The Golden Scales

by Parker Bilal

‘About six years.’

  ‘And they treat you pretty well?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They pay well. I don’t have to worry about anything.’

  ‘I’ll bet he’s pretty strict about things, that Gaber.’

  Sindbad tried to stifle a laugh and failed, giggling like a kid. ‘Mr Gaber likes things to be exactly how he wants them. Otherwise he gets angry.’

  ‘I’m sure. And how about the old man?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Sindbad’s tone changed. ‘He’s not as strong as he used to be. Sometimes you take him somewhere and he forgets what he’s supposed to be doing, so you have to take him back again.’

  As Makana climbed out in front of the building, the big man wished him luck.

  The guards in the lobby were not talkative today. No smiles or cheery greetings. They led Makana over to the special lift without a word and slid home the security key that activated it. The sombre mood was palpable. As the doors slid open again Makana found Soraya Hanafi and Gaber waiting for him. As he stepped out on the penthouse floor there came a howl from the upper level of the suite and they all turned to look up. Hanafi, dressed in a navy blue dressing gown embroidered with gold crescents, was leaning over the balustrade waving a newspaper in the air.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he yelled. ‘I want answers and I want them now!’ He came down the long sweeping staircase with great clumsy steps, threatening to trip over the hem of his gown, which was far too long for him. Gaber rushed forward to catch him as he stumbled to a halt. Hanafi pushed him roughly aside and pointed a finger at Makana. ‘I hired you to be discreet, not to make a fool of me!’ Waving the newspaper under Makana’s nose, he shrieked, ‘A gangster! That’s what they are calling me. A common thug. A bultagi!’ He rounded on Gaber. ‘I want you to find the cockroach who wrote this. Find out where he lives, who his friends are. I am going to teach him a lesson he will never forget.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Makana.

  ‘Oh, you don’t, do you?’ Hanafi turned on him. ‘Well, that’s fine to hear, because it’s not your face on the front page, is it?’

  ‘It’s what he is hoping for. An attack will only put wind in his sails.’

  ‘Mr Makana has a point,’ concurred Gaber quietly.

  ‘Then call the lawyers. I want to sue the paper and the animals who work for it!’

  ‘He’s just a kid,’ said Makana.

  ‘You know him?’ Soraya asked.

  Makana turned to her. ‘I caught him following me one day. I tried to warn him off.’

  ‘Obviously, you were not successful,’ said Gaber. ‘This is not the first time this man has attacked us. He wrote a scandalous piece about the team only last month.’

  ‘Most of the story is guesswork,’ added Soraya. ‘He doesn’t really have anything. He blew it up as big as he could to please his editor and get more space for himself.’

  Makana said nothing.

  ‘You’ve talked to Clemenza?’ Hanafi snapped.

  Gaber nodded. ‘I spoke to him first thing this morning.’

  ‘What’s all this talk about a transfer?’

  ‘It’s idle speculation. Clemenza assures me he has absolutely no plans to try and negotiate a deal for Adil in Europe.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that snake. I want him replaced . . . not right away, not in the middle of all this, but I want you to start looking for a replacement. And check with our people in Europe. See if there are any rumours to back up this transfer nonsense.’

  ‘I have already made some calls,’ Gaber said.

  ‘Good.’ Hanafi turned to Soraya next. ‘I want you to get on to some of the people we have in television, on the radio, the newspapers. I’ve paid so much money out over the years, it’s time for them to repay some of my generosity. I want to counter this with ten stories reminding people how much I have done for this country. And issue a statement countering all this nonsense.’

  ‘I’ll do it straight away.’ She marched off.

  ‘Gangsters, indeed!’ Hanafi snorted, and stabbed a finger at Makana. ‘You I want to talk to.’ With that he turned and stumbled up a few stairs into a long dining room that projected like the prow of an ocean liner over the terrace. Most of it was taken up by an enormous circular table. A glass wall curved round one side, affording diners a view of the pool below. As the door closed behind them Makana turned to face Hanafi, bracing himself for an assault. But the fight had gone out of the old man. He dropped the newspaper on the table, plunged his hands deep into his pockets and walked straight up to the window, to stare down as if his fate might be written in the faux-Roman mosaic on the bottom of the pool whose image swayed back and forth in the blue water.

  ‘When I was a small boy I used to think that rich people were different. I imagined them living in a place where everything was always clean and new. They never got dirty. They didn’t, you know, do their business like the rest of us. Now I am richer than most people in this country. I live in a palace, and the funny thing is, I still think the rich are different. Somewhere inside this old man there is still that little boy from Tanta with mud on his fingers. I shall never be one of them.’

  The narrow eyes widened in sorrow. ‘I did some bad things to get where I am today, I admit it. Some I regret, others I don’t. I have tried to distance myself from them all, but I can’t.’ He stared down at his feet for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, then he raised his chin and stared Makana straight in the eye. ‘There is something I must tell you. Perhaps I should have made it clear from the outset.’ He paused to draw in a deep breath. ‘Adil is my son.’

  ‘Your son?’ It took a moment for Makana to take it in. ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘I mean, my own flesh and blood,’ Hanafi continued impatiently. ‘The fruit of a . . . brief relationship I had with a woman a long time ago.’

  ‘How many people know this?’

  ‘Until today, nobody. Not even my closest family. Nobody except Gaber, of course. Gaber knows everything.’

  ‘Who was his mother?’

  ‘His mother?’ Hanafi’s face was a picture of puzzlement. ‘His mother . . .’ His voice took on the soft tone of an old man reminiscing. ‘She was a young woman, a girl really, who worked for me. It would have been a scandal. There was no possibility of marriage between us.’

  ‘I see,’ said Makana slowly. ‘Well, this changes things, of course.’

  Hanafi blinked furiously. ‘You understand why I have kept this a secret?’

  ‘You’re worried about your reputation.’

  ‘It will be made public when the time is right.’ Hanafi clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his big head, resembling a tired old elephant. ‘I am ageing. When I am gone, I would like my name to continue.’ He resembled nothing more than a benign and somewhat confused grandfather at that moment. Makana had to remind himself that this was a ruthless man with a very dubious past.

  ‘It was wrong of me not to tell you right from the start. I can see that. Old habits die hard and I have kept this a secret for a long time. Pride is a terrible thing.’

  ‘I think you mean vanity. Does Adil know?’

  A slow shake of the head. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. I love that boy. He’s the son I always wished for, but I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes when he heard that he was the product of such a . . . shameful affair.’ Hanafi stared furiously at the floor.

  ‘Eventually he will have to know.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Hanafi smiled foolishly. ‘I suppose he will.’

  ‘Tell me about his mother. What happened to her?’

  ‘She was a simple girl. I took care of the family and later arranged for Adil to be taken into the academy.’

  ‘You set it up just for him?’

  ‘It was a way of allowing him to be close to me without telling the whole world.’

  ‘Where is his mother now?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  Makana strai
ghtened his shoulders. ‘At the moment everything matters,’ he said quietly.

  Hanafi considered this for a moment and then sighed his acknowledgement.

  ‘I believe she passed away some years ago.’

  ‘You were married at the time?’

  ‘My first wife was ill. She passed away and a year later I was married again and had a son on the way.’ He blinked his eyes. ‘But Allah saw fit to take him away from me.’

  ‘Soraya’s mother and your son died in the car accident. Soraya was the only survivor?’

  Hanafi’s gaze grew distant and returned to the pool.

  ‘Only it wasn’t a car accident, was it?’

  Hanafi was losing patience. His eyes narrowed as they turned on Makana.

  ‘All this is ancient history.’

  ‘The pyramids are ancient history.’

  Hanafi grunted, ‘I tell people what they need to know. It wasn’t necessary to explain what happened.’

  ‘It wasn’t a car accident.’

  ‘No, you’re right. It wasn’t.’ He turned back to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘They were trying to kill me. They might as well have slit my throat. They took the dearest thing I had, my only son.’

  ‘Who was trying to kill you?’

  ‘An old enemy of mine.’

  Makana felt he was finally getting somewhere. ‘Could he be behind Adil’s disappearance?’

  ‘He died,’ said Hanafi quietly. ‘A long, long time ago.’

  ‘Okay, now listen to me. You didn’t tell me Adil was your son. You lied about your wife’s death. How much more of what you told me is untrue?’

  Hanafi’s tired eyes rose slowly to meet his. ‘Do you believe in fate, Makana? Do you believe everything happens as it is written?’ Makana found himself lost for words. ‘Well, I do. I prayed for a son, and Allah gave me one – only to take him away from me in the cruellest fashion.’ His eyes glinted. ‘I was the cause of that boy’s death as surely as if I had held the gun to his head.’ Makana’s impassivity seemed to provoke him. He emitted a low sob, wallowing in self-pity and despair. ‘Do you know what it means to lose a son?’

  Makana felt his throat tighten.

  ‘All my first wife gave me was daughters, each more plump and empty-headed than the last. And then she died. I wanted a son and Allah gave me two, almost at the same time.’

  ‘So when you lost the first boy, you went looking for the other,’ Makana said. ‘Does Soraya know the truth about Adil?’

  ‘She does now,’ Hanafi whispered. ‘I told her before you arrived.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘She was shocked, of course. But I cannot bear to lose another son. I hoped you might be able to find him quickly, without knowing all the details, but now . . .’ He sent the newspaper spinning across the table.

  Gaber was pacing up and down outside, waiting. Without a word he led the way along a hallway to another room, his own office presumably. The window looked out over the road and the gardens opposite. Soraya was sitting stiffly in one of the chairs facing the desk. She didn’t look up when they came in. Gaber closed the door and went behind the desk.

  ‘Now, I need a full report on the progress you have made so far.’

  ‘First things first.’ Makana remained standing. He leaned one elbow on a teak filing cabinet beside the door. ‘Why are you wasting time having me followed?’

  Gaber twined his fingers together on the desk top. ‘I wasn’t aware that I was.’

  Makana wondered if he could have been mistaken. He didn’t trust Gaber but he also couldn’t see the point of the man’s having him followed. He glanced at Soraya, who was clutching the arms of the chair she sat in, staring at him. She was furious and probably with good reason, having just discovered she had a half-brother.

  ‘Okay, so explain why I wasn’t told that Adil was the old man’s son?’

  Makana turned as he heard Soraya’s sharp intake of breath. She slammed back the chair and got to her feet.

  ‘This is humiliating! Why must we discuss intimate family matters in front of a stranger?’

  She was addressing Gaber, but staring at Makana. Gaber tried to calm her.

  ‘Mr Makana is here to help us, Soraya. We have to trust him.’

  ‘How can we be sure of him? For all we know he is working with that rat who calls himself a journalist, and probably earning a fat commission on top of it.’

  ‘Your father hired me because he believed I could be of help,’ Makana said calmly. ‘If you don’t agree then you should take it up with him.’

  ‘Soraya, please,’ Gaber urged. ‘Sit down, let him tell us what he has learned.’

  She wasn’t happy but finally consented, sinking back into the chair without another word and staring fixedly at the desk in front of her.

  ‘The fact is that I haven’t uncovered a great deal,’ Makana began. ‘Perhaps if you had been frank with me from the start we might have avoided some of this unpleasantness.’ He took his time over the last word, which he chose with the care of a diplomat. Soraya remained impassive.

  ‘It was wrong, I agree. From now on, rest assured, nothing will be kept from you.’

  Makana looked at Gaber and realised that he trusted him less than ever. He moved across the room and picked up a large porcelain figure. It was heavier than he had imagined and looked to be Chinese, depicting a bearded man with a protuberant belly and a stick held over one shoulder.

  ‘Please,’ Gaber implored. ‘That is a priceless piece.’

  Makana set the figure carefully back on the shelf.

  ‘Adil is in business with a man named Salim Farag.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Gaber. ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Making movies. Does either of you know anything about that?’ He looked at both of them.

  ‘Well, he’s expressed an interest in acting, but as far as I know that’s all there is to it.’ Gaber glanced over at Soraya who silently confirmed this assessment but said nothing more.

  ‘Farag seems like a rather disreputable character. And there is a girl involved. An actress named Mimi Maliki.’

  Makana noticed Soraya stiffen on hearing the name. He looked to Gaber for an explanation.

  ‘There was some rather unpleasant business with her a few months ago.’ Gaber reached for a sandalwood box on the desk and lit a cigarette. ‘She claimed Adil had assaulted her. Wanted money to keep quiet. A woman of dubious moral character.’

  ‘I never believed her story,’ said Soraya, stamping her foot as she stood up again. ‘All she was interested in was money. She was jealous and wanted to hurt him.’

  Eventually, after much coaxing, Soraya consented to sit down again, but was clearly still seething with anger. Makana wondered how much of her father’s past was known to her.

  ‘This must be very distressing for you.’

  She glanced in his direction briefly, then looked away again. ‘There is a great responsibility that comes with running a company as big as Hanafi Enterprises. Whole families depend on us. We cannot afford to allow something like this to damage our business.’

  ‘I can’t control what they write in the papers.’

  Her eyes were furious as she turned them on him.

  ‘It’s in your interest to protect our name.’

  ‘I wasn’t hired to protect your name. I was hired to find Adil.’

  This caused her to waver. She gave a terse nod of agreement. ‘What matters is that you find him.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I’m sure a man of your extraordinary abilities will find a way.’ She stood up, calm now, and left the room. It had been, Makana was forced to concede, quite a performance. Gaber’s voice brought him back to the present.

  ‘Please don’t take it personally. She is upset. We all are.’

  Makana watched him smooth back the wavy white hair from his forehead. He preferred Soraya’s sincerity, no matter how fiery, to this coldness.

  �
�Hanafi told me about his wife and son . . . how they were killed.’

  ‘He told you about that, did he?’ Gaber’s pale hands rested on the desk top as he sank down slowly into his chair.

  ‘Does Soraya remember much about it?’

  ‘She was a very small child at the time. Of course it affected her tremendously, as it did all of us.’

  ‘But she only knows the official version, that it was a car accident?’

  ‘She wasn’t there when it happened.’

  Makana nodded. ‘The man who did it . . . the one who was trying to kill Hanafi . . . who was he?’

  Gaber heaved a deep sigh and reached for the cigarette box. This time he offered them to Makana – expensive English Dunhills. Makana held one under his nose to savour the smell of the tobacco.

  ‘His name was Daud Bulatt. At one time he was very close to Hanafi.’

  ‘What happened between them?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Gaber lifted a gold-plated lighter in the shape of the Sphinx and clicked the tail. He held out the flame to Makana. ‘One day Bulatt decided to go his own way. He led a mutiny against Hanafi, wanted to take over everything. In the ensuing battle, Hanafi’s wife and son were cut down in the street.’ As Gaber fell silent there was only the sound of a lift humming somewhere in the building. Then he stirred and blinked, looking at Makana as if he had only just noticed him standing there.

  ‘Is this relevant to your enquiry?’

  ‘Everything is relevant.’

  Irritated, Gaber shifted papers around his desk and straightened his tie.

  ‘What else do you need to know?’

  The cigarette tasted foreign and smooth. Yet another reminder that life at these altitudes was different. Makana told himself not to get too used to it.

  ‘Tell me about the girl, Adil’s mother.’

  ‘Are you sure this is necessary?’ Gaber’s patience appeared to be running thin.

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ sighed Makana. ‘Let me tell you what I think happened. Hanafi would have been nearly fifty and she must have been young. How young?’

  ‘Around sixteen,’ said Gaber tersely.

  ‘Sixteen. Unmarried. She caught Hanafi’s eye and one day he couldn’t help himself. Nobody could ever refuse Hanafi, right? People were scared of him and he took what he wanted, but he also helped them. Enough to make them turn a blind eye to his bad behaviour. When she became pregnant you stepped in and smoothed everything over. Her parents brought up the child as their own.’