The Golden Scales

by Parker Bilal

  ‘We know who he is, sure.’

  ‘He’s a regular customer.’

  ‘Is this for a magazine? I have a friend who works in television. Maybe you know him?’

  ‘It’s fine being a big star and everything but you’d think a guy like that could manage to smile once in a while,’ offered one of them as Makana made to leave.

  Chapter Six

  The DreemTeem Football Club looked like a bomb had hit it. Over the old stadium an enormous new edifice was being constructed. Cranes swung through the air and jackhammers pounded. Scaffolding clattered and heavy lorries rumbled in and out of a deep pit in the ground, churning clouds of grey dust like hot pepper into the air. Alongside this a semi-circular building housed the main offices of Hanafi Enterprises.

  Makana was hoping to interview some of Adil’s team mates. Gaber had made an appointment for him with the team’s manager, Guido Clemenza. Makana arrived ten minutes early. Still, Clemenza kept him waiting another forty, and when he did finally appear he seemed reluctant to talk.

  ‘I should warn you,’ he began, ‘you won’t get much cooperation from the players.’

  Clemenza was Italian, a heavily built man with a tanned face and grey spiky hair that stuck up like bristles on a wire brush. He wasn’t exactly an examplar of healthy living, considering he was the manager of a football team. He smoked incessantly while they spoke.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers? They all think they deserve the same attention as he gets.’

  Makana recalled the piece he had read in the newspaper about conflict within the team.

  Clemenza sucked his teeth. ‘Gaber said he had hired you to find Romario. Personally, I don’t see the point. If he doesn’t want to play, why not let him go?’

  ‘I thought you would be keen to get him back.’

  ‘Think again. He’s overrated. Give me a player with less talent and more motivation any day of the week.’ His flinty gaze was sharp as a hawk’s and gave little away.

  ‘Hanafi seems to think differently.’

  Clemenza smiled conspiratorially. ‘It’s his club, Hanafi can think what he likes.’

  ‘The team isn’t doing so well without Adil Romario.’

  ‘It’s motivation we’re lacking, not Romario. You promise people the world and then one man gets all the glory. The players feel that no matter how hard they work, they are never recognised for it. Win or lose, it makes no difference to them.’ Clemenza smoked for a time. He seemed to be trying to decide something. ‘What exactly made Hanafi hire you?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him that. Why do I get the feeling you don’t much care for Adil?’

  ‘There’s no love lost between us,’ the Italian grunted. ‘It’s no secret. Everybody knows.’

  ‘You argued?’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Players are like racehorses. You have to treat them with care or they break a leg. He’s an arrogant prick who thinks he walks on water.’

  ‘Because Hanafi looks out for him?’

  ‘He’s the public image of the DreemTeem. The kid who came from nowhere and reached the stars.’

  ‘And in terms of the team?’

  A brusque shake of the head. ‘Adil’s heart is no longer in it. He’s a hindrance, a prima donna. He can put the ball into the net, sure, but you have to serve it up to him on a platter, and even then, nine times out of ten, he screws up. Raw talent only takes you so far.’

  ‘His heart isn’t in the game then?’

  ‘You got that right. And now I am going to have to leave you.’ Clemenza got to his feet. A woman had appeared in the doorway and was signalling to him like an extra in a television melodrama.

  ‘One last question. Can you think of any reason Adil might want to disappear?’

  ‘As many reasons as there are days in the month. I tell you, when I walk out on to that training pitch it never fails to surprise me that there are players out there. No one wants to work any more in this country. They want it all for free.’

  With that he was gone. Makana stretched and went over to the window. He was in the conference room of a large modern building set right on the river’s edge in Giza. This was the seat of the Hanafi empire and from it Makana had a panoramic view of the pyramids and the Great Sphinx in one direction, and the city skyline in the other. Between where he stood and the river lay the vast construction site of what would one day become Hanafi’s flagship – the new stadium.

  The foundations had been laid and a ring of columns was being built circling the inner oval. A number of these appeared to have massive stone figures on top of them. These resembled the statues of ancient kings, Ramses and Thutmose and all the rest of them. There was something about the faces of the statues that struck Makana as being wrong and yet oddly familiar.

  Outside, by the lifts, a girl was sitting behind a reception desk.

  ‘Who would you like me to call next?’ she asked as he approached.

  ‘Oh, let me think . . .’ He waved one hand vaguely. ‘Is there a bathroom I could use first?’

  The girl looked at him as if uncertain if his access qualified him for the privilege before finally consenting. She pointed him down the hall. ‘Go to the end and turn right.’

  Makana smiled his thanks and walked in the direction she had indicated. When he reached the bathroom door he went straight by. At the end of the corridor a door led to a staircase. He went down it and emerged into the old training area of the club. A sign pointed down a ramp to the players’ area.

  A small fortune had been ploughed into the recruitment of the Hanafi team. With his backing they could afford to purchase established players just as they were falling off the European circuit, which gave them a fairly international line-up. They had Dutch and British players, several Spanish and Italian. Most of them were past their prime, of course. Some were well on their way down, but they were still professional enough to take on most teams in this country and their names were familiar to the fans. There were also a number of African players: from Senegal, Nigeria, Cameroon. The majority of the team was Egyptian, of course. Some of these players were familiar to Makana, men who had played for well-known clubs like Zamalek and Al Ahly. A couple had been on the national team. They helped consolidate the local fan base. It was one of these he spotted coming out of the changing rooms with a sports bag slung over his shoulder, Ahmad Essam, a tall, taciturn man Makana remembered from years back.

  ‘Essam?’ He held out his hand. ‘I watched you score in the Africa Cup. What a goal!’

  ‘Thanks.’ The player took Makana’s hand and shook it. They walked out together through the tunnel and into the sunlight. ‘Not many people remember that.’ Essam looked weary, as if the occasional brief moments of glory had gradually been obliterated for him by decades of steady defeat.

  ‘You scored against Zambia.’

  ‘Those were the days. People really cared about the game. Now it’s every man for himself.’

  ‘You haven’t done so badly.’ Makana nodded at the new stadium going up.

  ‘Sure, it’s all change now.’ Essam’s face remained unsmiling. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  ‘I came to talk to you about Adil Romario.’

  ‘To me?’ Essam hefted the weight of his bag higher on his shoulder and looked Makana over. ‘You’re not even supposed to be in here, are you?’ He started walking again.

  ‘Look, I wouldn’t be in here if I didn’t have permission, right?’

  Essam paused and eyed him again. ‘So what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m writing a book on the team. Hanafi hired me.’

  ‘What, the whole team?’

  ‘The whole team.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure. Actually, the old man thinks the team needs more motivation. You can’t achieve greatness if everything is centred on a couple of big names.’

  ‘Or one.’

  ‘Or one.’ Makana nodded, pulling out his notebook and pen. The tall p
layer gestured towards a beaten-up red Mazda parked against the wall. They walked over and leaned against the side.

  ‘So what do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, this is all just background material right now. I need to get a feel for the dynamics between the players. What it’s like to be part of such a high-profile team.’

  ‘The dynamics?’

  ‘Take yourself, for example. You are probably the most experienced player on the team. The others look to you for direction, I imagine.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I guess it’s not that easy?’

  ‘It’s not,’ Essam conceded with a shrug. Then went on, ‘My legs are going. I have to work twice as hard these days just to keep up with the younger players.’

  ‘So, tell me about Adil Romario.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘You know what the problem is? Nobody sees the rest of us. I mean, take me. I worked my way up the hard way, just like him. My father was a fellah. I played for the national team. Then this kid comes along from nowhere and suddenly he’s the star of the team.’

  ‘Who decided that . . . Clemenza?’

  ‘He changes the line-up for almost every match, and never seems to get it right. The result is, we are losing. Other teams are beating us though we have better players.’

  ‘So how come Adil gets all the attention?’

  ‘Because it’s not about the game any more. It’s about all the other stuff. You know, he has to be seen with this actress and that singer, and they want him advertising perfume and potato chips.’

  ‘I hear he doesn’t even turn up for practice these days.’

  A wry smile appeared on the other man’s face. ‘He does that from time to time. Just takes off. No explanations given or asked for. Clemenza doesn’t dare take it out on him.’

  ‘Where does he go when he disappears?’

  ‘I don’t know. He takes that big fancy car of his and drives off somewhere.’

  ‘The silver Cherokee?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Essam gave his own Mazda a dirty look. Makana recalled the shells he had found in the desk at Adil’s apartment.

  ‘Does he have a place somewhere by the sea that he likes to go?’

  ‘Not that I’ve ever heard of.’ Essam looked off into the distance. ‘Between you and me, he enjoys himself too much. The parties, the girls . . . He’s not serious about the game, not any more.’

  ‘You think he doesn’t care about the team?’

  ‘The team?’ Essam choked on a bitter laugh. ‘If you want my opinion he’s probably in Europe right now, signing with one of the big clubs.’

  ‘What would Hanafi say to that?’

  ‘From what I hear, Adil has the old man wrapped around his finger.’

  ‘Why Europe?’

  Essam stared at Makana as if he was mad. ‘There isn’t a player in the world who doesn’t dream of playing for one of the big European clubs. It’s not just the money. In a few years you can get a passport and then you’re free.’

  ‘Mr Makana?’

  The two men looked up to find a tall woman in her twenties standing before them, hands on her slim hips. Sharply dressed in a neat charcoal grey suit, she had long brown hair that hung to her shoulders.

  ‘I am Soraya Hanafi.’ Makana felt his hand seized in a firm grip. She was looking at him in a puzzled way, as if uncertain what to make of him. ‘I see you have already met some of our players. How are you, Ahmad?’

  Mumbling a greeting, Essam began fumbling for his car keys. Soraya turned back to Makana.

  ‘We thought we had lost you.’

  ‘I thought I would take a look around.’

  The Mazda coughed black smoke and began to back away, rattling noisily. Makana followed Soraya back towards the main building.

  ‘We nearly met yesterday. Was that you swimming at your father’s flat?’

  Her expression was a mixture of distrust and curiosity, as if she couldn’t work out whether or not to trust him.

  ‘I try to swim every day.’

  Soraya Hanafi had an air of confidence about her you might expect in a woman twice her age. She was striking rather than beautiful and her direct gaze only compounded the unsettling effect she had on Makana. They took the lift back up to the conference room in silence.

  She asked him to sit down and gave him a brief introduction to the company. It was, he discovered, far more extensive than he had realised. Hanafi Foods grew beans and okra, and froze them or tinned them for export all over the world. They imported wheat from the United States and turned it into pasta. Hanafi Autos assembled cars and minivans made in Korea. There was an insurance company as well. The biggest section of all, however, was their construction company. Hanafi Developments was busy building everything, from tower blocks in the city and villa complexes in the Emirates to luxury hotels on the Red Sea and in Upper Egypt.

  When Soraya had finished talking she sat back and appraised him.

  ‘You are not comfortable in the presence of women, I see.’

  ‘I’m not that old-fashioned,’ he protested, reaching for his cigarettes. The look on her face told him to put them away again, which he did.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Makana, I have no idea why my father hired you. There are plenty of good investigators in this town. Many of them come with a long record of service in our police force. These are people we know. People who know their way around the city. They have contacts. You, on the other hand, are a complete outsider.’

  Makana wondered just how much Soraya Hanafi knew about her father’s former life. As the daughter of his second wife, by the time she was old enough to understand fully, doubtless all of the questionable side of it would have been conveniently swept away out of existence. Gangsters replaced by bankers. Thugs by police chiefs. She would have grown up thinking she had a wealthy businessman for a father. A sheltered life where the occasional hint of untoward dealings could be dismissed as malicious rumour stirred up by her father’s rivals.

  ‘I can’t tell you why your father decided to seek my assistance. You’d have to ask him that, but I believe he has his reasons.’

  Her pointed chin lifted for a moment, and then Soraya gave the briefest of nods, as if to herself, saying this would have to be good enough for the moment.

  ‘My father never does anything without good reason. I don’t know what those reasons are, but I am willing to cooperate with you in any way, if it will help.’

  Makana stretched his legs out under the table. ‘Then tell me about him . . . about Adil.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Everything. Interests, friends, habits. At this stage anything could be useful.’

  ‘Well,’ began Soraya Hanafi, gazing down at her lap, ‘I’ve known Adil for as long as I can remember. I was alone from an early age. My mother and brother died in a car accident. My sisters from my father’s first marriage are much older. I was a lonely child. Adil was one of the first boys taken into the Hanafi Sports Academy. We spent a lot of time together when we were young.’ Her tone softened as she spoke about him.

  ‘I understand,’ Makana said. ‘This must be very difficult for you.’

  ‘It’s difficult for all of us.’ She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she was cold.

  ‘Your father must have taken a real liking to him, to bring him into the family like that.’

  ‘My father comes from a similar background. I imagine he saw something of himself in Adil. When there is something he wants, he goes after it.’

  ‘And you, are you similar in character?’

  The question surprised her. ‘Is that relevant to your enquiries?’

  ‘At the moment everything is relevant.’

  ‘Very well.’ Soraya Hanafi crossed her arms in front of her, and looked him in the eye. ‘Yes, some people would say that I have inherited that side of his temperament.’

  ‘And what position exactly do you hold in your fat
her’s business enterprises?’

  A faint twitch of irritation passed across her face and vanished.

  ‘My father is not getting any younger, Mr Makana. I am gradually taking on more responsibility. In the end, I expect to take over the company.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that make you something of an exception in this country?’

  Her head tilted to one side and her eyes narrowed. ‘I sense disapproval.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Makana tried to make amends. ‘But I imagine there are some circles where the idea of a woman your age running a company this size would be frowned upon.’

  ‘We’re behind the times in this country, especially now, with all this religious nonsense. If some people want to live in the Middle Ages, let them. It’s not something I worry about.’

  ‘What about Adil’s family, his parents? Does he have any contact with them?’

  ‘They passed away, but he more or less cut all ties to them before that. Adil had a difficult childhood. His parents were very poor. He often says that my father saved his life.’

  ‘What does he mean by that?’

  ‘I suppose he means that his circumstances did not provide him with many opportunities at birth. In all probability, he would have ended up in a life of crime or deep poverty at best if he had not been given a chance by my father.’

  ‘You’re saying he broke all contact with his family?’

  Soraya Hanafi paused, locking her fingers together on the table. ‘I think he despised them.’

  ‘Despised?’ Makana said. ‘Isn’t that pretty harsh?’

  ‘I don’t believe it’s an exaggeration. He’s never forgiven them for not putting him in school . . . for making him work in the fields from a very young age. He couldn’t read or write when he first came to the academy. He was determined to make himself free, never to go back to that world. I’ve always admired him for that. A world of darkness, he calls it.’