Vertigo

by Ahmed Mourad

  ‘That was a very rough day. I was going to give up for good.’

  Ghada laughed.

  ‘I can’t believe what you did.’

  ‘I didn’t have any other option, and anyway, I was worried that you’d embarrass me.’

  ‘Your approach is very old-fashioned.’

  ‘Nice of you to say so.’

  ‘That’s a compliment.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘I graduated from Helwan’s Faculty of Fine Arts in 2003 and I almost got engaged to my cousin. We were together for six months only, but we couldn’t stand each other. He was never going to understand me. I was in one valley and he was in another, as they say. I’ve done these courses since the day I graduated, for the sake of the children. They’re the best thing in my life. And I work at the gallery. I try to fill all my time.’

  ‘You looked lovely with them.’

  ‘I’m the only one who understands them. I feel what they feel, and they know it. We’re very close. This business,’ she said, pointing to her ear, ‘happened a long time ago. I was young; about five years old—’

  ‘I see it as an advantage,’ Ahmed broke in.

  Ghada sensed that he was flattering her and responded sarcastically. ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘I swear I do; I’m not being facetious. First of all, the world’s become so noisy, and you’ve got the option of controlling the volume. Higher or lower, bass or treble: whatever you like. Second, you’re trilingual: English, Arabic and signing. You can go anywhere.’

  ‘That’s what I always say,’ said Ghada, laughing.

  ‘You’re very beautiful, do you know that?’

  He had taken her by surprise. Red crept into her face and she did not answer. He tried changing the subject until her cheeks had cooled.

  ‘Did you like the pictures from Kodak Express?’

  ‘Very much. Mama and Miyada liked them too.’

  The conversation flowed between them like a gentle wave. She told him much about her life and her loneliness, her work and her dreams, her astrological sign (Gemini), her home, her father and his influence on her. Ahmed told her about his sister and his few friends and about his work and his circumstances. They talked and talked until there were no more words.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ asked Ahmed.

  ‘Next week. But the course is from three to five next time.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you at three o’clock. Ghada, I want to say something before you go.’

  Ghada looked at him without saying anything.

  ‘You’re not obliged to do anything.’

  She smiled and, saying goodbye with a shake of her head, they parted ways, promising to meet again soon.

  Ghada took a taxi to Qasr el-Aini Street where she lived, while Ahmed walked until he found himself in Tahrir Square. He was full of conflicting emotions, a blend of joy and despair, and inside him a huge question mark pounded at his brain: what now? Ghada? His sister? His finances? Was his friendship with Ghada an attempt to bring a corpse back to life? It was a relationship doomed before it began; a film where the hero is killed in the opening scene. A strange heaviness settled on his chest. He hadn’t expected his circumstances to become so dire. He knew that he had no more than the food on his plate; that he wasn’t settled; that he had no safety net. A tear rolled from his eye and clung to the lens of his glasses and he saw the street like a goldfish looking from its bowl.

  He tried to shake off his woes and, putting the phone to his ear, dialled Alaa. No answer. He hung up. Two minutes later he received a text message: ‘I’ll call you from another phone in five minutes.’

  Ten minutes after that he received a call from a landline.

  Alaa’s voice was muffled. ‘Good thing you called.’

  ‘What’s up? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Did you read today’s papers?’

  ‘None of them; why?’

  ‘They’ve stopped the paper. They got a court order.’

  ‘Freedom?’

  ‘No: Free Generation. That son of a dog has friends. A libel case in two days? It’s an order from the top. They sealed up the building and confiscated everything in the editor’s office.’

  ‘And the pictures?’

  ‘They’ve got a large percentage of them.’

  ‘Why are you calling me from another telephone? Is something making you suspicious?’

  ‘The editor-in-chief of Free Generation is called Saeed Mamoun, not el-Shahat Mabrouk.’

  ‘El-Shahat Mabrouk the bodybuilder? What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s like your friend said: he’ll talk at the first slap.’

  ‘Where are you now? Will I be able to see you?’

  ‘Better not for the next few days. I can’t promise that something won’t happen. I’ll call you: don’t get in touch with me.’

  ‘If something does happen, how will I know?’

  ‘I’ll call you. Goodbye, now. Oh yes. Ahmed: don’t forget my father’s birthday. He’ll get very upset if you do. You’ve got to go and see him. And look after the things you’ve got with you as well, OK?’

  Ahmed understood what Alaa meant.

  ‘Sure thing. I remember it. I’ve got it, don’t worry. Just take care of yourself.’

  ‘Say hi to your fat friend for me.’

  ‘Consider it done. Bye.’

  Ahmed hung up. The red warning light inside him began to blink. It was rarely wrong. Its crimson glare spread through him and began to give off a staccato wail. He tried turning it off, smothering it, smashing it, but to no avail. It continued to sound, his guts tingling at the incessant drone that told him something was going to happen.

  Something big.

  20

  Italian leather shoes advanced rapidly over the red carpet, creating a sound that resembled the ticking of the clock in Safwan el-Bihiri’s office, which at that moment was pointing to nine o’clock in the evening.

  The door to the office opened and Mustafa Arif passed inside carrying a large dossier stuffed with papers.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  Safwan appeared extremely tense as he asked, ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Everything’s fine: we’ve got the documents that were in his office. There is one thing, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘These documents are copies: the originals aren’t there. We swept the entire place: three rooms and their computers and the safe in Saeed Mamoun’s office. No originals.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Well, they could be in someone’s home, or in the possession of some other person unconnected to the paper. That’s one possibility. The other is that their original source is nothing to do with the paper, and that he’s the one that sent all this information and he’s sure to keep the originals himself.’

  ‘The editor didn’t talk?’

  ‘So far: no. He’s saying that he received the information from an anonymous source.’

  ‘Show me the documents you found.’

  Mustafa placed the dossier in front of Safwan, who opened it and started flipping through the papers in an agitated fashion, until his eye fell on the photographs from Bar Vertigo. He examined them more than once. There was nothing to say. Here was a hand grenade without a pin: a full account of the incident from an eye witness’s point of view, pictures that spoke for themselves, and the face of one of his men.

  He put them to one side with some difficulty and, as Mustafa left him, he began perusing the documents and papers.

  Safwan started to read.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed. Maybe an hour and a half of cigarettes and cups of coffee. He was the only person who appreciated the danger posed by these documents: the only one who knew that every word in them was true, astonishingly true.

  He owned a filing cabinet that contained more detailed dossiers on all those mentioned in the documents in front of him. They were the files of the elite, the names that adorned the Sixth of October B
ridge and dominated television and billboard advertising, and they were complete, containing every one of their mistakes that lay slumbering, waiting for a signal to leap up and savage them. They were a circus guard’s rifle, waiting for the lion to rebel against his trainer and fell him instantly. Deep inside, he knew something else too: that whoever had put this information together had nothing left to lose.

  He was concentrating so hard that he did not notice Mustafa knocking on the door and entering.

  ‘Your instructions, sir?’

  ‘This stuff isn’t the product of a month or two’s effort: somebody’s been working at this for more than three years. There’s a complete file on el-Assal and his companies: statistics, damning health reports and photos with women. Habib Sherif Amin, as well: all his and his father’s assets and activities, and photos of Habib with women too. There’s a few members of parliament buying land at fifty piastres per square metre and yet more photos with women. Don’t you find that a little strange? These endless photographs showing them with women, I mean. About the only one who doesn’t have any pictures is Ayman Wasfi, who as you know is on another level and very close to the basha. But there are still facts here that could badly damage him. There’s a document here about arms deals with Israel. That’s enough in itself.’

  ‘Very strange!’

  ‘The source of these pictures did not write these articles. There are two individuals, not one. The pictures bear no relation to what’s been written. They may be dangerous but they seem to be all from one place. Whoever took them is linked to that place, a permanent fixture. He only photographs the regulars. The author of these pieces works freelance: maybe he found the pictures; maybe he bought them. The only person who doesn’t go to places like this is Ayman Wasfi, that’s why there are no pictures of him, only a file. Understand? You told me that you’d asked at the casino about the photographer who worked there?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘He must be the source of these photographs. There are old photographs of Fathi el-Assal that pre-date phone cameras, and new pictures as well. It’s somebody who’s been working there for a long time.’

  ‘The photographer was called Gouda, sir. He died a while ago in a traffic accident. But there was another young man who worked with him for a few months before leaving, and we’ve learnt that he travelled to Saudi Arabia on a work contract.’

  ‘Did you check with the passport office?’

  Mustafa clenched his jaw.

  ‘To be honest: no. But he sent a letter to an individual working in the casino telling him about the trip and his job at an oil company in Saudi Arabia.’

  ‘I doubt he’d be able to travel so quickly. Work visas are hard to come by. Plus he’d have to change the employment status on his ID card to “labourer”. That takes time, not to mention the visa itself. Check with the passport office.’

  ‘Consider it done, sir.’

  ‘And Gouda, too: isn’t there a relative? A friend? Someone who knew him? Any piece of information. I want to know everything about him before he died, his final days – that’s if he did die!’

  ‘We’ll check, sir.’

  ‘There’s one more thing. Whoever wrote this is a journalist; it’s clear from his style. He’s given himself away. Did you find anything out about the Alaa Gomaa who Galal Mursi fired?’

  ‘I’m making inquiries to try and find his address, sir.’

  Safwan’s voice hardened. ‘And how is it that you still don’t have his address?’

  ‘We asked neighbours at the address they have at the paper and on his ID card and they told us he used to live there and had left. About six months ago he moved to an unknown address. I’ll coordinate with the telecommunications company and they’ll locate him. It’s just a matter of time.’

  ‘He must be frightened right now. He won’t want to make another move until the air has cleared and that gives us a bit of time, but not much. The target must be put under surveillance first: there’s a high probability that he’s not alone. And something else: let them release the editor of Free Generation today. He’s bound to try and talk to his source.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You may consider everything to be up and running already.’

  ‘No one goes home today until we get some information, Mustafa.’

  ‘Whatever you say, sir.’

  Mustafa quietly withdrew, shutting the door on Safwan, who lit a cigarette and buried his head in the files, his fears eating away at him like the termites that chewed through Solomon’s staff.

  21

  That night, darkness descended on the suburb of Heliopolis like never before: pitch black, moonless and without hope.

  It was past eleven when the black Mercedes S500 drew up to the gate of the elegant and deathly quiet white villa. A guard approached the vehicle to check the identity of the individual within, who seemed to be familiar to him. Smiling at the passenger, the guard signalled in the direction of the close-circuit camera and the gate opened to admit the car.

  In a few moments the villa had returned to its preternatural calm.

  Within, a ramp led up to the villa’s vast front door and the car gradually slowed until it came to a halt. The driver got out and opened the passenger door. A black heel, as long and slender as a dagger, struck the ground, and above it fine gold anklets circled legs with the soft smoothness of a rigorous grooming regime. Then came a black dress and gold necklace, gleaming earrings of the kind that appear in Gulf Arab television advertisements, and a familiar soft white face.

  It was Sally.

  In any Arabic film worth its salt she would be welcomed by the haughty Zaki Rustum or debonair Abbas Faris, wearing a quilted dressing gown over a white shirt and crimson scarf, two-tone loafers on his feet, and gripping an expensive cigar.

  ‘Welcome, cherie!’ he would say. ‘So grateful you could accept my invitation. I’ve been waiting for this day impatiently.’

  As he bestows a kiss on her hand she coquettishly replies, ‘Oh Excellence! Always so discerning!’

  The Excellence points to the villa. ‘What do you think of my palace?’

  ‘Marvellous!’ she answers with exaggerated awe. ‘Astonishing! Originale! Très chic!’

  ‘An Italian architect designed it for me. He started on the design and kept adding to it until he practically had an aneurysm. A thousand pounds, he cost me. And that’s aside from the antiques: they’re all from Europe. Do come inside.’

  Today, however, there was no one to meet her besides Ayman Wasfi, Egypt’s top arms dealer now that Muhi Zanoun’s empire had been swept away and Muhi himself had left the country. In his early fifties, elegant and handsome, he wore a crisp pale blue shirt and black cotton trousers. His hair was an even mix of black and grey, and encircling his wrist were a modern Rolex watch and a magnetised medical bracelet made from silver. He was waiting for the car to return with this temptress on board.

  He walked up to the car and, taking her hand and kissing it, looked directly into her eyes.

  ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Merci, ya basha.’

  He wrapped his arm about her waist as he gestured for her to go inside. The car drove off and the gates closed.

  The interior of the villa was the last word in refinement: a smart reception area, modern décor, gleaming Italian marble and a collection of genuine antiques crowned by a large tableau that stretched almost the entire length of the wall; a reproduction of Guernica, painted by Pablo Picasso in 1937. There was a complete library of weapons: pistols and antique rifles, some pieces dating back to the eighteenth century. The villa was like a museum. Soft music emanated from somewhere. Glinting glasses and neatly arranged bottles sat atop a bar.

  Taking her by the hand he led her into a room with a large fireplace and a 103-inch screen hanging on the wall displaying a continuous cycle of soothing natural scenes. In front of this screen were two absurdly soft leather armchairs stuffed with ostrich feathers.

  He pressed a button on the wall and the li
ghts gradually dimmed. He pulled her by the hand and sat her down on one of the chairs.

  ‘What will you drink?’

  ‘Whatever you’re having.’

  He disappeared for a few moments and she spent the time examining her surroundings, dazzled by the décor. He reappeared, an expensive bottle and two large wine glasses in his hands.

  ‘Mouton Rothschild Pauillac ’79,’ he said in a flawless French accent. ‘For special occasions. I bought it in Paris on my last trip.’

  Inserting the corkscrew, he expertly turned it and pulled, creating a muffled pop, then took the two glasses, pouring first for her and then for himself. While she gulped away he held his glass beneath his nose and, closing his eyes, took a deep breath into his lungs and drank.

  ‘Twenty-eight years maturing in cellars in Nice. You are drinking a wine that’s been waiting for you since before you were born. How strange life is, don’t you agree?’

  Sally nodded, smiling. ‘Your place is très chic. You’ve got wonderful taste.’

  He smiled back. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet.’

  ‘I’d like to take a look.’

  ‘Come.’

  She started to slip off her stilettos. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not if you don’t,’ he answered gallantly.

  Glass in hand, he led her to another room, even more secluded and well appointed.

  Her toes began to bore into the Shirazi Iranian carpet. ‘Do you live here alone?’ she asked him.

  ‘Well …’ laughed Ayman.

  ‘Where’s your wife?’

  ‘She’s been in Europe for the last two months, shopping.’

  ‘She must love you very much.’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘Do you trust her?’

  In reply he put his glass down next to the stereo and switched it on. A gentle melody flowed out into the room. Looking down at her toes, he took her by the hand and pressed her to him. She offered no resistance and let him take the lead.

  ‘Love is one thing, pleasure quite another,’ said Ayman. ‘Take ice cream, for example. Well, you women are like ice cream. Could you eat chocolate ice cream every day? Could you live on nothing else? I doubt it. As I see it, the fact that I love chocolate shouldn’t mean that I can’t try strawberry, vanilla, or caramel and then go back to chocolate.’