubber band between two fingers.
‘Tell me again why you went to prison.’
Makana glanced round, as if worried about being overheard. ‘I told you. It was a misunderstanding.’
This amused Yousef. He chuckled and slapped Makana on the shoulder.
‘Come on, let’s take a drive and do some real work.’
‘I am supposed to be trying to help the company.’
‘Believe me, that can wait.’
Twenty minutes later they were bumping along Sharia al-Muizz, in the area known as Bayn al-Qasrayn, which once lay between two Fatimid palaces. They passed the tomb of Saliq al-Ayubi, the man who created the Mamluks, a cadre of imported slaves. Slaves were considered reliable because as foreigners they would never aspire to rule the country. Al-Ayubi was wrong. By the time of his death the Mamluks were so powerful that his widow was forced to make a pact with them. Known by the alluring name of Tree of Pearls, Shagarat al-Durr, she tried to keep her husband’s death a secret. The deception didn’t last long and eventually she conceded permission for her son to be murdered so as to remain on the throne herself. Finally, she married the Mamluk leader and so the country passed into the hands of its former slaves, where it remained for three hundred years. Makana wondered if this was where the distrust of foreigners stemmed from.
They came to a halt near the tomb of al-Qalaun. A large pool of muddy water swirled from a burst drain.
‘What a stink,’ Yousef said, screwing up his face. ‘You wait here, I won’t be long.’
Makana watched him disappear into a narrow opening between two buildings. He let a couple of minutes pass before he got out. Nearby, a child squatted on a heap of pebbles.
‘Where did all this water come from?’
‘You didn’t hear?’ the boy replied. ‘The president decided to take a piss. Three days it’s been like this. We’re still waiting for him to finish.’
‘Watch your mouth!’ yelled an old man going by, leading an exhausted donkey.
‘You see that car?’ Makana handed the boy a banknote. ‘You keep an eye on it and you get another of those when I get back.’ The money vanished from sight in the blink of an eye.
Makana crossed the street and descended a few steps. The narrow passage, barely wide enough for two people to squeeze by one another, vanished into the shadows between the buildings. A few minutes later an archway to his right opened onto an irregular square enclosed on three sides by colonnades of stone pillars. In the far corner he glimpsed Yousef disappearing through a doorway. Makana crossed the square. The door carried no name or number, but the heavy wood was decorated by a distinctive pattern of birds fashioned from wrought iron. Makana stepped back and looked up at the big house behind the wall.
‘Looking for someone?’
A passer-by in a grubby gelabiya had stopped to peer at him.
‘I was just wondering who lived here.’
‘So why don’t you knock and ask?’ The man regarded Makana with a sceptical eye. Over his shoulder he carried a dirty white sack out of which pieces of charcoal poked like tiny charred limbs.
‘It’s all right, I’ll come back later.’
The man had obviously decided he didn’t trust Makana and stood his ground until he was sure he was on his way. Retracing his steps, Makana returned to the car and waited. Ten minutes later, Yousef appeared in the narrow cut. He looked left and right before stepping out of the alleyway and crossing the street. As he got in Makana made to start the engine.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Yousef opened the briefcase on his lap and reached inside for a thick manilla envelope. ‘I don’t know why, but I have a good feeling about you.’ Unwrapping a thick wad of dollars wrapped in newspaper he peeled off a handful and held them out.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Your share.’
‘My share of what? I haven’t done anything.’
Yousef winked. ‘You drive me here, you keep your mouth shut. That’s something. Call it an advance. Later, I might want you to do a bit more.’
‘I don’t take money for something I haven’t done.’
‘An honest man, eh? Well, fine, I’ll hold onto it for you until you are ready. Just don’t wait too long. I’m not known for being a patient man. Next time I’ll introduce you to the old man. Now let’s get out of here, this place stinks worse than my mother-in-law.’
There was a knock on the window. The boy who had been watching the car stood there rubbing his fingers together. Makana wound down the glass and handed out a note. When he turned back he saw a look of disgust on Yousef’s face.
‘Keep giving it away like that and you’ll need more money than I can give you.’
Chapter Eight
The mosque was within walking distance of the awama. On Friday morning traffic along Al Nil Street was a fraction of what it was on a working day. The riverbank recovered some of its natural state. It took him fifteen minutes, first he walked along the river towards Midan Kit Kat and then turned west and walked inland. The relaxed mood extended through the narrow streets. Proud men strolled along leading their young children. Onlookers gathered around a minibus that had been stripped to a skeleton and observed one man hammering it mercilessly. Finding the mosque became a matter of following the crowd. It was a large construction that looked as though it had not been finished. A basic rectangle of grey breeze blocks fenced out the area. Inside, a structure of newly set raw concrete rose up out of the ground topped by a wide dome. Alongside it the minaret seemed out of proportion and uneven as it climbed crookedly towards the sky. Wooden scaffolding was still in place on one side and jagged metal spikes stuck out of the sides, presumably to hold the final outer layer of cladding, when someone got around to finishing off the building. Along the front, metal poles supported a strip of corrugated plastic sheets that provided some shade. Beneath this was a row of simple taps and a drainage gutter where the faithful could perform their ritual ablutions before entering. Around the sides a skirt of scuffed bare ground divided the mosque from the surrounding wall and the road. The street and grounds were packed with people milling about. He looked around for Sami, but without luck. They should perhaps have arranged to meet elsewhere beforeha
nd. To one side of the entrance he spotted a group of what looked like Central Security Forces heavyweights surveying the crowd. Pushing through, Makana made it as far as the shelter where he had a view of the interior through a barred window.
Fans revolved overhead while on a raised dais at the far end of the room, resplendent in white robes, sat the compelling figure of Sheikh Waheed. In his mid-fifties, he wore a wispy beard. His head was covered by a simple turban. An enormous leather-bound Quran rested on a sandalwood stand before him.
‘He is the Lord of the heavens and the earth and all that is in between them. Worship Him, then, and be patient in his service.’ Sheikh Waheed paused and raised his eyes above his reading glasses to look out at the crowd. Speakers attached to the outside walls made sure his words were carried to those standing in the grounds and the street beyond.
‘What greater suffering to inflict upon a parent but the bloody slaughter of a child? Is there one among you who cannot feel the pain of losing a son? Imagine the torment they must endure!’
There was a collective sigh of sympathy from the crowd. Around him Makana could hear people muttering angrily. A scuffle broke out to his right. The heavies from the front entrance moved in to drag the troublemakers away. Everyone fell silent as the sheikh began to speak again.
‘A ruthless murderer is amongst us. Is it any wonder, I ask myself, that people speak of these murders as an evil ritual? Who would dare, in this day and age, to sacrifice children? I ask myself, have we gone back to the Jahiliyya, the days of ignorance before the light of Islam touched mankind?’ A murmur of dissent passed through the audience like a restless pulse. ‘The bodies of innocent creatures, slaughtered like wild beasts.’ The sheikh’s voice trembled, his lips quivering with barely restrained fury. ‘Such deeds cannot go unpunished, surely?’
‘Revenge!’ someone shouted from Makana’s right.
‘Kill them all!’ came another.
‘Let them feel our pain.’
There were other voices, voices urging restraint, calm, but these were swamped by the flood. The men by the gate were grinning to one another.
Up on the podium the sheikh raised his hands for calm.
‘Patience.’ His voice shook. There was a touch of theatricality to him as he surveyed the flock gathered at his feet, crammed together shoulder to shoulder, kneeling or sitting on the carpets spread over the hard concrete floor.
‘Did the Prophet, May Allah bestow His blessings upon him, not spend twenty-three years awaiting the full revelation of the sacred text?’ he asked, tapping the book in front of him. ‘Then who are we not to heed the lessons of patience?’ The sheikh’s tone hardened. ‘Those who ask for restraint should know that injustice can be suffered only for so long.’ He held the crowd in his hands now. His voice rose, the little body rocked back and forth on the dais as if trying to wear its way down into the earth below.
‘When the fateful day arrives, woe to the unbelievers! Know that we send down to the unbelievers devils who incite them to evil. Therefore have patience: their days are numbered.’
Cries of ‘Allahu akbar’ resounded as the sheikh got to his feet. He moved with the speed of a much older man, bowing to allow his most fervent supporters to kiss him on both cheeks before vanishing through a gap in the crowd.
As the men poured out of the mosque into the street, their anger filled the air. Makana recognised the same Central Security Forces thugs he had seen earlier, huddled together around the entrance. Then he was swept along in the rush of men being herded around the gate. He followed along as they moved off, first in one direction and then another, as if unable to decide which way to go. Then the indecision seemed to resolve itself and the crowd began to move, led by the same small group of instigators. People tagged along, with young boys running alongside, others leaping on top of cars and shouting. The route twisted and turned, cutting down short, narrow streets. Their destination became apparent as they emerged into an open square and the high walls of a church came into view. Unlike the newly built mosque they had just left, this building was old and crumbling. Deep cracks zigzagged up the front wall. The yellowing paint and plaster had come away in large gouts.
Outside the church a dark blue police pickup was parked. Uniformed men stood around it armed with riot sticks and shields as they eyed the approaching mob. A sergeant with a thick moustache stood with his hands on his hips.
‘Go on with you. We don’t want trouble here.’
‘There’s no trouble here,’ one man said, advancing on the sergeant. ‘The trouble is there,’ he said, pointing at the church. Then, as if released by a secret signal, the mob broke loose. Stones and bottles flew overhead. A tree nearby shook as it was stripped of a few handy branches that were waved in the air. Glass shattered. The policemen were nervously backing away, stopped only by the sergeant who had retreated behind them, where he remained, arms folded, cautioning them to stand firm. They were easily outnumbered ten to one. The mob seethed, hurling their anger at the church in a rain of bricks and bottles that shattered against the walls. As Makana skirted along the edge he caught sight of Sami, waving to him from the next corner beyond the church.
‘I didn’t think you would make it.’
‘Is it always like this?’ Makana asked.
‘It’s become regular Friday entertainment. They come in from all over the city to hear the sheikh speak, and it’s always provocative.’
Father Macarius was waiting for them nervously beside a large metal door that led into a walled compound adjoining the church. He ushered them quickly inside and bolted the gate behind them. Macarius was an impressive figure. Dressed in a black cassock that stretched down to his sandals, he was a tall, broad-chested man with a square jaw that looked as if it had been etched in the stone of his greying beard. According to Sami, he was a bit of a maverick. There was some long story about a scandal behind him. Apparently, he had been expelled from the church at one point, and then reinstated.
‘This is not the first time we have been attacked. It has become a form of diversion for young people. It is not their fault, in my opinion, but they are frustrated and easily led astray.’
Makana and Sami had to make an effort to keep up with the priest, who moved with lithe, athletic grace.
‘You can’t blame people for being concerned,’ Sami said to his back. ‘These murders have created an atmosphere of panic.’
‘That is exactly my point.’ Father Macarius spun on his heel to face them. ‘There is a need for calm thinking, rationality, but the government is taking a back seat. It is almost as if this unrest is of no concern to them.’
Sami was scribbling furiously in his notebook. ‘Are you accusing the government of turning a blind eye to the persecution of Christians in this country?’
Father Macarius smiled. ‘I said nothing of the kind, so please do not quote me as having said that. I merely ask the question of why nothing more is being done to catch the person responsible for these murders.’
‘And if the murderer is a Christian?’
Father Macarius turned his gaze on Makana. ‘The law must apply to all, regardless of their beliefs.’
The interior of the church was dark and cool. Bands of sunlight spilled through the hatched screens that covered the upper windows. A high gallery ran along both sides of the walls, culminating in a square tower that rose up at the far end. The air was laden with dust. The building was in a state of collapse by the look of it. Held together by heavy wooden scaffolding, timbers, rope, nails and a good deal of faith.
The noise of the crowd outside was diminishing.
‘They are growing bored,’ said Father Macarius. ‘Now their minds turn to other things. Their stomachs are hungry and a glass of tea would be nice after all that shouting.’
‘A lot of people would not take being attacked in such a good-natured way,’ said Sami.
‘I refuse to be bullied into retreating to the dark ages.’ Macarius gestured about him. ‘I built this church from a ru
in. That was my promise to Pope Shenouda. Give me a place to stand, I said, and I shall build a tower to God. I did that and I shall defend it with my life.’
A large wooden screen ran along one wall. On it a series of small panels gleamed darkly like pearls inset in the brown, smoky wood. Icons. Flashes of gold paint, light and varnish brought the religious images alive.
‘We have been here for centuries,’ said the priest. ‘The Coptic church is living history, a connection to the ancient world of the pharaohs.’
Sami nodded and pointed. ‘What’s this one?’
‘Saint Anthony.’
The air carried the tarry smell of old wood, death and stale perspiration. The whitewashed walls bore the smudges of passing hands. Even the light seemed somehow to have arrived here from another century. The priest led the way along the display, pointing out the figures in the paintings.
‘Saint Nilus of Sinai, who prophesised the apocalypse; St Amun, named of course after the Egyptian God; St John the Small; St Shenouda.’ He ticked them off with a finger as they moved.
‘All of them were hermits, weren’t they?’
Father Macarius spoke over his shoulder without looking in Makana’s direction.
‘This church is dedicated to those who took themselves off into the desert in order to commune with God. It is the tradition to which I belong.’
‘You are a monk, then? Which monastery?’
‘It’s of no consequence,’ shrugged Father Macarius as he turned, his eyes lingering on Makana for a moment. ‘Wadi Nikeiba. It no longer exists.’
They moved on until they came to the last wooden panel in the display. The paintings seemed to merge, blending into a constellation of suffering. It made Makana tired just to think of all that pain. But this last one intrigued him. Two figures shared a frame the colour of blood.
‘My namesake,’ explained the priest tersely. ‘Macarius the Great.’
‘What about the figure next to him?’
‘Ah . . . that is the Seraph.’ Macarius studied Makana carefully. ‘You are not a religious man.’ It wasn’t a question.