Markus nodded. On the table, the chai had already lost a couple of degrees. In thirty minutes, it would be cold.
Four.
Markus squeezed his meter eighty-five into the back of the small police car, cramped on a leather seat smelling of sweat. This was one of the first things he’d noticed when arriving in Samarqand: small police cars, of an unknown make, that he later identified through conversations and negative comments, as Diamant. Small yes, very, compared to the luxurious police limousines of Viborg City. And dirty. That was the second thing. The dirt. Not in the streets, nor in the shops. But on the cars. That dust. Mountain dust. Rocks ground to sand after a zillion years. History of history. Unknown, yet visible.
Unknown, yet visible. I like that.
Startled, Markus turned his head towards the empty space next to him. Who said that? Who had spoken? A woman’s voice. Not Synth’s. Synth had no voice. It had only provided images. Until now?
“Cigarette?”
“What?”
The hand shook the pack under his nose. Clean fingers, smelling of tobacco.
“Yes, thank you.”
Men sharing cigarettes. The illusion of friendship. The small interior was soon filled with acrid blue smoke.
“Where are we going?”
The Turkish-looking policeman next to the driver turned his head towards Markus.
“The hospital. Inspector-General Ali Bassam is waiting for you there.”
Markus nodded, although he had no idea why he should meet an inspector-general at the hospital.
Five.
“There you go,” the Turkish-looking policeman said, letting Markus be the first to walk into the cold corridor lit by evenly spaced, blinding neon tubes. A highway in reverse. Walking on a flat sky. Synth flashed for a second—album cover, music video—but he quieted it. The hospital basement was hallucination enough in itself.
Six.
Inspector-General Ali Shakr Bassam looked with irritation at his watch. What were those idiots doing? He grunted and shrugged, pacing under the bored eyes of the second sergeant who escorted him. The sergeant was filing his nails, his back resting against the cold, white-tiled wall. Shakr knew he was a Gallaoui, and that clean nails were important to him, as they were a symbol of purity. Whatever, the inspector-general thought, as he absent-mindedly caressed his beard.
He was angry at corporals Nobal and Konchev, because they were wasting his time in an already perfectly pointless situation. He knew the confrontation would bring nothing, that the Eleni would not know this man and that the whole thing would be a forgotten episode stacked in his own memory among thousands of other forgotten episodes of the same kind. What’s more, he was getting hungry.
“What the hell are they doing? Having lunch together at the city’s expense?” he said out loud, to relieve some of the tension.
“I think I can hear them” the Gallaoui sergeant said, without stopping his nail-filing.
Seven.
Markus’ first thought was: torture.
At the end of the corridor—a thick double door with small opaque windows and the stench of detergent. Visions of blood hosed down a small drain in one corner, white tiles, a wooden chair.
He turned around and saw his two escorts patiently waiting for him to enter.
Torture.
But why?
Maybe they had handed his file over to the Secret Police, maybe they had found out his true identity, past, loves, hopes, dreams. That door suggested a lot of maybes. All the maybes of his life. Flashes of Synth ran along the small of Markus’ back. He had never experienced Synth under duress. Stress, yes. All the time. It had been the essential reason he had become hooked in Viborg City. Easy escape. Mind in the clouds, a pure blue sky, low music humming in the background. Illusions to fight other illusions. The ghost of freedom against the ghost of oppression. “The demon you see in front of your eyes is only a projection of yourself”—Tibetan Book of the Dead, page something. His back pages.
He pushed the door open with his right hand.
“Enter and accept your sentence.” Kafka. The Trial. Page—?
Eight.
Inspector-General Ali Shakr Bassam turned his head at the sound of the door opening. Finally, he thought. That imbecile Gallaoui was right.
A tall, thin man walked in, longish blonde hair, morning stubble, worried blue eyes, white t-shirt with some writing on it—presumably music or some fashionable brand—black pants, no socks in the low worn-out sneakers—hurry? habit?—nice face, maybe slightly naive, although the wrinkles at the corner of the eyes and the side of the mouth denoted experience—stress? drugs? politics?—not politics, Bureau 23 would have taken care of him a long time ago—but no tourist either, he worked here, Bassam had read the reports—at Tsentsen’s, a nice place, he had never been there but his son liked it—fresh fruit juice and 100 various imported beers—a mystery this young man, a mystery—and not only that—his name.
“Ah, Mr. Sandorf . . . I always wanted to know what a hero from Jules Verne would look like . . . Forgot your tiger?”
The surprise in the eyes of the young man was genuine, years of experience told him that.
“What, you didn’t know? Your parents never told you?”
The young man shook his head—what, 30, 35? Maybe younger and too much experience—Were his parents idiots? Was he an idiot? Faking?
“I saw the TV series first, when I was young,” the inspector-general resumed. “Loved it. Then later, at the police school, I found an English translation. Fabulous adventure novel. If you want, I can lend it to you sometime.”
Make him feel comfortable. Good cop. No need to be bad yet. If ever. Instant sympathy. The name, probably.
Nine.
That cop had taken Markus completely by surprise. The name. His name. His fake name. Markus mentally cursed Akmet back in New Constantinople. Did he know? Was it some kind of private joke or a random name chosen by some mischievous computer? Too late now, anyway. He managed to pull out a thin smile and shake his head.
“No, didn’t know I had a famous name, nor that my parents had pulled a joke on me.”
“Ah, parents . . .” the inspector-general sighed, with an amused glint in the eye. “No children yet?”
Markus shook his head.
“No.”
“Parents . . .” he repeated, obviously amused by his own remark.
He was quite a large middle-aged man, with a broad mustache greased the local way, and thick black hair combed back in a shiny helmet. His cheeks were adorned with a thin trimmed beard, adding to the virile impression. He looked somewhat Persian, with half-open eyes that always seemed on the brink of closing, but with the pupils black and alert. His uniform was impeccable, as if he wanted to single-handedly contradict the Samarqand police reputation for sloppy uniforms, yet he appeared in no way strict or militaristic. A faint smell of citrus and subtle spices drifted pleasantly to Markus’ nose, indicating pride in his appearance. Markus, on the other hand, stank of sweaty sleep—he hadn’t showered yet and he wondered what the inspector-general must think of him.
“I’m sorry you’ve had to come here in such a way,” the policeman said, in almost accentless English, “but we have a very serious matter on our hands I hope you can help us with.”
“Of course,” Markus replied, not knowing what the other meant.
The man motioned Markus to follow him to the other end of the large barren room, where another policeman stood, filing his nails. Markus noticed a gurney with a shape covered by a sheet. A dead body. A serious matter, indeed, especially if he was a suspect. Synth began to morph the surroundings into an old Mission Impossible set, but he switched it off, again. He wanted to live this nightmare with open eyes.
The inspector-general stood beside the gurney, looking grave.
“Are you ready?” he asked Markus, who nodded.
“Here we go,” the inspector-general said and carefully lifted the sheet with a gesture of humanity and respect.<
br />
“I will not pull the sheet lower. The wound is quite nasty,” he explained, running his index finger across his throat. “Even some of my men were shocked.”
Markus nodded again and reluctantly looked at the large, bald and bearded face. A white man, an Eleni, as they were called here. Now he understood why they had fetched him.
“Do you know this man?” the inspector-general asked, as if he had read Markus’ mind.
Markus looked more carefully at the bleached face with its closed eyes and suddenly recognition jolted his senses.
It was his old friend, his Potemkin Crew partner-in-crime, Ole. When he was arrested after hacking into an attack-satellite during the Southeast China war, it was claimed that Ole had managed to escape to Samarqand, but Markus thought it was just a rumor planted by the government in order to link the group of hackers to the “Evil City,” scheming to overthrow civilization once and for all.
Markus raised his eyes and looked squarely at the inspector-general’s face. Shaking his head, he said: “No.”
Ten.
Inspector-General Al Shakr Bassam nodded and pulled the sheet back over the Eleni’s face. Or rather, as he knew since the identification earlier that morning, on Olgeÿ Tazar’s face. How could he not have recognized him before? Yes, the street was dark, but . . . He felt a wave of sadness as his pulse skipped a beat. Then he wondered if he should leak the news to the press now, or wait a while. Of course, Bureau 23 would be furious if Tazar’s death became public knowledge too soon. Bad press for the government, bad press in the international media, bad press for the king’s sister and her fanatical friends. And especially bad press for the king himself, who could really do without this right now. Watching corporals Nobal and Konchev escort Jules Verne’s hero back through the door, Shakr wiped away a tear with the base of his thumb.
Eleven.
In the back of the police car, Markus tried to hide his grief. He felt as if he had become no more than a mask. The policemen dropped him off in front of Tsentsen’s.
“I really like your t-shirt, sir,” the Turkish-looking one said, before getting back into the car.
Markus looked down as they drove away. He’d forgotten what t-shirt he’d put on when he got up that morning. It was a white tee with a blue imprint. It read: Freedom®.
Twelve.
Markus emptied his cold chai down the sink and put some more to boil on the gas stove. He cut a thick slice of bread from the half-loaf he had left and took some butter, cheese and olives from the small fridge. He took a plate and a knife, sat down and, as he had skipped breakfast, prepared his lunch. When the chai pan came to the boil he poured a fresh cup and added the usual three lumps of sugar. He sat down again, picked up his slice of bread and burst into tears.
Thirteen.
Inspector-General Ali Shakr Bassam’s desk was covered with the reports and color photographs of last night’s murder. His heart was filled with sorrow, a feeling he had seldom encountered in his many years in the force. Only the murder of children had caused him grief in the past, and even then he had still managed to control his feelings, except in the worst cases. But now that the murdered Eleni was known to be Olgeÿ Tazar, his grief was something he had a hard time coping with.
In the street, a dog revels in garbage.
The house is empty, no light shines.
And yet, my heart fills up with joy
When I look at the dark window:
My loved one lived here once, and I do not see a tomb
—I see a garden forever in blossom
The quote from one of Tazar’s most famous poems reinvigorated him, as it always did. He glanced at the ghostly skyline of the modern city through his dusty window. How could anyone murder a poet? How could anyone strangle a singing bird? Then he remembered the note his cousin had taken from him at the scene of the murder and felt a cold rage. What did Bureau 23 know about poetry? Possessed by anger, he slammed his closed fist onto his desk. Then, after a few seconds of angry consideration, he picked up the phone.
Fourteen.
Synth had perfectly recreated the apartment, Niels Juels Gade 53, in Viborg City North. The palimpsestic past. A fragile reconstruction Markus could decide to erase in one thought. But no, he wanted to be there today, searching for beers inside his fridge. The two rooms. The circular table in the middle, with the computers and all the electronic stuff. The notebooks, the manuals, the printed sheets. And the booze, the drugs, the music. Ah, the music . . . That was how they had met in the first place, the infamous Potemkin Crew, Nick, Ole and him. New-Noise concerts. Faces seen once, then again and again, until friendship was proclaimed through exchanged words floating over the music. Shared drinks, the cling! of beer-bottles brought together in one virile movement. The nodding to the beat and the knowing half-smiles. Ole with his cap, black shirt and red tie. Nick with his bleached white hair, eerily pale blue eyes, worn leather jacket and crooked smile. He with vintage rock and roll t-shirts, patched denim jacket and destroyed jeans. Youth, was it? Yes, youth it was. Had been. Tenses mixed, as always with Synth. Youth. Politics, Passions, Poetry. The 3 Ps, as Ole used to say. And here they were, just as they used to be, sitting around the small table hidden by the electronalia and technical volumes, just as they used to, before Death had caught up with them, Nick in a neon-white prison in Viborg City and Ole here, in the golden city of Samarqand.
Markus knew Ole was an avid poetry reader, as much as Nick was a comic strip fan. But he had never known he was a writer. Until now. He also remembered the rumor that The Potemkin Overture, the book that had landed him here after a series of personal catastrophes, had been written by Ole. He hadn’t believed it then. Now, he wasn’t so sure any more.
“Hey, Ole,” he said, opening the fridge and taking out three beers. “Did you write The Potemkin Overture?”
Ole lifted his round head from looking at the computer screen.
“Not yet,” he sneered.
Synth could fuck up dialogue sometimes. Nick, sitting opposite, chuckled. Markus gave his friends a bottle each and raised his own into the air.
“’Til death do us part,” he said.
They laughed and toasted.
Synth was pain. Synth was innocence. Synth was truth.
Echoes
Fifteen.
“Ministry of Internal Affairs,” a young male voice said.
“Yes, I would like to speak to Captain Sekmet Bassam. I am Inspector-General Ali Shakr Bassam.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Why would I need an appointment? I want to speak to him on the phone.”
Idiot! the policeman thought. I must have interrupted his nap.
“You need an appointment to talk to Captain Sekmet Bassam. Sorry.”
“On the phone?”
The inspector-general couldn’t believe his ears.
“Yes. On the phone, also.”
Maybe Sekmet had given orders to block him. A cold sweat ran down his spine. Why did he have to have a cousin in Bureau 23? Bad Karma. Real bad karma. He must have really fucked up in a former life.
“Come on. Is he there, at least?”
“Yes, he is here. In his office. Behind me.”
“Could you forward my call, then? Just for a minute?”
“I am sorry, sir. You need an appointment.”
Ali felt a ball of fire explode between his ears. Calm down, he thought. Calm down. The conversation is probably being recorded.
“I am the Captain’s cousin and if you do not put me through this minute, you will be answering the phone on the Chinese border, do you understand me?”
“One moment, please.”
Shakr Bassam had to admit the idiot had courage. His voice hadn’t flinched a bit.
“Allo?”
“Sekmet, this is Ali.”
There was a short silence, as if his cousin tried to remember who he might be.
“Inspector-General Ali Shakr Bassam, your cousin,” he explained, just in case.
“Yes, yes, of course. What can I do for you?”
“I want to know if you found out anything new about the murder last night?”
As if he was going to tell me, Ali thought.
“No, we’re working on it.”
“When do I get a copy of the letter? You took it from me, remember?”
“But, Ali . . . I told you yesterday Bureau 23 would be in charge.”
“I want to investigate.”
Ali looked at the files piled up on his desk. They could surely wait. The Dead won’t mind.
“Why?”
“Because Tazar was my favorite poet.”
There was a very short pause.
“Mine too. And also of about three million people around here. It is a state affair.”
“I want to investigate and find the cowards who have done it. What did the letter say?”
A longer silence. Bassam heard a car honk outside, followed by a chorus of other horns.
“You don’t kill poets,” he added. “You just don’t.”
“Ali, I can’t do anything. It’s too late now. The case is almost out of my hands. If they learn that you were at the crime scene with me, they will surely pull me out.”
“But why?”
“Official orders from above. I can’t tell you any more.”
His cousin hung up and Ali Shakr Bassam looked stupidly at his phone for a few seconds, before slamming it down. State affair. My ass. Poetry is not a state affair, it is an affair of the people, for the people, by the people. Then he remembered the rumors about the telepathy experiments and added, mentally: Joking, of course.
Sixteen.
When Markus walked down from his apartment into Tsentsen’s that evening, he found the owner sitting sadly in front of two glasses of beer at the far end of the counter. The radio was on, playing a heart-wrenching melody. Garash, the manager, was emptying the dishwasher and drying a glass over the sink. Markus looked at the clock behind the counter. It was a quarter to six. He had arrived early. They weren’t expected to arrive before six.
The Song of Synth Page 11