by Parker Bilal
‘Rania is the best thing that ever happened to me.’ The beer had made Sami sentimental. ‘Was it like that with you and Muna? I never met her, but I feel I have been around her for a few years now. Not that you ever talk about her all that much.’
‘We should get moving,’ said Makana, glancing at his watch.
‘Sure, sure.’ Sami got to his feet and grabbed for his jacket which caught, tipping over the chair. It hit the floor with a loud crash, waking everyone from their quiet slumber.
‘Okay, khalas, it’s all right. You can go back to writing your reports now. I’m leaving,’ Sami called out as he backed out of the door. He glanced about the room, lowering his voice. ‘You ever wonder how many people in here are in the pay of the government?’
‘Married life is making you paranoid,’ said Makana as he led the way out into the street. He hailed a taxi and pushed Sami inside. He saw the driver flinch and mutter ‘Astaghfirullah’ under his breath, his face screwing up in disapproval as he caught the smell of booze.
Oblivious, Sami hung his head out of the window, curly hair blowing in the slipstream, and waved back at Makana like a wild child, delighted with his own bad behaviour.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The punchbags hung limply on chains, as if exhausted and waiting for the next beating. In one corner two men were working out earnestly with home-made weights resourcefully devised from iron cogs salvaged or stolen from some kind of large machinery. Elsewhere, one boy sheltered behind a pad held to his side while a young man threw a barrage of kicks at it, emitting a piercing cry with each blow. So not just boxing then. An odour of rotting drains came accompanied by the steady trill of running water from an open doorway at the far end, indicating changing rooms and a leaky toilet. Makana was almost touching the ropes of the ring at the centre of the room before he realised the man bouncing about inside it was none other than Father Macarius. He wore blue shorts and a white singlet and was trading blows with a hard little brown button of a man who appeared to be made of rock. He attacked with a relentless flurry of punches, arms like stout branches blowing in a hurricane. The priest put up a good show, ducking and weaving and generally tiring out his opponent who must have been at least twenty years younger than him. Makana joined the crowd of young men skirting the ring and watched as Father Macarius jabbed a blow home between the other man’s defences. There was something old-fashioned about his style, but he moved with natural fluidity, hips low, the weight in his shoulders. His legs were sinewy pale springs that sent him bouncing out of harm’s way. The little slugger advanced steadily, but Father Macarius stayed on his toes, circling just out of reach. The boys around the side were clad in a variety of ill-fitting, worn-out clothes. Trousers and singlets whose colours were faded to a uniform grey. They ranged in age from their mid-twenties to as young as seven or eight. With each flurry of leather against skin, a cheer went up. A bell rang and the two fighters slapped gloves and stepped away from each other. Grimy furrows of silvery sweat divided Father Macarius’ lined face as he sagged on the ropes. Makana recognised Antun as the boy who began to unlace his gloves. He noticed the affectionate way Macarius ruffled the boy’s shaved head. Raising a weary hand in greeting, he said:
‘Feel like going a few rounds?’
‘With you? I’m not sure how wise that would be, Father.’
Macarius laughed as he ducked out of the ring and dropped to the floor. The boots he wore had been scuffed so raw the worn leather appeared to be sprouting hairs. ‘You look as though you might benefit from a few lessons.’ He indicated the bruise on Makana’s cheek.
Father Macarius wrapped a towel around his neck and wiped his face. Over by the wall was a plastic water barrel whose blue colour had been softened by years in the sunlight. Lifting an aluminium mug he dipped it inside and drained it in one go, his Adam’s apple straining like a bird trying to get out of a sack. Makana recognised the fighter throwing the kicks on the far side of the room as Ishaq, the sharp-faced young man who had been outside Meera’s house. He looked quite good. Makana made a mental note to remember this.
‘I saw a couple of your boys guarding Ridwan Hilal’s home the other day,’ he said.
‘They aren’t my boys, as you put it,’ said Father Macarius, his annoyance evident. ‘They make their own decisions. They have taken it upon themselves to form a cadre to protect us. I cannot fault them for that, although I do not encourage violence outside the ring.’ He brought down a black cassock hanging on the wall and pulled it over his head. A long string of wooden beads swung on a nail. Kissing the wooden crucifix, he hung it over his head.
Outside, the walls of the white church reflected the light so much it was hard to look at. A couple of young palm trees had been planted in circular plots. A younger man in a cassock was watering these with a hosepipe. Makana recognised him as the sturdy fighter who had just been in the ring with Father Macarius.
‘You told me Meera used to help out here, teaching the boys to read.’
‘She was a charitable woman and will be sorely missed.’ Father Macarius pulled up suddenly and turned to Makana. ‘I don’t want the church drawn into this.’
‘The church is not only drawn into this, Father, it’s right at the centre of it. The murder of these boys is directly linked to your church and to Meera’s death.’
‘We can’t allow this. They will close us down.’
‘They are already closing you down.’ Makana paused. ‘Father, the other day you wanted to tell me something. What was that?’
‘Oh, I’m such a fool,’ the priest chastised himself.
‘I’m not the police, Father. It doesn’t have to go any further than me.’
‘I wish I could believe that.’ Father Macarius took a step away and then he turned back to face Makana. ‘It all happened a long time ago.’
‘Is it connected to the murders?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it might be. I can’t tell you any more. Not yet. I need time.’
Makana watched him walk away, disappearing into the church with his athletic walk, the swaying black robes melting into the shadows. Back inside the gym, Makana found Antun mopping the floor by the entrance to the toilets. He looked up, his eyes wide. There was a strange, other-worldly quality to Antun.
‘Do you know this man they call Rocky?’
‘Rocky?’ Antun echoed.
‘Yes, Rocky. He used to box here.’ Across the room Makana caught sight of Ishaq scowling at him from behind a punchbag as one of the others hit it over and over. As he watched him, Ishaq let go of the bag and came towards him.
‘What do you want from Antun?’
‘This doesn’t concern you.’
‘Antun concerns us.’ Ishaq smiled. ‘What happened to your face? Did someone take offence to your sticking your nose in everywhere?’
There was a snigger of laughter and Makana realised that four of Ishaq’s friends had also moved to form a loose ring around him.
‘I go for Abouna,’ Antun muttered.
‘Leave Macarius alone,’ Ishaq ordered. ‘We can deal with this.’ Stepping closer, he said, ‘Why do you keep coming round here?’
‘I’m looking for Rocky.’
‘Oh yeah, a friend of yours, is he?’
‘I just want to talk to him.’
‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
Ishaq shrugged. ‘He used to turn up here to box, about five years ago. He was in the army. He likes young boys. Now he runs a group of beggar kids. I swear some of them are not more than ten years old. He picks them up off the street and uses them like dogs. I wouldn’t stand for it. I swear, any man who tried to do that to me, I’d take a knife and cut his throat.’
‘Why do you say I’m wasting my time?’
‘He has protection.’
‘What kind of protection?’
‘The kind that makes you immune to stupid questions,’ said Ishaq as he brushed by, making sure his shoulder
knocked into Makana’s. The others followed behind him.
There didn’t seem to be much more to be gained here. As he left he heard someone calling him and turned to see the shopkeeper from the other night hurrying after him.
‘Is there any news, I mean about that poor boy we found?’
‘No, no news,’ said Makana. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’
‘The police took the body away and left.’ The man glanced over his shoulder. ‘After that we haven’t seen them. Everybody is scared. I am afraid. For my family, for my business. One of these days . . .’ He shook his head in anticipation of the worst.
‘There is somebody I am trying to find. Maybe you can help me?’
‘Who is it? Just tell me. I know everyone in this neighbourhood.’
‘He used to box. People call him Rocky.’
The man drew back. ‘What do you want with him?’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Nothing,’ said the man, his eyes cold. ‘I can tell you nothing. I have a family. You understand? I have children. Little boys.’
‘I understand.’
‘No. No, you don’t.’ The man made to move away when something made him stop. He was clearly scared, but he turned and led the way, and five minutes later they came to the corner of a narrow street. The man pointed at a building.
‘That’s where you will find him,’ he said.
When Makana looked back he was already walking away. A scattering of used coffee grounds had turned the sandy ground into a muddy tongue the colour of molasses. The café was nothing more than a doorway, an opening in the wall, metal doors flung wide in a space that might once have been a garage for a small car. Roughly hammered together wooden benches rested against either side. These were deserted except for one man who sat upright with his back against the wall. Makana sat down opposite him and called for coffee. After a time he became aware that the man, a heavy, unshaven man with a handlebar moustache that looked as though it had escaped from the tomb of some pasha of old, as if it ought to be hanging in a frame, was staring at him.
‘I look at you, and the first thing I think is police.’
‘We all make mistakes.’
He was a self-styled Omda, a neighbourhood leader who spent his life watching the street go by, making other people’s lives his business. Air bubbled through the waterpipe as he exuded a cloud of aromatic smoke.
‘Around here we take care of our things our own way. We don’t need the police.’
‘I’m not police.’
Behind the counter a young boy no more than twelve fussed with a small brass kerosene stove set on the counter. He snapped a lighter. The flickering blue flame turned the place into a little cave of wonders. ‘I don’t mean to tell you your business,’ said the man stroking the back of his hand along his moustaches as if they were a pair of plump doves, ‘but you’re wasting your time here.’
‘All I want to do is drink my coffee in peace.’
The boy kept his eyes studiously on the battered pot he was stirring with a spoon. The smell of coffee filled the confined space.
Makana took his time to study his surroundings. The walls were scarred with the usual graffiti: Down with the Americans. Down with Israel. Down with the government. Down with everything and everyone because the rest of the world was better off, and this was as far down as you wanted to go. Who was this Rocky? Why did Meera have a picture of him stuffed behind her desk? The boy avoided his gaze as he set down the coffee on the table at his knees. The man opposite stared at him as he puffed his waterpipe. Makana sipped the coffee slowly as people came and went past the entrance of the building opposite. A little girl leading a small boy by the hand went by, a green plastic bag banging against her legs, heavy with warm round loaves of bread. A tall man with a beard, wearing thick-framed spectacles and a white gelabiya put a hand to his nose and hawked up a mouthful of phlegm which he spat on the ground before stepping out and moving away along the street.
As he got to his feet Makana reached into his pocket for some money. He found a rather worn ten-pound note, with a tear in one side. Far too much for a simple coffee. He folded it carefully and tucked it under the cup out of sight. If he came back some time it might be helpful to be able to talk to the boy. He had been planning to cross the street for a closer look, but found his way barred. Three young men stood blocking the entrance.
‘You have no business here,’ said the man on the bench behind him. Makana turned to look at him. The man circled the long pipe stem in the air. ‘Go away and don’t come back.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
The day was fading fast as Makana made his way through the gates into the Fish Garden. Shadows seeped from the base of the banyan trees like flowing ink. Birds chattered excitedly at the last rays of light draining from the sky. Makana hurried, not wanting to be late for his appointment with his mystery caller.
The Khedive Ismail inherited his fierce dislike of the British along with a love for all things French, including the roulette wheel, from his grandfather Mohammed Ali Pasha. A poor gambler, his extravagant tastes and poor judgement bankrupted the country, dropping it neatly into the laps of the European powers in 1879. The Ottoman court relieved him of his post in a telegram addressed to the ‘former Khedive’. Ismail had dared to dream of Parisian boulevards and zoological gardens packed with marvellous exotica. His grandiose plans ran out like water in a desert, leaving a few quaint touches such as the Fish Garden, a fossilised relic of a long-dead age. Today it was in a sad state of dereliction, although anything that brought a touch of greenery to the grey cityscape was a welcome addition. A crumbling testament to the desire to carve out a European empire on this continent, it also delivered a stern warning about the perils of trying to impose oneself on a city that wriggled out of any definition you cared to throw at it.
At the heart of the little park was a mound that contained the grotto itself. The air in there was cool and damp. Tanks set into cavities in the rock were built to hold every manner of tropical fish brought from the coral reefs of the Red Sea. Most of these now appeared to be devoid not only of life but even of water. In one tank, painted with a green film of rotting algae, lay a cupful of murky, rust-coloured fluid in which an unremarkable colourless creature was flapping its last. There was no one about. The tunnels of the grotto, never filled with light, were at this hour of the day gloomy and damp. A stooped figure appeared silhouetted in the arch behind him.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Just as we agreed,’ said Makana.
‘Yes, but are you alone?’ the other man insisted. He was in his late fifties with a dark complexion and tight greying curls shorn close to his skull. The brown suit he had on seemed to have been worn down by nervous energy. The flesh of his face looked slack, overcooked and falling off the bone, hanging in heavy pouches under the eyes. He was clearly afraid, twisting his hands together and looking round.
‘It’s good to finally meet, Professor Serhan. After all those unfinished phone calls I was beginning to wonder.’
‘How do you know who I am?’
‘I’ve seen photographs of you.’
Serhan looked scared enough to bolt like a rabbit at any moment. ‘I called because I have information.’
‘What kind of information?’
The exasperated handwringing began again. ‘Look, the point is that you can’t investigate this matter if you don’t have all the facts.’
‘What facts?’
They were locked in a strange dance, with Serhan edging backwards and Makana trying to head him off. When he reached the wall of the grotto the professor peered out at the quickening shadows. The smooth trunks of the palms stood out from the rest of the trees like white bones. They stood there for a while. Serhan lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘You’re the one who was with her when she died, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘She didn’t deserve to die like that.’ Professor Serhan took a moment to
examine Makana more carefully. ‘I knew her, a long time ago.’ The professor’s courage seemed to waver. Then he rallied himself. ‘Let’s walk a bit. I don’t like staying in the same place for too long.’
Makana followed as the professor led the way up a narrow path, moving unevenly, but quickly. They were soon lost in the twists and turns. The gardens were a popular venue for courting couples who popped up at every bend in the narrow footpaths that wound like string around the artificial mound above the grotto itself. They sat on the benches, surreptitiously holding hands, the young and the not so young, seeking out an elusive moment of privacy. Serhan walked with a determined stride around the little hillock until he came to a bench. They sat side by side like clandestine lovers. He removed his glasses and wiped a handkerchief across his face.
‘You need to understand that Meera’s death has upset me. I can’t help thinking about it.’
‘You said you knew her.’
‘A long time ago. When we were . . . young.’
‘This is before she married Ridwan Hilal?’
‘Long before that. We were students. I was older, of course, writing my doctorate.’ Serhan sat upright, staring down at his small hands resting on his knees. ‘It was a different time. We were young and foolish.’ He paused, the spectacles glinting in the fading light. ‘There was talk of marriage.’
‘Is that why you tried to warn her, by sending the letters?’
Serhan’s eyes were deep wells of sadness. His head dipped. ‘I knew he would get it. I thought anything else would be too much. If the letter was intercepted. If someone else saw them. But I knew he would understand.’