Dogstar Rising

by Parker Bilal

  ‘Which means . . . ?’

  ‘Which means I think he’s the one who shot Meera.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  When they arrived back at the awama, miraculously in one piece, a car Makana had never seen before was parked under the big eucalyptus tree.

  ‘You have visitors,’ Okasha observed. ‘Bear in mind what I said. Remember who your friends are.’

  Makana watched the police car do a U-turn and race back the way it had come.

  He made his way down through the vegetable patch to find Mohammed Damazeen waiting impatiently. Mo wore western-style jeans, tan slip-on shoes with little leather tassels instead of laces, and a Midnight Blue raw-silk shirt with a Chinese collar. It made him look like a waiter in a nightclub, or a conjuror about to shake white doves from his sleeves. The car and driver were his. Damazeen, it seemed, had his own ways and means and enough money to sponsor the lifestyle he was accustomed to these days. The only question Makana cared about was what he was doing here, strolling around the deck as if he was planning to buy the awama on a whim. Makana rested against the front of the big wooden desk that constituted his office and observed warily as Damazeen cast a rueful eye over the cardboard boxes full of folders and old newspaper clippings – his archives, as it were. A large stain shaped like a frog in the middle of the floor marked the place where water came in through the roof when it rained.

  ‘You really do live like an old-time sultan,’ mused Damazeen, smiling his crocodile grin, showing enough teeth to make you keep your distance. ‘The sultan of a crumbling empire, whose glory days are behind him, perhaps. Still, you have style, I’ve always said that.’

  Makana tried to think of an occasion when he might have said such a thing and failed.

  ‘I’ve had a long day. What’s this about?’

  ‘Yes, of course, straight to business. I understand, you are a busy man.’ Sarcasm came naturally to a man whose career, in Makana’s view, was rather cynically built on his skill at promoting himself rather than his artistic abilities. Early on he had discovered a talent for paying compliments and asking favours – another reason most serious painters seemed to hold him in contempt. Soon he was flitting from one biennale to the next, picking up interest from galleries in Europe and wealthy buyers in the Gulf along the way. The West was looking for icons, emblems of their own benevolence. Damazeen was only too happy to oblige. He turned himself into a one-man Africa, flying here and there, shamelessly promoting himself wherever his feet touched the ground. Perhaps his greatest artwork was himself. Most of the people who bought his paintings had no idea that the same elegant man with whom they rubbed shoulders at champagne receptions was picking up fat commissions on military supply contracts in his spare time. Lorries, jeeps, armoured personnel carriers, and eventually arms. The government was fighting a hopeless war in south Sudan at a cost of some three million dollars a day. Plenty of scope for a resourceful man.

  ‘I need your help. That is what you do, isn’t it, help people?’

  ‘Why would you need my help? I thought you had plenty of contacts in this town.’

  ‘It’s true I have substantial business interests in this country, but this matter is of a slightly more delicate nature.’

  ‘Which is why you came to me?’

  With a flourish Damazeen produced a packet of Dunhills, the gold lighter flashing as he lit a cigarette. Makana inhaled the rich smell of expensive imported tobacco. Reaching for his Cleopatras was almost an expression of pride, or humility. He couldn’t decide which.

  ‘We were friends once.’

  ‘Were we? I seem to remember you turning your back on your friends in order to go home and make a profit out of war.’

  ‘I mean before that.’ The smile hadn’t wavered. ‘When I was at the Faculty of Fine Arts at Khartoum University, I used to see a lot of Muna. This was before she was your wife, naturally.’

  Makana watched him move out onto the open deck at the back and blow smoke at the stars.

  ‘Did you know she considered dropping biology and switching to studying arts? No? We had long talks on the subject. We were very close for a time.’

  ‘That doesn’t change what I said, you and I were never friends.’

  ‘That’s because you looked down on me. You don’t understand art. It doesn’t fit into your world where everything has to make sense. Well, that’s the point. Sometimes two and two don’t add up to four. They don’t add up at all.’

  ‘If you came here to give me a lesson in art, you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘I came here to ask for your help, for old times’ sake.’

  ‘And I told you, the old times didn’t do you any favours. It’s over and done with, so why don’t you get off my boat?’

  Damazeen was leaning on the railing. He studied Makana for a moment. ‘What if I was to tell you this was your chance to get back at Mek Nimr.’

  ‘What do you know about Mek Nimr?’

  ‘Quite a lot as it happens.’ Damazeen smiled. He knew he had Makana’s attention now. ‘We were partners at one time, in a business venture. You probably still think of him as an upstart. A man who was once your adjutant, a plodding sergeant in heavy boots. Well, you would be surprised. There is more to him than meets the eye. Did you know he attended Khartoum University? No? He never graduated, of course, he was suspended for political activities. But he was an activist for the Brotherhood. Before that he spent two years studying veterinary science. A farmer, can you imagine?’ Damazeen’s laughter spilled happily across the water. ‘He hails from a remote village in Kordofan, where his father was the sheikh at the local mosque. In another age he would have been educated abroad and brought up to enter the diplomatic service. Perhaps that is why he developed such resentment for those who were more fortunate than him in life.’

  ‘I’m having trouble seeing how any of this is relevant.’

  Damazeen smiled. ‘You have to remember, the days of national salvation are over. This is the new age of pragmatism. You wouldn’t recognise the country. Things have changed. The new oil money has made everyone rich. When I went back I soon found myself swept into the highest circles, among the military men and politicians who are running the country. The Chinese and Malaysians are busy exploiting the petrol and it flows through the hands of these men. They are greedy and they know it will not last for ever.’

  ‘So you’re making a lot of money, mabrouk, now you can leave.’

  ‘She was a very special woman, Muna. You must miss her a lot, up here in your splendid exile.’ Damazeen’s face was half in shadow, but Makana could tell he was smiling. He was enjoying this. ‘When she first started seeing you we used to tease her. A police officer? What on earth could you have in common? She felt sorry for you. A man whose dedication to his work was all he had to believe in. She thought she could save you from yourself.’

  When he went to pick her up at the university he used to change into civilian clothes, but she used to insist that he was handsome in his uniform, that he made the country proud. He never understood what that meant until she said it. He could barely remember her face, all he could recall was her, the way she was.

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  ‘I told you, I need your help.’

  ‘You have a funny way of asking. Right now I’m more inclined to throw you into the water.’

  ‘We are fighting a war in the south that we cannot win. The soldiers are disillusioned. They don’t know the bush. They just want to go home. To distract people’s minds from the fact the government is calling it a jihad, a holy war. The young men who die in it are martyrs. The president visits the homes of the fallen and calls for a celebration, telling distraught parents their son is now married to houris in heaven. Nobody believes that nonsense any more, except a small group of fanatics, like Mek Nimr.’

  Makana recalled the hapless figure of his NCO. Underneath the meek exterior lay a shrewd and very dangerous man, as Makana was to find out at his own cost. He made sure that whe
n Makana’s course collided with that of the regime’s new order, his career would be over. Makana was lucky to get away with his life but in the process he lost Muna and his daughter Nasra.

  ‘Mek Nimr will never be satisfied until you are dead,’ Damazeen went on. ‘He let you get away that night on the bridge, but it is as if he carries you inside him and can never be rid of you.’

  Three years ago Makana had run into a dangerous man named Daud Bulatt, who Mek Nimr had sent to kill him. In the end it hadn’t worked out that way, but it was proof that he had not forgotten about Makana. Damazeen was talking again.

  ‘A large consignment of arms is about to exchange hands. The buyer is a middleman from central Africa. A smart, ruthless and very dangerous man by the name of Assani. The deal is being facilitated by Mek Nimr. He thinks the arms are going to Palestinian freedom fighters. Actually they are being re-routed to the SPLA in south Sudan.’

  ‘You’re going to double-cross Mek Nimr?’

  ‘He doesn’t like me. Once he has set his mind against you it is only a matter of time. Better to strike first. The scandal will destroy him. The pious man calling for sacrifice, making money out of the blood of martyrs? He will be finished.’

  ‘You’d better be sure of what you are doing.’

  ‘I am, but I need someone along that I can trust. Not just anyone. Someone who understands my motives, someone who has a stake.’

  ‘I don’t get it. What’s my stake in this?’

  ‘I said I would give you your life back.’ The gold lighter stuttered as Damazeen again bowed his head to the flame and exhaled slowly. ‘I know you are not interested in my money.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Nasra.’

  ‘My daughter?’ Makana’s heart slowed to a halt. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘No.’ Damazeen’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘That night on the bridge, when you were trying to escape, the car crashed through the railings and fell into the water.’

  Makana saw it as if it had happened yesterday. The car careering across the bridge, away from the army lorry. The jolt as it hit the side and he was thrown clear. Reaching out to try and pull Muna clear, and watching as the car tipped and slowly fell away into the water below.

  ‘Somehow a pocket of air was trapped inside,’ Damazeen went on. ‘The car landed upside down on a sandbank. The water isn’t too deep there and it didn’t take long for them to drag the car out. Nasra was unconscious, but alive.’

  Makana couldn’t bring himself to speak. The wind rustled through the trees. The traffic receded to the point where Makana could hear the water rising and falling. Finally, he said, ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I told you Mek Nimr was obsessed. He took her into his home. He brought her up as his own daughter.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Makana snorted. ‘How?’

  ‘I have to say, this is one of the nicest spots in this city and you pay what, a pittance?’ Damazeen peered down over the railings into the water. ‘Still, I suppose you never know if you are going to drown in your sleep.’

  Makana cleared his throat. ‘What proof do you have she’s alive?’

  ‘Proof? What would you like? A lock of hair, a photograph? You haven’t seen her for ten years. You wouldn’t recognise her if she was standing in front of you.’

  Makana watched from the railings as Damazeen made his way up the crooked path to the embankment and the road above, taking cautious steps to avoid getting mud on his shoes. He wished there was something he believed in strongly enough to pray to.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The night passed in turmoil with Makana tossing and turning restlessly, finally wrenching himself free by getting out of bed to lean on the rails. He watched the electric light toiling on the water as he smoked his way through every cigarette he could lay his hands on, including the remains of a packet that he discovered behind the old moth-eaten divan in the downstairs room. The tobacco was so dry he had to hold the cigarette at an angle to stop it falling out. It tasted like ashes.

  As the river softened from gleaming obsidian to the warm embers of early morning, Makana had lost count of the number of times he had gone over the events of that night ten years ago in his head. Why had he made the decision to take them with him when he ran? Some protective instinct? He remembered running, though. Running down the long arc of the bridge. Running into darkness and the desert beyond where nothing but blackness awaited him.

  Muna and Nasra had left him with an empty void where his heart was. How do you recover from that? He had never seen their bodies, never buried them, and never truly forgiven himself. Was this what Damazeen was offering? A chance to end it, after all these years? Exhausted, he finally fell back into the old wicker armchair and felt his eyes closing. A moment later, or so it seemed, the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello?’ The light hurt his eyes. The sun was already high in the sky and the daily racket of the traffic across the bridge in full swing. He must have slept for at least two hours.

  At first he thought there was no one there. It took a while for him to hear the uneven breathing coming down the line.

  ‘Is that you again? Won’t you tell me who you are?’

  ‘There are things you need to know.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Makana yawned. There was a long pause and he thought his caller had gone.

  ‘Not . . . on the telephone.’

  ‘Don’t you think I need to know who I’m talking to before we meet?’

  ‘The Fish Gardens in Zamalek, tomorrow night at sunset.’

  The line clicked dead. Makana stared at the receiver for a long time. His mysterious caller had gained the courage to speak. Progress. From the way he spoke and his accent, Makana guessed he was an educated man. Not young, but not old either. It was a voice he did not know.

  Umm Ali’s brother, Bassam, was lying in wait for him on the path up to the road. He opened his mouth as if to say something about the rent, but Makana cut him off with a breezy sabah al-kheir, which forced a response and by then he was past him and up on the road looking for Sindbad.

  ‘I swear you look more like a ghost every day.’

  ‘Thank you, and I trust the family is well?’

  ‘Alhamdoulilah! The children eat like horses. I swear we will have to move into a bigger flat soon. Though I have no idea how I shall ever be able to afford it, prices being what they are.’

  ‘Allah will provide.’

  ‘Inshallah.’

  Having dealt with the formalities, they now contemplated the traffic, which by some miracle was good that morning. It took less than twenty minutes to get downtown. Their first port of call was the Blue Ibis offices which were closed and shuttered. Either Faragalla was supremely confident about his company’s prospects, or he did not care.

  Downstairs in the arcade a sombre air hung over the place. The windows had been repaired and the mannequins replaced. They stood now with their lifeless gaze fixed on some distant point. A man in a striped gelabiyya was using a bucket and a long dirty rag to wash the floor, drawing it back and forth in slow, patient strokes. It seemed like an endless task and as Makana went by the man straightened up and put a hand to his back before wringing a dirty reddish-brown liquid into a plastic bucket. There was a loud wet slap as the rag was dropped back to the tiles, and silently the man bent once more to his work. The shutters on the café, tucked into the far corner, were half lifted. Makana ducked underneath to find the place deserted. He walked slowly round behind the counter and peered through into the little room at the back. A single naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling pushed back the gloom. Makana could feel a soft, cool breeze in his face and he wondered where it came from. On the far side of the room was a cupboard that had been pulled back to reveal a hole in the wall. It had been roughly broken with a hammer, and was barely large enough for an adult. Makana squatted down and stuck his head through and found a narrow passageway that seemed to extend in both directions, running along some kind of gap between th
is building and the next. He felt something cold and hard press against his throat. A carving knife that was long and sharp. An arm covered in plaster tightened around his neck.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘I came about the cigarettes we talked about.’

  ‘I haven’t got them,’ said Eissa. ‘Why are you sneaking about in here?’

  ‘Take the knife away before we have an accident.’

  ‘You’ll do what I say or end up bleeding like a headless chicken.’

  ‘I can’t talk like this. Let me up. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation and then Eissa stepped back. Makana got to his feet and rubbed his throat which stung faintly where the blade had cut the skin. The knife was a big one and it was pointed at Makana’s stomach.

  ‘You don’t need that.’

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ The boy’s eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

  ‘I told you. I came for my cigarettes. You weren’t out there so I looked in here.’

  ‘Are you police?’

  ‘No. I’m a friend of Meera’s, remember?’

  ‘You tried to help her. That was really stupid.’

  ‘I thought you liked her.’

  Eissa shifted his grip on the knife, as if his hand was growing tired. He had just opened his mouth to say something when a shout came from the café.

  ‘Eissa! Eissa!’

  The boy froze. His whole body tensed. He gestured with the blade for Makana to move to the side, while holding a finger to his lips.

  ‘If you say a word,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll kill you. I swear. Stay here and be quiet.’

  Makana stood just behind the door, out of sight. The boy looked at him and then turned and went out into the café.

  ‘What were you doing back there?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Just tidying up.’

  ‘Well stop wasting your time. This place should be open already. Have you been crying?’