Dogstar Rising

by Parker Bilal

  ‘Only somehow he didn’t.’

  ‘I’m afraid I overestimated his powers.’

  ‘You had access to a printing press.’

  ‘Yes, at the university. They all know me there. I told them it was for a course I was doing.’

  ‘And the references to the Dogstar?’

  ‘I needed some reference that he would understand. I couldn’t risk anything more direct. When we were students some of us used to write modernist poetry. We called ourselves the Dogstar Poets. You have to remember, this was the 1980s. Sadat had just been murdered by radicals in the name of jihad. There were great debates among the students about the ideas of fundamentalists like al-Banna, Shukri and Sayyid Qutb, who felt that not only our rulers, but the entire Egyptian society, was living in a state of Jahiliyya. To them, we had all been corrupted by the West.’

  Makana was familiar with the thinking of those who believed that Islam had been polluted by popular tradition. Their logic was simple: drop it all and go back to basics, restore Islam to its former glory. The ignorance of modern times was compared to that in the time before the coming of the Prophet. Violence was justified as a means of restoring the country.

  ‘We admired the writers of the early twentieth century, the modernists in what we called the Nahda, the Egyptian Renaissance. We questioned tradition and were fascinated, for example, by the poets of the Jahiliyya who were writing before the Prophet Muhammed. We believed that the true nature of this country lay in embracing our past, all of it. Not just Islam.’

  ‘Is this why you hounded Ridwan Hilal out of his job?’

  Serhan floundered like a fish out of water. ‘That was an unfortunate business, but let me explain. When you are young, changing the world is a simple matter. You are invincible. You can clearly see the errors made by previous generations. As you get older . . .’ The professor bowed his head momentarily. ‘Well, the thing about compromise is that it starts with something simple, hardly noticeable, but gradually it becomes more serious, until you no longer recognise who you are.’

  ‘You accused Hilal of apostasy. You declared his marriage null and void. Are you trying to say this had nothing to do with your feelings for Meera?’

  ‘No, well . . . I don’t know.’ The professor looked pained. ‘Look, the matter simply got out of hand. Certain people took advantage. It was wrong of me, and believe me, not a day goes by when I don’t think of what I did. I . . . I loved her. I would never have done anything to hurt her.’ Serhan stared at the ground, wringing his hands together. There was something touching and rather pathetic about seeing a man of great knowledge being reduced to the uncertainties of a lovesick teenager.

  ‘Those were different times. We wore our hair long. There were rock concerts at the pyramids. Imagine that. American bands came all the way from California to play for us. We wanted to embrace this new way of life. To shake off the old ways.’ His voice tapered off into a sigh. Then he seemed to have trouble starting up again. ‘We thought of ourselves as intellectuals. The women smoked cigarettes and talked about Simone de Beauvoir. I wanted to love a woman like that, a woman who gave herself to me because she chose to, not because society obliged her. You understand?’

  ‘But things changed.’

  Serhan nodded sadly. ‘There are times when you realise you are not as strong as you thought you were. Marrying a Christian would have devastated my family. We would have been outcasts. Our children, if we ever had any, would be strangers in their own land.’

  ‘So you let her go, but you didn’t forget her. When she married Hilal you were jealous. Is that why you tried to destroy him?’

  ‘I told you, people took advantage of me. I was weak. But I also disagreed with Doctor Hilal’s thesis. Fundamentally. It is a profound issue. I am a religious man and . . .’ He paused, as if seeking a way to convince himself. ‘What he did was wrong. You can’t treat the word of Allah like some cheap novel you buy in the street. It’s just wrong.’

  Makana was beginning to get a sense of the differences between the two men. Both were unquestionably devout. Intellectually, Hilal was clearly more agile. He wanted to believe, not only in his heart but also with his quite substantial intellectual powers. Serhan on the other hand was bound by conventions, still struggling to find the courage of his own convictions. He seemed to be no longer sure what he believed, or why he acted the way he did.

  ‘As you probably know, my situation improved somewhat after that whole business.’ He threw Makana a wide-eyed look of alarm. ‘That wasn’t why I did it, of course.’

  ‘Of course not, but you did make a good profit.’

  ‘In a certain way, perhaps I did.’ He was squeezing his palms together like he was wringing out wet laundry. ‘I went up in the world. But that all came later. I didn’t need to be told that what Ridwan had published was wrong.’ Serhan licked his lips and stared at a spot somewhere in the distance. ‘I began to move in certain circles, among influential people. Powerful men of industry, military officers.’ The shadows were lengthening as the last flickers of light were snuffed out.

  ‘One last thing. What prompted you to send those letters?’

  ‘A couple of months ago I happened to overhear a conversation. It was at a shareholders’ meeting at the bank.’

  ‘The Eastern Star?’

  Serhan nodded. ‘There is a general meeting once a year that you are obliged to attend. I generally go along to show my face and leave as soon as I can. I was sitting at the back and there were two men standing behind me. I overheard them talking about having taken care of something. I wouldn’t have paid much attention except I caught Meera’s name. They also mentioned someone else, a journalist. Again, I would probably have dismissed the incident from my mind but the following morning I read in the paper about a journalist, a man named Hikmet. He had thrown himself from a window. I knew immediately that I had overheard his executioners. I realised they were talking about killing Meera.’

  ‘Who were these men?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t dare turn around. But it was the way they were talking. They mentioned her by name, and the place where she worked. I didn’t know she was working in a travel agency, but I know that things were hard for them after . . . well, you know. I couldn’t approach her, for obvious reasons. So I decided to write.’

  A groundsman wandered up the path in green overalls and big rubber boots, his feet heavy as if he was wading through thick black molasses, telling people the garden was closing.

  ‘This is a terrible mistake,’ said Serhan, leaping to his feet. ‘I should never have come here.’

  Makana hurried after Serhan, who was rushing down the path at great speed. He grabbed hold of his arm.

  ‘Why send three letters? Why not just one?’

  ‘When the first one didn’t work I sent another, and then another. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t respond.’ Serhan’s lips moved soundlessly as if worrying at a rag. ‘It’s no good. I shouldn’t have come. You mustn’t try to contact me.’

  And with that he was gone, melting into the thickening shadows that sprang up all around. Makana considered chasing after him but he had a feeling there was no point. Serhan was scared out of his wits. The only reason he had talked at all was because he had managed to lull himself into a state of false security remembering the old days when everyone had been young and he and Meera had been in love. With a sigh, Makana lit another cigarette. He wondered if Serhan had chosen this place because they used to come here back then. The groundsman appeared again clumping towards him, his boots making sucking noises, opening and closing like black eels clamped around his legs. His eyes were dull white orbs floating in the gloom.

  ‘We’re closing.’

  Makana took himself off without waiting to be asked again.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was late when Makana finally arrived home. The river road was silent and empty. The big eucalyptus tree hung down over the riverbank like an unanswered question mark.


  Umm Ali’s precarious little shack was dark and silent. This, while being unusual, was not out of the ordinary. Although he often wondered at the way she and the children managed to stay up long into the early hours watching some raucous melodrama on television and still be up at the crack of daybreak, there were exceptions. Perhaps the machine was broken, or it might even have been possible that the good-for-nothing brother had decided to take them all off on a treat. Miracles still happened, Makana had to remind himself, even if they were few and far between. It was only when he reached the end of the narrow path that he began to feel uneasy. He paused to listen to the sound of the water slopping against the sides of the hull and wished he had the gun with him. It was altogether too quiet. Carrying a gun had always seemed to him a good way to get yourself killed, but right now he would have liked the reassurance of one in his hand. The Beretta was concealed in the locker behind his desk. To get it he would have to climb to the upper deck. He listened some more before deciding that nothing would be achieved by waiting. The gangplank sagged and creaked as he stepped onto it, making enough noise to announce the arrival of a baby elephant. The staircase amidships he could climb in the dark blindfolded. He paused halfway up to calm his breathing and listen again. This time he could hear something. Faint and distant. Scratching. What it was he could not say, but it was not right. As he lifted his foot to move on he heard it again. A soft mewing sound that could have been a cat. Cats, of course, had been strolling along these banks since the days of Isis and Osiris, protected by superstition and belief, and he could have done with one to keep the water rats away. Instinct told him this was not a cat. Stretching out a hand he found the panel set into the wall under his desk, inserted a finger into the hole and released the catch. Lowering the flap he reached inside. The Beretta was wrapped in an oily rag. He began to feel better about things.

  The sound came again, barely distinguishable above the soft beat of the water, and this time he knew it was human. His heart stopped for a moment. Then he moved quickly, stepping up onto the deck in a crouch. The faint light of the crescent moon fell between the dark outlines of the tall buildings across the river. A pleasure boat went by bringing with it a passing jingle of music and laughter, a spotlight played across the awama as the passengers enjoyed themselves picking out sights of interest on their cruise. The river glinted like quicksilver through the wooden railings. On the open rear deck an object lay on the floor. At first he thought it was a trick of the light. And then it moved and Makana felt a cold tremor run through his body.

  Sami was splayed out on the wooden deck, arms and legs stretched wide. Setting the gun down, Makana knelt and bent close to be rewarded with a faint, tortured hiss of air. The mewing sound he had heard. Sami’s face and chest gleamed in the moonlight. His shirt was flayed into ribbons, the cloth soaked with blood that leaked off his chest, trailing from his arms and legs in long rivulets to find the gaps in the wooden deckboards.

  ‘Can you hear me, Sami?’

  There was no response. The uneven rising and falling of the chest. He was alive, just. Makana noticed there was something awkward about the way his body lay. When he tried to move an arm, thinking he would make his friend more comfortable, it refused to move: each hand and foot had been nailed to the deck. A guttural cry came from somewhere deep down inside Sami’s chest. He was trembling all over as if an electric charge were running through him. The nails were large and square, carpenter’s nails that had been hammered through the centre of each palm, crushing bones and parting flesh before embedding themselves deeply in the wood.

  Sami thrashed about faintly and then went limp. Makana went to the telephone and called Sindbad – calling for an ambulance might entail a wait of an hour or more. It took ten rings before he answered. He sounded asleep.

  ‘Get here as fast as you can.’

  In the meantime, Makana found a hammer and a pair of pliers and set about trying to dig the nails out. It wasn’t easy. He started with the left hand. The worn teeth slipped, blood spread over his hands, making the tool even more slippery to grasp. He grabbed the bedsheet and tore it into strips, wrapping them round his hands. Sweat dripped from his brow. Finally, he felt the first nail begin to give. Each fraction that it moved seemed to touch a nerve inside Sami. He rocked back and forth as if in the grip of a nightmare. The pliers were sliding all over the place. Makana let them drop to the deck and set to work with his fingers. He squeezed until the edges of the nail dug into his flesh. Nothing. He tried again. This time he felt it give. The pain in his fingers made him want to scream. He gave a cry as it came free of the wood and he managed to slip it out of Sami’s palm. Sami appeared to lose consciousness. A piece of paper, now soaked in blood, had been stuck to his hand with the nail. Makana slipped it into his pocket as he set to work on the second one. There was a shout from below as Sindbad came down the narrow path, moving with a speed and agility that belied his bulk. When he saw what was waiting on the upper deck, he gave a cry.

  ‘Ya satyr, ya rub! Who did such a thing?’

  ‘Help me,’ Makana handed him the pliers. Sindbad removed the remaining nails with less difficulty than if they had been pins stuck in cardboard. Then Makana set about using more strips of sheet to bandage the wounds as best he could.

  ‘We must get him to the hospital.’

  ‘Effendim.’ Sindbad hauled Sami up onto his shoulder and the two of them made their way up the bank to the road. Sindbad drove like a man possessed.

  ‘Why would anyone do something like that?’ he asked. ‘I thought only Christians did that.’

  ‘They were sending a message.’

  ‘A message?’ echoed Sindbad. ‘Who for?’

  ‘For anyone still looking for an excuse to hate Christians.’

  iii

  The Nile Star

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Makana called Rania from the hospital. Okasha, when he got hold of him, said he would send a squad car to bring her straight to the hospital. A stretcher went by with an unconscious boy of about twelve on it, accompanied by two orderlies trying to steer their way through the crowd and fight off the hysterical relatives at the same time. The boy’s mother was screaming and slapping her face.

  ‘We must keep the details secret,’ said Okasha. ‘This could start a riot.’

  ‘It’s too late for that. I have a feeling the news will already have been leaked.’

  ‘Save your paranoia, please,’ Okasha groaned.

  ‘A crucifixion. You don’t think that’s a clear message?’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘You should listen to yourself sometimes. What does it look like to you?’

  A young man with red eyes and the look of someone who had not slept for days appeared.

  ‘What can you tell us, doctor?’ Okasha asked.

  ‘He has lost a lot of blood, but we believe we have stabilised him. He needs to rest. It’s hard to say how much damage was done. The hands and feet are complex. A lot of delicate bones, ligaments, nerves. Whoever did this wanted him to suffer.’

  ‘Then they didn’t want to kill him?’ Okasha pressed.

  ‘Oh, yes, he would have bled to death eventually, but it would have taken a long time.’

  ‘You think they might have mistaken him for you?’ Okasha followed Makana outside to smoke a cigarette.

  ‘It’s possible. If they were watching the awama and knew I would turn up at some stage. It was dark. They saw a man arrive and go down onto the boat. They thought it was me.’

  They stood in the dark as people hurried by to attend to one emergency or another.

  ‘If you’re right, then maybe you should disappear for a while.’

  ‘And go where exactly?’

  Okasha looked pained. ‘Well, at least try and clean yourself up, you look like you just came from a slaughterhouse.’

  Makana found a bathroom, which offered a thin trickle of water from a solitary tap, and cleaned himself up as best he could. He buttoned the remains
of his shirt and jacket and tried to clear off some of the dark smears he knew were Sami’s blood. His face looked a mess. Along with the collection of cuts and bruises, he had acquired the haunted look of a man who hasn’t slept for weeks.

  In the corridor Makana found a free space on a bench alongside an older woman who gave off an acrid smell. She looked as if she had spent days sleeping in this spot. Her bare feet, gnarled and dry like muddy roots, stuck out in front of her as she snored softly to herself. After a time he closed his own eyes and miraculously managed to sleep.

  When he gently pushed open the door to peer into the room, Makana found Rania sitting by Sami’s bedside with her head bowed. He thought she was sleeping and was about to turn and leave quietly, when she stirred and raised her head. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying.

  ‘Rania, I’m so sorry about this.’

  They stood on opposite sides of the bed, staring down at the inert figure between them. Sami’s hands and feet were bandaged and he was under heavy sedation.

  ‘I couldn’t understand where he had got to,’ Rania murmured. ‘I made supper and sat down and waited. I must have fallen asleep. I tried to call him. I wasn’t worried. Sami’s always forgetting to charge his phone . . .’ Her voice cracked and she put a hand up to stifle her sobs. ‘They don’t know if he will ever be able to walk again,’ she cried. ‘What will we do?’

  ‘He’s strong, Rania, and stubborn. He’ll pull through. You’ll see.’

  ‘And even if he does, will he ever be able to write again? Did you see his hands?’

  ‘He’ll be all right.’ Makana recalled the memory of the nail as it grated against broken bone while he tried to pull it free.

  ‘How could this happen?’ She looked up from Sami. ‘I want to know everything.’

  ‘I don’t think they intended to hurt him. I think it was me they were after.’

  Dawn was breaking when he got home to find Umm Ali standing by the road surrounded by a small crowd of neighbours. She gave a cry when she caught sight of him and rushed over.