The Burning Gates

by Parker Bilal

  ‘Welcome, merhaba. We ask guests who are not members to leave a deposit of a hundred dollars. No money is exchanged inside the club. An account is kept and all losses and wins are recorded. At the end of the evening we settle all accounts.’

  Makana exchanged some of Kasabian’s dollars for a handful of plastic chips. Then Gigi held aside a red velvet drape and invited him to enter. To reach the main casino you had to pass through the bar area, which had a long counter down one side and a number of tables scattered around. There were also curtained booths along the other wall for people who wanted more intimacy. A spiral staircase in the middle of the room led up to the roof terrace where the thump of music could be heard and coloured lights could be glimpsed against the stars. Beyond another archway the room seemed to expand and Makana saw several gaming tables. Small groups of people, mostly men, clustered around a handful of high semicircular tables. Behind each one a dealer shuffled cards and took bets. Exactly what they were playing Makana couldn’t have said, but he saw plenty of money, both in chips and in cash, being exchanged for more chips. At the far end, along the bottom wall, a roulette table appeared to be the most popular attraction, perhaps because it required less experience to play. A stooped man wearing white gloves raked in chips from the green baize. Losing didn’t seem to bother most people. Almost as if it was some sort of rite of passage: to be able to afford this place meant you had enough money to lose.

  As she finished her tour, Gigi turned to him and beamed.

  ‘Now, all our guests are invited to a free drink at the bar. Have you thought how you would like to spend the evening. Are you interested in gambling, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Makana.’ There didn’t seem to be much point in lying. ‘A drink sounds good.’

  He followed her over to the bar, where he asked for whisky, the only thing he could think of. The bartender, whose bow tie was askew, filled a glass with ice and trickled Scotch from a bottle with a worn label over it before wrapping it thoughtfully in a paper napkin. Makana circled the room, drink in hand, and studied the faces. The clientele were mostly businessmen of the self-made variety, aged between thirty-five and sixty. They wore flashy clothes and a lot of rings. They appeared to understand gambling as if roulette was a competition to see who could throw the most money away in the shortest time. There were some familiar faces, too – politicians, men with eager smiles and evasive eyes. He didn’t see Na’il, the man on the motorcycle, nor did he see anyone who struck him as being a match for Kadhim al-Samari, although he hardly expected to find him that easily. Gigi’s sparkling white teeth reappeared at his side. She leaned discreetly into him, engulfing him in heady perfume.

  ‘If this is not to your liking, perhaps you would prefer to relax upstairs with one of our hostesses?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Gigi led him back towards the reception desk and the door alongside it. It was black, with a bronze replica of the winged lion on it that matched the one on the front gateway. She produced a key, and pausing only to look around her once, she opened the door and ushered him inside. A narrow set of stairs led to the floor below, where Makana found himself in another reception area, this time considerably darker and outfitted with a low sofa against one pink wall. The sofa was satin green.

  ‘Itfaddal.’ Gigi gestured for him to sit before vanishing through a set of lacy curtains.

  Makana sat and decided the time had come for a cigarette. He took a moment to examine the décor more closely – not easy in the low lighting. On the walls were framed prints, mostly the work of European artists, depicting orientalist idylls. Naked women lying within their private chambers, frolicking beneath a waterfall or lounging in states of undress in a steam bath. Swarthy men in headdresses eyed them furtively, strummed lutes or counted prayer beads between their fingers.

  The curtains opened and Makana came back to the present. Gigi reappeared, ushering in six women of various sizes and proportions. All of them were young and attractive. They wore variations on the kind of evening gown Gigi wore, though considerably less substantial. She paraded in front of them like a confident lion-tamer. To Makana things looked rather different. It had been a long time since he had been involved with a woman, and the sudden availability before him was somewhat daunting.

  ‘Please take your pick,’ said Gigi in her softest voice.

  Makana, stalling for time, reached for his drink and was about to take a sip when he noticed something that caused his heart to stop.

  ‘Number six,’ he said, aware that his voice was no longer steady.

  ‘A wise choice,’ beamed Gigi. She clapped her hands and the other girls filed silently out of the room, leaving only one behind. ‘Bilquis is one of our most popular girls. I leave you in safe hands.’

  She was a tall girl with a slim, angular body and face. Her hair was pinned up to display an elegant neck. Her eyes were dark and quick. She spun on her heels and led the way down a corridor without a word. Makana followed along, his mind suddenly a blank. The corridor was so dimly lit he could barely see the person in front of him, which made the effect even more disconcerting. The long dress seemed to float along the floor, which made the figure striding away through the gloom feel all the more ethereal, as if he were following a ghost.

  When they reached the far end the girl opened a door and gestured for him to enter. Makana stepped cautiously inside. Here, too, the light was low. The room was furnished in modern style. There were blinds on the windows and translucent drapes around the bed in some kind of mauve colour. It looked hasty and cheap. By this stage no doubt the client was meant to have other things on his mind than the furnishings. Apart from the bed there was a chaise longue, a chest of drawers, a small refrigerator, a television set. A door led off to a bathroom. When Makana had taken all of this in he turned around to find that the girl was busy undressing.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. The dress was already halfway off. She stared at him for a moment and then slipped the shoulder strap back into place.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. Perhaps we could just . . . sit for a time.’

  She stared at him as though waiting for the punchline of a joke, then she shrugged and went over to sit down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Would you like to watch a film?’ She indicated the television. ‘Some men find that sort of thing gets them ready.’

  ‘No, not really.’

  She watched him cautiously, wondering about this deviation from the usual procedure, then she crossed her legs and shrugged.

  ‘It’s all right. Some people like to talk, I know. We can sit for a while, but not too long. Gigi gets anxious if it takes too long.’

  ‘I see.’ Makana glanced around the room. There was a glass bowl with brightly coloured fish that rose and sank with mechanical regularity. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘Not so long.’ Then she stopped herself. ‘You mean in this country?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Almost five years. And you?’

  ‘A little longer.’

  ‘How much longer?’ She was watching him more carefully now.

  Makana was trying to focus. How difficult could it be to conduct a conversation? ‘I don’t know, maybe thirteen years altogether.’

  ‘That’s a long time. I’m not planning on staying that long.’

  ‘Neither was I.’

  She tapped her nails impatiently on her arm. ‘Look, I’m ser­­ious about time. We don’t have for ever.’

  ‘No, of course not. I understand. Actually, I didn’t come here for this.’ He nodded at the bed.

  ‘Then what? We don’t get paid to talk.’ Then she was silent for a long time before a knowingness came into her voice. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Who is what?’

  She gave weary toss of her head. ‘I’ve seen that look before. I remind you of someone. Everyone comes here looking for something or someone. A person, or a feeling, perhaps. Who is it?’

  Makana was still consider
ing how to answer this when there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for an answer, it swung open and Gigi stepped inside. She looked him up and down. It wasn’t hard to see that something in her manner had changed. Gone was the smooth talk.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you before it was too late.’ Her smile was thin and mean. No sign of the pearly white teeth. She crooked a finger at Makana. ‘Some people would like to talk to you.’

  They were waiting in the reception area: two young men, both overweight, both dressed in blue jeans and shiny jackets. Both wore the dull expressions of hard men. The first one lifted his hand. It was a big hand, misshapen, as if the bones had been broken a few times. There were a lot of rings on that hand, big lumps of metal that could do a lot of damage if they hit you.

  ‘Mr Zafrani wants to see you,’ he said. It wasn’t an invitation.

  Chapter Nine

  The driver, the shorter of the two men, drove in an aggressive manner, closing in on cars in his way and then flashing his lights for them to vacate the road. Makana had seen the same attitude in State Security drivers, only this man wasn’t State Security. He kept snapping the wheel from side to side as he switched lanes. Most passengers might have felt a little queasy, but Makana hardly noticed being flung against the door time and again. He had the strange feeling that he had just fallen back through a doorway in time. When he’d first set eyes on the girl he had thought he was imagining things. Bilquis bore an uncanny resemblance to Muna. Not the Muna who had died that night on the bridge, thirteen years ago, but the young woman he had first fallen in love with long before that. She looked, in other words, exactly as he had imagined his daughter Nasra might look today. Of course, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible, or was it?

  As they drove up onto the bridge, Makana could already see their destination, the old paddle steamer moored along the river, its outline sketched out in the darkness by red lights running up the square sides and around the upper deck. The name had been changed. Now the words, in English and Arabic on either side, spelled out the name Al-Buraq. The legendary animal of myth that had once carried the Prophet from Mecca to Jerusalem and back again in a single, fateful night. Laylat al-Qadr. It seemed like an odd symbol for the Zafranis to adopt, but then again, why not?

  Makana’s dealings with the Zafrani brothers over the years had been of an ambiguous nature. For a couple of gangsters with a nasty reputation, they had always treated him surprisingly well – or perhaps he had managed to avoid antagonising them enough for them to do him harm – but it was like playing with a pair of unpredictable and dangerous animals. You never knew when they might lose patience and decide to take your hand off, or worse. Of course, he should have guessed they might be behind the club. It was a cut above the Buraq, but they were nothing if not ambitious.

  The car whipped down off the ramp and sped along the riverside to the brightly lit entrance. The boat had been given a facelift. Makana could remember the dark and gloomy restaur­ant on the upper floor that was always empty. Everybody knew it was just a cover for their more nefarious enterprises. Arches of white lights now greeted the visitor. The doormen still had faces like camel saddles, but now they wore uniforms and through the windows on the upper floor it was possible to see people actually eating. A group of overfed men stood around the entrance wishing they had something to hit. As Makana approached, they stepped neatly aside. Obviously, his escorts had some kind of seniority. The lobby and staircase were lined with tacky mirrored strips. A ball of rotating coloured lights played over them as they climbed. It was comforting to know that the Zafranis hadn’t lost their taste for the cheap and gaudy.

  The good life was beginning to show its effects on Ayad Zafrani. He had put on a fair amount of weight since the last time they had met. Makana had always thought of him as a small man, but he seemed bigger all round now. The suit was cut wide in the shoulders to disguise his expansive girth. He still had the same shaven head and steel-rimmed glasses. He got up from behind the desk and came round. Despite his bulk, he moved quickly, and it was easy to see how people might be intimidated. He looked Makana up and down as if this were a military inspection, then dismissed the two men with a wave and gestured at the sofa and chair arrangement on one side of the room.

  ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’

  Everything was covered in synthetic black-and-white leather, so that the room resembled a scattered set of dominos. A broad window displayed the city skyline. Brightly lit minarets and fancy hotels reached for the heavens. If that didn’t summarise this city, Makana didn’t know what did.

  ‘You’ve been decorating.’

  ‘Renovation. You have to keep things new. People expect that.’ Ayad Zafrani chuckled, fluttering a handful of rings in the air. Then his face grew sober. ‘They didn’t rough you up at all, did they, Didi and Bobo? They can get carried away.’

  ‘No, they were perfectly civil.’

  He rubbed a hand over his scalp fretfully. ‘I swear to God, it’s so hard to find decent help these days. All these kids think it’s about driving fast and using your fists. I’m not saying that doesn’t come into it, but you can’t trust them to think for themselves. Not for a second. They’re like children. You have to watch over them all the time.’

  Makana’s eye fell on the statue of Ramses that took up one corner of the room. It was about two metres high and painted in gold. He couldn’t work out why the pharaoh’s face looked so familiar, until he realised Zafrani was grinning at him.

  ‘I see you haven’t lost your sense of style,’ Makana said.

  Ayad Zafrani feigned modesty.

  ‘That old thing? I’ve had it for years, just never had a place to put it. I heard there’s a guy in London. Egyptian. Owns a big department store. Very fancy. I don’t remember what it’s called. He did the same, put his face on a pharaoh in the entrance. Now everyone thinks it was his idea. I can remember him standing right where you are now. Imagine that? No shame.’

  ‘The world is filled with injustice.’

  ‘Exactly my point. Speaking of which, what are you up to?’ Ayad Zafrani settled himself heavily into the chair opposite Makana. Two old friends catching up. Air escaped with a loud hiss.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘You come to my club, naturally you’re going to attract ­attention.’ Zafrani was smiling. Never a guarantee that he was amused.

  ‘Perhaps I like to gamble, spend a little time with the women.’

  ‘We run a nice quiet place for men to relax in. They rely on our discretion. They don’t like people coming around poking around.’ Zafrani was grinning again, like a boy having fun. ‘I bet you’re wondering how I knew it was you when they called me.’ He picked up a remote control and pressed a button. The television screen that dominated one wall of the room came to life. A few more buttons produced a grainy black-and-white image split into four parts. One showed the exterior of the house in Maadi. Makana noticed that the motorcycle was no longer there. Another image showed the view from the security area downstairs. The bouncers looked bored. The upstairs bar. The casino. Ayad Zafrani clicked his way through one screen after another, each one producing more images.

  ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? We live in the age of miracles.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you have cameras in the rooms as well.’

  Ayad Zafrani wagged a fat finger. ‘You have a devious mind.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer the question.’

  ‘You haven’t answered mine yet. What were you doing there this evening?’

  ‘Why all the drama? Those maniacs driving me here at breakneck speed?’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. Look, I know you, remember? If you come snooping around it’s not because you need a woman or you have money to throw away, which reminds me, how much did you put down on the tab?’

  ‘A hundred dollars.’

  ‘Dollars, eh? Sounds like you’re moving into the big time yourself.’ Zafrani went over to the desk and dug into a drawe
r. He came back and handed Makana a thick wad of Egyptian pounds in exchange. ‘Let’s call it even. I’ll forget the chips they gave you.’

  ‘What have I done to deserve such generosity?’

  ‘It’s not what you’ve done, it’s what you’re going to do.’ He raised his hands to stem Makana’s objections. ‘You’re going to tell me what you were doing at my club.’

  ‘How is your brother, by the way?’

  ‘My brother?’ Ayad Zafrani examined the tip of his cigar.’ My brother has decided to devote himself to helping those less fortunate than himself.’

  ‘Sounds like a noble gesture.’

  ‘He’s doing God’s work. He spends all his time at a mosque helping the poor. He thinks it will help him in the next life. Me, I’m more concerned with what happens in this one.’ Ayad Zafrani gestured around them. ‘This, he wants nothing to do with, except to finance his benevolent acts of course. What can I do?’ Zafrani shrugged. ‘He’s my brother. Anyone else and I would have cut off his head and fed him to the fish.’

  Makana had always found Zayed the more reasonable of the two brothers. Ayad was the more headstrong, less predictable.

  ‘So . . .’ Ayad Zafrani held out his hands. ‘You’re making me wait.’

  ‘All right. I’m looking for someone. An Iraqi. A former col­­onel in Saddam’s army.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Zafrani puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. ‘Does this colonel have a name?’

  ‘Kadhim al-Samari.’

  ‘Where did you hear he was in my club?’

  ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘No, I don’t, but I am interested about where you heard this story.’

  ‘Are you saying it’s true, he does go there?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything of the sort. Look, you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I have nothing to hide. I’m just trying to run a decent club.’

  ‘I heard you were trying to make your businesses legitimate.’

  ‘You’re thinking of my brother.’ Ayad Zafrani threw up his hands in despair. ‘And besides, in this country as you well know, there’s a very thin line between one thing and the other.’