The Cairo Diary

by Maxim Chattam

  They began with the el-Huseiniya district, above the cemetery of Bab el-Nasr. They had to abandon the car at the entrance to sharia Negm el-Din, and continued on foot through the labyrinth of alleyways, darkened by tall, crumbling façades. The streets were of beaten earth and some of the buildings had been around for several centuries, without ever benefiting from any maintenance whatsoever.

  It took them three-quarters of an hour to find the tiny house where the eight members of Samir’s family lived, crowded together. Samir had been discovered in the nearby cemetery.

  They were invited to sit down on patched and mended cushions, and offered burning-hot, sugary-sweet tea.

  Several children in rags shouted and played in the adjoining room.

  Azim conversed with the patriarch, a man worn-down to the tendons, with skin like parchment and the physique of a seventy-year-old even though he was probably twenty or thirty years younger. Pain twisted his features as Azim spoke his son’s name.

  The low table on which his wife placed a round tray was a chicken cage, turned upside-down. As he noticed this, Jeremy had even more difficulty drinking his sweetened tea, knowing what a treasure it must represent with regard to their finances.

  Words were exchanged between the two Arabs, Azim interrupting the other man from time to time, probably to obtain clarification.

  Several times, Jeremy caught the expression of fear that the mistress of the house was having difficulty concealing. Azim seemed to be focusing solely on the father.

  From time to time, a brown face made an appearance in the opening that led to the kitchen; never the same one, never the same age. From the sound of the voices and the stridence or low pitch of the children’s shouting, Jeremy deduced that there must be at least one adolescent aged around fifteen, and several little ones between five and ten. As quickly as it had appeared, the child vanished back into the noisy horde that did not seem to have been subdued at all by the death of one of their number.

  Jeremy sat in frustrated silence, the language and cultural barriers making it impossible for him to do anything. He could see that it was necessary to ask the wife some questions too. To have her opinion. Sound out her feelings as a bereaved mother. And understand her anxiety.

  As he was finishing burning his lips on his tea, the unexpected happened: Azim turned suddenly to the wife and addressed her. The husband tried to reply but Azim silenced him with an imperious gesture.

  The poor woman, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, scarcely dared open her mouth. Azim added something.

  She began to stammer.

  And as if the floodgates of the Aswan Dam had suddenly opened, the words came pouring out. She held back her tears until she had said everything.

  Jeremy thought he caught the last word, as she spoke it after a moment’s silence, almost whispering it, fear adhering her tongue to the roof of her mouth: “Ghul.”

  “Ghul?” Azim repeated, in surprise.

  In haste, they were shown outside, politely but firmly. Just as he was leaving, Jeremy said to Azim, “Tell them this is to thank them for their cooperation.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Jeremy handed a few Egyptian pounds to the mistress of the house. The Englishman detected a certain reticence in the woman’s tear-filled eyes, but the mother in her took the upper hand and clasped the notes eagerly.

  A little later, the two investigators were walking back up an evil-smelling alley toward their car.

  “What did you find out?” Jeremy wanted to know.

  “I asked the usual questions, which had already been asked at the start of the investigation, and the answers are the same: no particular details in the days preceding their son’s disappearance, no strange individuals in the vicinity of their home, nothing like that. I asked them specifically about a black man, but nothing. Their son was a good boy and had no reason to follow a stranger. The night he was killed, he should have been in his bedroom with his brothers. He went out while everyone was asleep. It wasn’t difficult: It’s a very old house and it is possible to enter or leave without making a sound.”

  “I saw you questioning the mother; what did she say to you?”

  “Well … not very much, actually. She talks a lot with the neighboring women, who have all been comforting her since the death. And they gossip. Is that the right word? Gossip?”

  “Yes, Azim,” said Jeremy, somewhat exasperated by this detour in their conversation.

  “One of them is the friend of a friend of the mother of the little girl who was murdered at the beginning of the month. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “That creates links, associations. And the women in these places are the consciousness of the district, and its eyes and ears too. Some have seen things. Here, others at Abbasiya, in the very poor district. And they think they know what is killing their children.”

  Jeremy halted midstep. He stared at Azim, eyes wide. “And?”

  “Oh, it won’t please the little Englishman in you.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “You haven’t been here long enough to believe in our fairy tales, have you?”

  “I don’t even speak Arabic, Azim.”

  “The women think that what is killing their children is a ghul.”

  Without asking him to repeat it, Jeremy shook his head, indicating that he was listening to the hypothesis, but was unable to believe it.

  “A ghoul, is that it? Where did I read about those? In Bram Stoker, I would imagine.… So what is it, a sort of vampire?”

  “The ghul is a female demon, an evil creature, like the jinn for example. One Thousand and One Nights mention them frequently. It is a monster that eats the dead, and which can assume an appearance that is sometimes hideous, sometimes attractive.”

  “Azim, these women make up stories, they frighten themselves, and they dig up the old superstitions. This one fits the bill because it is a metaphor for what the killer really is. A man in appearance, capable of luring children, and a monster inside, capable of torturing them.”

  Azim smoothed his mustache. “It is not a metaphor if you believe what they say,” he objected. “Because there are witnesses to its presence. A strange being was seen prowling at night, sniffing the children’s clothing that was drying on the roofs, attempting to climb through the windows into the children’s bedrooms, fortunately without success. A thing dressed in a black robe, and a deep hood to conceal its horrible appearance. Its hands are hooklike and it moves silently; few have seen it. It is even whispered that animals are so terrified that they run away from it.”

  “Let’s see, you know we won’t find any witnesses, any who will give their names, I mean to say; it’s a myth, and there are heaps of spiteful people willing to make others believe they have seen this creature, but when you investigate, you never find anybody.”

  “Because that is how Cairo is, built from darkness and light, knowledge and ignorance, on myths and promises. And look at the result! The largest city in the Arab world! Proud and coveted! And you whites come all the way from the Americas just to see its pyramids.”

  “Spare me the militant speech, Azim. Right, so is there nothing other than this ghoul story?”

  Azim seemed disappointed by his colleague’s brusqueness. All at once his flow tailed off, along with the beginnings of a smile. “No. This evening I shall write up all the small details I have noted down about the child and what his parents told me.”

  They reached their car in silence and went off to visit the other families, which took all day.

  Each time, it was a large and very poor family. Nothing unusual had been noticed before their child’s disappearance. Jeremy insisted on giving a few banknotes to each family, and in so doing divested himself of a large sum, as Azim looked on with as much surprise as admiration.

  The two investigators separated at the end of the day, Azim heading off to the police station to write up his notes, and Jeremy to his usual qawha to shake off the wea
riness of an additional day.

  He had been there only an hour when Azim entered, sweat dripping from his brow. He looked round the café, a sheet of paper in his hand. When he spotted Jeremy, he rushed to his table and laid down the document.

  “The same school!”

  Jeremy sank back into his chair.

  “I am a fool!” thundered Azim. “I did not make the connection when the parents gave me the information, and my men did not think to ask for the information when they were conducting the investigation. The dead children all went to the same foundation. Keoraz. It’s not really a school, but they went there to receive training, and that is a point common to all of them!”

  In the haze of tobacco smoke, Jeremy’s eyes suddenly held the same vacant gaze as a blind man’s.

  “Are you all right?” Azim asked anxiously, furtively checking that the glasses placed in front of the Englishman did indeed contain the vestiges of coffee and not alcohol.

  Eventually Jeremy nodded.

  “I know somebody at that foundation.” He laid a hand on the sheet of paper. “Let me deal with this, if you don’t mind.” And the report vanished into his pocket.

  17

  Marion slammed the diary shut.

  She was seething with impatience at the thought of reading what came next, but first she must relieve herself. Out of curiosity, she nevertheless turned a few pages and caught surprising words, a scene beneath the pyramids … an animated conversation …

  Marion was about to place the book on her chair and head off in search of toilets, but changed her mind. She chose instead to take it with her, along with her bunch of keys.

  A door creaked at the entrance to the Belle Chaise.

  Marion turned her head, ready to explain herself, but there was nobody there. The door was shut.

  The wind intermittently whistled between the gaps, creating a hissing, breathing sound throughout the abbey. Was that him, the culprit?

  Don’t start imagining things …

  Marion went out and soon crossed a little overhanging kitchen garden, from where she could look down on part of the village and the bay.

  A small sandy recess was shielded from eyes and from the elements.

  She was in such dire need that the thought of urinating there passed through her mind. She dismissed it hastily, put off less by the indecency of the act than by the fear of being caught.

  Marion went down some steps and got lost again in the building’s endless corridors. A spectral light forced its way as best it could through the rose windows, loopholes, and pointed windows.

  Walking by a pillar, she stopped in her tracks and suddenly turned around, realizing she had just been past there.

  As she turned, she became aware of a movement in the distance. In the time it took her to focus on this distant shadow, it had gone.

  She thought she had made out a habit similar to those worn by the men of the fraternity. She had seen nothing more, neither a corpulent stomach nor a distinctive walk, and still less a face.

  Had someone spotted her?

  If so, the brother would certainly have stopped, at least greeted her, she assumed.

  “He wouldn’t reprimand you for being here and he could tell you where the toilets are,” whispered a little voice inside her head.

  Marion rushed forward. She reached the steps, climbed onto the granite bridge where the individual had disappeared, and dashed through an arch.

  At top speed, she crossed the next room in the direction of the one and only staircase the figure she was pursuing could have taken.

  Running down the spiral staircase, she paused for breath by a window and saw a long courtyard down below.

  The figure was trotting quickly across it. It was impossible to identify, for it was entirely covered by a black robe with a hood pulled down over the head; from a distance, it looked like a monk’s habit.

  Marion sped up and was soon outside again, breathing hard.

  There was now no trace of her fugitive.

  Because the more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her that the other person wasn’t just walking, but in a hurry to escape.

  That’s nonsense.… It’s that police story, going to your head.…

  Marion sighed noisily as she got her breath back.

  What an adventure! Yes, but … let’s face it, adventure is a very big word.…

  She thought of Brother Serge again. Of him, and of his concern for Marion to be occupied, not unduly bored.

  Right, let’s look on the bright side. Taking a pee isn’t urgent anymore, any minute now it’s going to become a catastrophe.…

  The courtyard led into the guardroom, which Marion crossed, rejoicing as she saw the empty entrance booth. The cashier was warming herself with a coffee, along with one or more of the guides who were forced to wait all day in case some visitors turned up. She passed under the barbican and hurried home.

  After relieving herself, she made herself some tea and took it to the corner sofa, to continue her reading.

  The sight of that person fleeing in his mysterious robes titillated her.

  Did the brothers usually walk along with their hoods up? She didn’t have that impression.… But anything was possible.

  All the same, what with the riddle she had received on her arrival, the “secret” visit to her quarters, and this strange presence, that was enough to make her ask herself a few questions! Undoubtedly the riddle was just a game, the intrusion well-meaning and designed to promote her safety, but nevertheless Marion felt the combined effect oppressive.

  It’s the place. It’s making you paranoid. I mean even more paranoid than you already were.

  Sooner or later, she was going to discover that the brother she had pursued had nothing to do with her; he just happened to be there and was in a hurry.

  The creaking door … in the big room where I was reading. The door creaked when I stood up, as if someone was watching me and then withdrew so as not to be caught.

  This hypothesis implied that she had been followed through the Mount’s corridors, and spied upon.… With what aim? The fraternity had agreed to hide her, not to keep her under permanent surveillance; that wasn’t part of their arrangement. She mustn’t go crazy. Marion shook her head; she was going a bit too far.

  It was time to move on to something else, to plunge back into Egypt during the 1920s.

  From her place on the sofa, she swiftly ran through the list of items in her fridge and remembered that she had a pan of fried vegetables for lunch. Everything was settled; she had the whole day to herself.

  To read.

  She hadn’t read three words when she got up and pushed the hall table up against the front door.

  “There,” she said. “That way, my paranoia will be happy too.”

  Marion stretched out under the bay window, the cup of tea in one hand and the diary in the other.

  18

  While Azim was attempting to identify the fourth victim, Jeremy Matheson was being jolted about at the mercy of the streetcar taking him to Giza.

  After the indefinable contours of the city, the desert had an exceptionally linear appearance.

  Jeremy had spent some quite long periods in this sea of sand, where the interminable horizon of saffron dunes tore at the retina, overtaxed by the contrast with an incredibly deep, indigo sky. The desert was infinity, placed within the reach of mankind. There, silence became opressive; after a few days, the absence of all sound created a continuous buzzing, before the ear and the brain became acclimatized to this scorching torpor.

  Jeremy placed his palm against the glass as they approached the Giza plateau.

  The triangle of pyramids imposed itself on him forcefully, like a warning of his own ephemeral nature. They did not rise up out of the desert; on the contrary, it was the desert in its entirety that unfurled before them in an endless carpet, offering as many tributes as there were grains of sand.

  From the high ground in Cairo, they excited curiosity; once you we
re at the foot of them you trembled, both with wonder and with a fearful respect.

  Line fourteen of the streetcar system terminated, five miles from the center of Cairo, in front of the Mena House Hotel, a caravansary prized by all of Western high society.

  The tourist season was nearing its end, but the pyramids were attracting as many visitors as ever. The sun hadn’t been up for more than two hours and already thirty or so white heads sporting extravagant hats were moving over the ridges of the Great Pyramid, standing out against the blue sky as little marks bent under the weight of effort.

  Egypt was the foremost destination for all European aristocrats, all the planet’s crowned heads, and their interminable hangers-on.

  The Mena House Hotel was an oasis of luxury in the middle of the emerging desert, offering incomparable terraces where guests could take their rest under the watchful eyes of these outsized tombs.

  Jeremy knew he was going to find her here, taking her breakfast facing the marvels. He had called the villa in Heliopolis that very morning, very early, but had been told that “Madam is not here.” At this time of day, the only place she could have spent the night was here.

  She adored their rooms.

  Jeremy recalled her face in the shade of a fan, and her eyes, shining with greedy lust. She and he, eating lunch at the Gezira Sporting Club. And her mouth, whispering above the fan about how she adored making love with him beneath the benevolent pyramids.

  Her irreverence, her verbal effrontery in such a place, still left a hollow feeling in his belly. She had no equal when it came to asserting herself, or playing on her self-assurance with men; she did it with such charming, sexual grace that nobody ever dared say anything to her. All you could do was laugh, lower your eyes or swell out your chest when she decided to provoke, to play, and she did so with sufficient delicacy that nobody else noticed.

  The heat was emerging from the ground in a thick layer as fiercely as it was descending from the sky.

  Jeremy swallowed with difficulty. He was desperately thirsty.

  Thirsty for what? For whom?