She almost mentioned Jeremy Matheson, drawing a parallel between them, but just avoided the blunder.
During dessert, Joe drew her a less-than-glowing portrait of the members of the brotherhood whom he knew. Brother Gilles was his favorite target; he regarded the man with the bird of prey’s profile as a more formidable hawk than those who currently inhabited the White House. A manipulative man, he was even more pernicious since his dreams of acquiring a more prestigious title had been shattered when his superiors realized that there was more ambition in him than faith. The only pleasure he had left was in exercising his low-level power over the members of the community and glorying in it.
Brother Serge wasn’t much better. Joe reckoned he was worthy of being a Mafia godfather; with more than one eye on his flock, he had the reputation of being very authoritarian and a little too strict, but Joe and he had always kept their distance from each other, as Joe had had a real affection for the brotherhood’s former superior, who had left almost ten years earlier.
Next, Joe described Brother Christophe—Marion’s “Brother Anemia”—as a big, rather dim owl, and he made Marion laugh when he admitted that he would not be surprised to happen upon Brother Christophe covered in cabalistic tattoos and sanctifying the name of the Devil.… His manner was just too nice to be sincere.
Sister Luce was the female counterpart of her acolyte, Brother Gilles, treacherous and malign. “An arid heart” was the expression he used to describe her, and Marion wondered for a moment if that hid a secret of their common past. She imagined a story of platonic love between Joe and Sister Luce, under the jealous eye of Brother Gilles, which would explain this distance between the two men today.
Joe admitted he knew nothing about Brother Damien, who had arrived too recently in the brotherhood, except that he “had the ingenuousness of a simpleton painted all over his face.” He spoke about Sister Anne, who was the closest member of the brotherhood to Marion, as a kind, intelligent woman, a woman you could trust. As for the others, Brother Gaël and Sisters Gabriela and Agathe, in his eyes they were no more than “young religious people who were still full of hope and promise.”
Reassured by all these confidences, Marion explained to her host her mania for attaching dreadful nicknames to everyone and Joe could barely contain himself when he heard about “Brother Wrong Way” and his consorts. He was reassured to learn that he did not have a nickname.
Marion was staggering a little when she got back home, around eleven, after promising to return soon so they could fall about laughing again.
She went to bed in a good mood, with shining eyes.
The desire to read a little before going to sleep insinuated itself through the wine fumes. She went downstairs to fetch the diary from the pocket of her trench coat and quickly returned to the warmth of her bed.
Soon, only her night-light was still lit. She had only just opened the book when a flash of lightning lit up the cemetery beneath her window.
The first drops of rain began to fall, slow and hesitant.
Marion snuggled down in her bed and picked up the story where she had left off.
28
Every man knew what he had to do.
If everyone was well coordinated, the plan could work.
Azim went over everything one more time, to check that he had not missed a single detail.
The volunteers would be at their posts in less than an hour. The day he had spent wandering around el-Gamaliya had not been in vain. The old hashish smoker had agreed straightaway, despite his fear. The trader had yielded as soon as Azim reminded him that it was about saving children. The two men had immediately set to work to find other volunteers. Around half the men needed were found among the relatives of the victims. The other half were assembled before the end of the day, for Maghrib.* Azim’s idea was basically very simple, and relied as much on their ability to cover the whole district as on luck.
The ghul had been spotted four times, within a small area, and always in the Gamaliya district. Azim hoped that with men stationed on the roofs in strategic positions, if the ghul happened to pass through the district, it could not fail to be noticed. This meant covering several acres of narrow streets and jumbled buildings. With the aid of the old man and the clothes seller, his witnesses, Azim had drummed up and motivated around thirty lookouts. One by one, they were posted on the balconies of buildings with strict orders not to move for any reason. The arrival of an imam among them silenced the practical jokers and reassured Azim that they would respect their undertaking, more through religious fear than a sense of duty. The spiritual leader had joined the men when it got back to him what was being prepared. It was whispered that a ghul was on the prowl, and that it was going to be spotted that very night. “And what if one of the faithful finds himself confronted by it, what will they do?” exclaimed the imam before demanding that he be taken to the volunteers. Only prayers to Allah could drive away the monster, he had declared before a sea of respectful faces. If such a creature was indeed roaming their streets, it was up to him to make it flee.
Despite his police badge, Azim knew he carried little weight beside the imam. He had just replied that if the ghul was spotted, it would be his job to go to the spot to check that it was indeed a demon and only then could the imam come and repudiate it. If it was in fact a flesh and blood criminal, the police would deal with it and arrest the individual.
Azim knew the risks he was running. If they really did get their hands on the culprit, he would have to be swift and skillful. The men would not be slow in wanting to carry out the sentence themselves, without judge or jury.
What exactly did he expect to find? A man or … a ghul? If he was unsure, it was because of the statements of the two witnesses, categorically stating that what they had encountered was not human. Azim did not know what to think. Everything was converging on the mythological hypothesis.… And yet the steamroller of Western education and its rational certainties had already done a good undermining job, starting with police college. He could not deny that deep inside, he believed in a basically human explanation of the drama.
The sun set while everyone obtained a few provisions and a blanket to confront the long night that awaited them, and they all dispersed toward their lookout posts.
A furniture seller at Khan el-Khalili* whose nephew was among the volunteers agreed to lend lamps for all the lookouts, which would serve as a signal. If someone spotted a hooded figure moving strangely, his instructions were to light his lamp quickly and shake it in the direction of the highest observation point, where Azim would be posted.
Darkness took possession of the narrow streets.
The shutters closed one after another while the few streetlamps were lit.
The heat lessened slowly, and with it, the hundreds of scents floating around el-Gamaliya made their way back toward the closed shops, stables, and attics, all peaceful once again.
Conversation, banter, shouts, and arguments were silenced within the shelter of the ancient walls.
The stars started to pierce the ceiling of the world, in ever-greater numbers. Azim gazed at them in silence. It was as if the earth was just a building and the sky another, he thought; two celestial neighbors sending back their light to each other, the lights from households observing each other without seeing, millions of lives, millions of miles away.
The silhouettes of the minarets seemed to sway against the relief map of the cosmos.
In the distance, the muezzins sang out the call to prayer.
And the hours passed.
* * *
Heliopolis was a flat town, a town of columns with its horseshoe-shaped arches and its accolades, a city with broad, clean streets erected in a very fashionable Moorish style.
Jeremy got off the streetcar opposite the Helipolis police headquarters, and walked a little further to reach the Keoraz house, which stood next to the golf course.
A wall three yards high encircled and protected the millionaire’s sanctuary. This was
a man who prized privacy and serenity.
Or who likes living sheltered from curious eyes, protecting his dark activities.…
Jeremy rang the bell beside the iron gates, and a guard swiftly appeared. He let him in as soon as he saw his police identity card.
The Romanesque villa was built on top of a little artificial hill, and was reached by a pathway of crunching gravel that ran across a sea of perfectly kept lawn. When he arrived at the top Jeremy halted, stunned.
The last twenty yards consisted of black marble flagstones, flanked by silver and golden sycamores, with two very long pools filled with mercury, in which the Milky Way was reflected with perfect clarity.
Torches burned every five paces, to bring out the full effect of the terrace. In addition to the silver-and-gold leaves on the trees, little chimes of the same metals hung from the branches, so sensitive that they sounded when guests walked past.
Jeremy tiptoed through this fabulous setting, surprised by the fluidity of his movements on the ground. The guard was now walking in front of him, making the metal chimes tinkle in his wake.
Keoraz appeared right at the end, emerging from the vestibule and waiting between the columns at the entrance. “Mr. Matheson! How do you find my little Mesopotamian-style garden?”
“Clean.”
Keoraz, who had probably been expecting the usual gushing compliments, fell silent.
“And shiny,” added Jeremy.
“I confess I did not create it.… I had it built on the model of the garden that belonged to Khumarawayh, an emir of the Tulunid dynasty. Do you know of him?”
“Not at all.”
“Late ninth century. One should take an interest in history, Detective, it is the foundation stone of our future.”
So he knows history too, and probably Egyptian legends! noted Jeremy, concealing a contented smile with difficulty. He was corresponding more and more closely to the ideal profile. Keoraz possessed the knowledge that would enable him to mask his crimes with scene-setting that would remind people of the famous ghoul.
“Do come in, we’re just about to have an aperitif in the atrium.”
He dismissed the guard and led Jeremy into the house, from which they reemerged almost immediately, entering into an internal paved courtyard, with an impluvium, or Roman pool, in the center. Two purple sofas decorated with black cushions embroidered in gold thread awaited them. Hanging torches encircled them with their warm, moving light. Frescoes depicting rural views covered the walls between each door.
“Take a seat. What would you like to drink?”
Jeremy didn’t have a chance to reply.
“Whiskey.” Jezebel was standing in the doorway leading to the main rooms.
“You always drink whiskey, don’t you?”
He nodded, but did not say a word.
She had slipped into a dress trimmed with red fur, and was holding a cigarette holder at the end of which one was burning.
Keoraz observed the pair’s interaction before commenting.
“I have an excellent one. I shall fetch it myself. Please excuse me, but I can no longer bear the house staff. I’ve sacked almost all of them. In the end nobody serves one better than oneself.”
At which he left by one of the side doors.
Jeremy, who was sitting down, stood up again as Jezebel approached.
“You can drop the gallant behavior,” she said, sitting down opposite him. “So, it wasn’t too difficult, coming here?”
“I already knew the address.”
“I wasn’t talking about the route. I meant the decision.”
A mocking smile was visible on the carmine lips. “You won’t even call me ‘Mrs. Keoraz.’ It must have cost you dear in pride, coming to our happy marital home.”
“Pride has nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, yes? What then? Simple affection?”
“A tenderness that relates to our past.”
Her smile broadened. “Of course … I had forgotten, forgive me.”
Keoraz reappeared with a tray and three glasses. He offered the detective his whiskey and took two glasses of champagne, one for his wife and one for himself, before sitting down very close beside her.
“My dear fellow, I have set aside my entire evening for you,” he said.
“Before anything else, sir, I should like to ask you if you have read the investigation report.”
The millionaire raised an eyebrow and stared at him in amusement.
“What do you think?”
“It ought not to have happened like this, and you should know that I regret it.”
“My interests are involved. I believe I have every right to protect them, and hard luck if it conflicts with your sense of procedures. We are far from the metropolis here, and that brings an element of fluidity to our protocols, a flexibility that is the sole advantage of this corner of the world, and not to use it would be risible.”
Jeremy swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and decided to attack. “You could be among the suspects. Reading the investigation report could pose a problem.”
“Me, a suspect?” It was so grotesque that he could only laugh.
“Have you lost your mind, Jeremy?” scoffed Jezebel.
“I am serious. Moreover, what do you do with your nights, Mr. Keoraz?”
“Detective! Are you here to resolve this affair and help me or to seek to do me harm? Be quite clear, so that I know who my friends are, and who my enemies.”
Jeremy drew out a cigarette from his pack and lit it, explaining with emphasis, “I do not seek to cause you any trouble, sir, I am just doing my job. If I do not do it, people could make use of that procedural error to exonerate the guilty party.”
He assumed a sharper tone and added: “‘Detective Matheson, how can you eliminate any other people if you have not questioned all the protagonists?’… coming from a barrister, that would do a great deal of harm to our prosecution.”
Keoraz drank his remaining half-glass of champagne in a single gulp. “Very well, then let’s go to it. What do you want to know?”
Jeremy observed him, trying to see through his businessman’s hard outer shell, to get a clear idea of his real state of mind. But nothing filtered through. Nothing but his smooth surface veneer, characterized by the perfect line of his hair part. He was as cold as a lizard.
“I appreciate this,” said the detective finally. “To begin, where do you spend your nights?”
Amused by the question, Keoraz laid his hand upon his wife’s. “Here, at home. And sometimes at the Mena House, in Giza.”
“Do you sleep alone?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer it, if you please.”
Jezebel did so: “You know me, Jeremy; you should know the answer.”
Jeremy digested the innuendo, forbidding his imagination to gain the upper hand. “It is Mr. Keoraz whom I would like to hear,” he retorted.
“No,” confirmed Keoraz, “I do not sleep alone. Jezebel is with me.”
“So she is your alibi for the nights when the crimes were committed?”
“Of course! If I need an alibi.… But I do not think we are at that stage, Detective.”
Jeremy swallowed another burning mouthful. “You must admit that it is a rather flimsy alibi,” he said. “If one partner is a heavy sleeper, it is difficult to confirm with complete certainty that the other partner did indeed remain in bed all night.”
“But I am confirming it,” insisted Jezebel.
Jeremy prevented himself from replying. He was going too far, going beyond the professional, allowing jealousy into his reasoning. He was going to discredit himself, become an object of ridicule.
He raised one hand in apology. “Very well. I had to ask those questions, I am sure you will understand.”
Jezebel nonchalantly tossed her cigarette butt into the central pool. Her husband ground his teeth, sparing her a scene in front of the detective. He allowed his anger to dissipate and turned to the d
etective: “I think I understood that there were no tangible leads up to yesterday. Have matters developed?”
“I am sorry, but I cannot discuss that with you; please don’t regard it as personal. Let us say that the investigation is proceeding.”
Keoraz was about to reply when his expression changed completely. From being hermetic and distant, it became almost tender. “Whatever are you doing out of bed?”
Jeremy watched him get to his feet to join a boy aged around nine, who had just entered through one of the wooden doors. The little boy had the same sharp profile as his father; he was holding a teddy bear in one hand and his baptismal medal in the other.
“Allow me to introduce my son, Detective. George Keoraz.”
Jeremy gave the child a little wave, but received no response.
“Well, then, come with me.” Keoraz spoke to his child with a gentleness that did not suit him. “You should be in your bed, you have your piano lesson tomorrow with Mrs. Lentini, and if you don’t sleep you won’t be strong enough to take the train. It’s like when you go to school, you…”
The businessman took his son in his arms and talked to him quietly.
A warm hand brushed Jeremy’s knee. “Are you staying for dinner? The one time you come here, it would be a pity not to take advantage of it.…”
* * *
The roof of the building where Azim was keeping watch was in a condition that reflected its age: not so much impressive as worrying. Beneath his feet, cracks ran right across from one side to the other, even more detailed than the lines on a palm. The roof was reached by an open trapdoor, through which poked the top of a ladder, looking for all the world like the horns of a hidden devil.
The Cairo Diary Page 19