by Ahmed Mourad
‘And if I see that guy I’m going to beat him. Tell him that. I’m going to beat him.’
‘I don’t want trouble. No one can blame him: it’s the law of God. Ahmed, if I get divorced I’ll be in the street. Do you know what that means? We don’t have any uncles or aunts to look after us and I’m not even working.’
‘Stay with me. I rent a flat. Leave that dog. I told you, Aya, the guy’s an animal.’
‘It wouldn’t work, Ahmed. You’re barely able to support yourself.’
Ahmed interrupted her. ‘Or is it that my money’s haram?’
‘That’s another subject. Now if you don’t mind, Ahmed, could you leave me alone? I know how to cope. If I need you, I’ll call.’
‘I should stay out of it, you mean? I don’t think so.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket and a battered old biro from the table and wrote down his new telephone number and the address of Kodak Express.
‘These are my numbers. Call me when you’ve remembered that you have a brother.’
He left the sitting room. He could not prevent himself from looking into her bedroom as he passed it in the hall. Paper tissues lay on the floor next to tweezers and a bowl containing a yellowish putty mixed with hair. He stopped and turned to Aya, who hurried to close the door. He grabbed her elbow.
‘The girl that was here is getting married, right?’
She gave no answer and bowed her head, which only made him angrier.
‘Answer me! That girl who was here: what was she doing with you? Are you doing hair removal? You’re a hair removal girl? He’s dragged you down that far? Where will you go from here?’
‘Could you leave, Ahmed? Just go. We’ll talk later.’
Veins of rage stood out on his forehead. His mouth seemed clogged with words that wouldn’t come out. He went outside and slammed the door violently behind him. He went down a few steps and stopped. He stayed as he was for a full minute, a minute that Aya spent sitting on the floor with her back against the door and weeping. He returned to the flat and took a fifty-pound note from his wallet. It was all he had on him. Folding it twice into a small square, he bent down. He heard her crying. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he slipped the money beneath the door. On the other side, Aya saw it. Stifling her sobs, she reached out and took the note and buried her face in it. She got to her feet and Ahmed rose with her as though he could see her. He descended the stairs and she went into her room, taking her wallet from her bag. Inside the wallet was a space set aside for photographs. She tucked the fifty pounds behind the only picture that remained: the picture of her brother, Ahmed.
23
Over in Safwan el-Bihiri’s office a dark cloud of cigarette smoke covered the ceiling, threatening torrential rain. Calm prevailed; the calm that comes before a storm. Sleeves rolled up and sweat covering his face, Mustafa Arif sat before Safwan, who was in much the same state.
‘So we come to Ahmed Kamal,’ Mustafa began. ‘We’ve compiled a list from the passport office records of every Ahmed Kamal that left Egypt in the last two months. There are nine of them. We checked on six whose addresses we know and verified that he isn’t among them: two teachers, a formwork carpenter, a welder and two drivers. This leaves three who left on uncategorised labourer visas. Our difficulty is that the employment agencies require the ID card to be changed in order to get a visa, and because of the new labour law this means changing all addresses and personal data. We’ve obtained their addresses and two of them match the description of our guy: the same age and socio-economic status. Unfortunately we don’t have a three-part name or we could have narrowed down the search, that’s assuming his father’s name is Kamal and he doesn’t have a middle name that we don’t know about. I’ll have some news by tomorrow.’
‘If you don’t have anything by tomorrow I’ll make a call to our embassy over there.’
‘OK, sir.’
‘And what about the second target, Alaa Gomaa?’
‘There’s an editor at Free Generation who obviously holds him in special regard. You know how it is, sir: a lot of people aren’t getting paid. He told us that about two weeks ago Alaa dropped in to the editor-in-chief’s office a few times. He’s the source of these articles. We’ve found his house, sir, and we’re keeping track of his location via his mobile phone. He’s currently staying in a flat in Helwan Gardens opposite the metro station. The flat was put under surveillance last night. He’s living alone.’
‘What’s his routine?’
‘He leaves in the morning and doesn’t come back until after dark.’
‘The minute he leaves tomorrow the flat gets searched. I want those documents on my desk tomorrow. And don’t put a tail on him. I don’t want him to notice a thing until we search the place.’
‘A clean search?’
‘It won’t make any difference. He won’t have time to think.’
‘And if we don’t find anything there?’
‘What do you mean, “if we don’t find anything”?’
‘There’s a good chance the documents aren’t at home, and if we go in then he’ll know there’s someone after him. I say we bring him in.’
Safwan fell silent for a moment.
‘Bringing him here will get us into something we don’t want. They’ll say there’s been a security breach and ask why we waited for all this information to be leaked out. When the basha gets rid of his enemies, bodies disappear. And don’t forget the picture of Tariq: someone could easily recognise him. There are thousands willing to serve, and hundreds of thousands who would love to see my head on a platter next to yours. Our backs would be exposed. I won’t take that risk.’
‘So what do you think we should do, sir?’
‘I think we should cut this off at the source. At this point the information has not been published. The ball’s still in our court, in other words. I’m not going to wait to discover that some opposition paper has come out with a scoop that will send the guys upstairs out of their minds and turn them against us. Get rid of him for me quietly, without attracting attention – a normal accident, nothing suspicious about it – and we’ll close the investigation. Search the place, and if you find something well and good. You find nothing, you know what to do.’
‘We shouldn’t try with him? Intimidation, I mean. We can bring him to his knees here, make him forget his own name.’
‘At the end of which he’ll still be active. He won’t forget what was done to him, quite the reverse: it will make him even more reckless.’
‘Whatever you say, sir.’
‘“Whatever I say” happens tomorrow. Tomorrow. I don’t want a shitstorm like what happened at the bar. See what happens? A year later and it’s giving off a stink again. Send someone who knows their job this time.’
Mustafa stood up and gathered up the documents.
‘Certainly, sir. I will keep you informed every step of the way.’
‘Mustafa, there’s no margin for error or bad luck this time.’
‘Of course, sir, of course.’
The loyal servant withdrew, his sharpened sword unsheathed for the battle to come.
Ahmed arose after an exhausting night, his back racked with pain, lead weights in his feet and one eye closed, unable to meet the ray of sun that stabbed into the centre of the room. He dragged himself to the bathroom to wash away the previous night. The bags beneath his eyes were pools of pitch, his tangled hair was like a road sweeper’s broom and the sides of his throat seemed gummed together. He was in no mood to meet Ghada but he had no choice.
After a shower taken cold for lack of a heater, he stuffed himself into his clothes and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to two, and he decided he could stay until two if he was to make his date. Sitting at the computer, he opened a file marked ‘Ghada’ that contained the pictures of her with the children. He started looking through them. In her innocence she seemed like one of the children, and for five minutes he gazed at her face. It was perhaps the ninth time he had looked through th
e pictures. He opened another file marked ‘Alaa’: the picture Omar had taken of him at their first meeting, then the scandalous image he had created from it.
‘Filthy!’ muttered Ahmed, his usual way of describing Omar’s skill at photomontage.
He looked at his watch: it was two o’clock. Shutting the computer, he left for Zamalek.
She was sitting in the Faculty of Fine Arts, sketching out a world of colour that brought to mind the tales of Alice in Wonderland. She started making signs and gestures that only the children could understand: a silent conversation in which only laughter could be heard.
She was radiant as she greeted him, and seemed delighted flipping through the pictures in front of the children, who clustered around her, winking and laughing. She delivered a burst of signs to the children, none of which Ahmed understood: first shaking her hand as if in greeting, then making a fist of her palm and placing it on her heart and finally giving a sign like a kiss. No sooner had she finished than he found the children gathering around him, greeting him with smiles on their faces and kissing him.
He passed a further hour that made him forget everything that had happened the day before with his sister. Then the course came to an end and Ghada accompanied him outside.
‘Would you like to walk around for a while?’
She nodded in agreement and their conversation carried them through Zamalek’s tranquil streets until they emerged by the Nile.
Next to a flower nursery he sat down and talked with her. The sun’s rays had started to soften and the air was tinged a golden orange.
‘And then?’
‘And then, nothing. That’s the story of my sister up till yesterday.’
‘Poor girl. So what do you intend to do about her?’
‘She’s shut me out: she doesn’t want me to help her.’
‘You can’t abandon her.’
‘Of course I can’t. I’m just leaving her to calm down a bit and then I’ll speak to her. I’ve made you dizzy with my problems, haven’t I?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Ghada. Should I understand your being with me here today to mean that you like me?’
Ghada averted her gaze to the Nile and remained silent, her eyes avoiding him. But the ghost of a smile peeped out from between her lips. Ahmed saw it.
‘It’s fine, Ghada. I’m not upset, I swear, just happy to have known you. I’m not the first guy to have got to know a beautiful young woman who works in a furniture gallery and turns out to have a twin and then falls for her and sends her a letter and meets her at Kodak Express only for her to tell him, “No thanks, you’re a pain”.’
Ghada laughed until her eyes filled with tears.
‘What are you talking about?! I can’t believe you. You’re an unusual guy: even difficult situations you manage to turn into a joke. You tell me in a letter that you’ll throw yourself off a rug. Where do you get this stuff from? Anyway, I didn’t say you were a pain.’
‘If you don’t, I’ll explode. I have to get through the day somehow.’
‘You’re the oddest person I’ve ever met.’
‘And you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. You know, even the camera can’t find a flaw in you.’
‘You’re the one who knows how to take good pictures.’
‘Not a bit of it! I could X-ray you or photocopy you and you’d still turn out lovely as the moon.’
‘Good evening.’
Ahmed turned, expecting to see a flower seller or soft drink vendor, but it was neither.
Behind him were standing three young men in police uniforms: a captain and two lieutenants. Their uniforms were clean, their faces full of self-confidence and their eyes mocking.
‘Your ID cards, please.’
Ahmed’s heartbeat quickened as he took out his wallet.
‘Here.’
The captain took it and pulled Ahmed gently by his elbow.
‘This way, if you don’t mind,’ he said, moving him a little way off from Ghada who had turned pale, rooted to the spot as one of the lieutenants headed towards her.
Their eyes met. She looked distraught and frightened, like a leaf in the wind. Ahmed turned to the officer, who was reading his identity card.
‘Excuse me, but would you mind asking him to speak to me instead?’
‘Where do you work, Ahmed?’
Ahmed’s gaze never left Ghada, who had opened her bag looking for her identity card. Her eyes were fixed on his, pleading for help, as he answered the captain. ‘Kodak Express in Manial. Sorry, but just so she doesn’t get scared, could you ask him to speak to me, sir? She’s nothing to do with this.’
‘And where do you live, Ahmed?’ said the officer, as though he hadn’t heard him.
Ghada had handed her identity card to the lieutenant, who stood scrutinising the meagre information it contained as if he was reading a newspaper, transferring his gaze between her face and the photograph like a customs officer, his features expressionless. The second lieutenant, who looked to be the younger of the two, went over to join his colleague standing in front of Ghada. Her eyes never left Ahmed. She looked stunned at what was taking place, and the sweat that had begun to pour from her brow turned the front of her headscarf to a darker shade of blue.
A group of girls walked by, following the scene with their eyes until they disappeared, a few youths assembled on the pavement opposite and two lovers crossed the street having released each other’s hands in fright.
Amid the onlookers Ahmed spied a figure. It was a figure he knew well, walking behind the crowd in his expensive suit and smiling his mocking smile. Ahmed’s gaze was distracted by the captain for a couple of seconds, enough for his nemesis to have vanished by the time he looked back up. He began searching for him among the people standing there, and the strange thing was that he felt as though he needed his help. Whatever else he may have been, he was an acquaintance and a man of influence. But he was there no longer: returned whence he had come.
The tendons trembled in Ahmed’s left hand and his voice shook as he answered. ‘I live here, in Manial.’ Then, approaching the officer beseechingly, he lowered his voice. ‘With your permission, sir, I just don’t want her to be frightened. If there’s a problem you’ve got me, haven’t you? Let her go: people are watching us. You’re embarrassing her, sir.’
As cool as a surgeon the captain replied, ‘So why is Sayyida Zeinab written on the card?’
‘I used to live there: my father’s place.’
‘And who do you live with now?’
‘I live on my own. I’m renting a flat.’
One of the lieutenants was conducting an inaudible conversation with Ghada, whose eyes shone with the onset of tears, and Ahmed decided that he must go to her, come what may. The captain held him by the wrist.
‘Come and stand here. I haven’t finished talking. You’re going to walk off when I’m speaking to you, is that it?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Look, is there a problem? Did we do anything? We were just sitting talking.’
‘Are you her fiancé?’
Ahmed fell silent for a moment then said, ‘No. Not yet. But we definitely intend to, God willing.’
‘So why were you holding her hand then?’
‘I swear to God I wasn’t holding her hand. It’s only the second time I’ve sat with her.’
‘You’re intending to get engaged and this is only the second time you’ve sat down with her?’
Ahmed realised that he was not a skilled liar. ‘It’s the first time we’ve gone out together but we’ve known each other for a long time.’
‘Do they know who she’s with at home? If we spoke to them they’d know who you are?’
‘Well, not all of them,’ said Ahmed uncertainly.
Ghada looked over at him again, like a drowning woman about to slip beneath the waves, then returned her gaze to the ground.
‘If you don’t mind I’m going to go and see her. She’s crying.’
&nbs
p; The captain stopped him.
‘Just a second.’
Ahmed became agitated. ‘I told you: she’s crying. I’m sorry, but I’m going to comfort her.’
The captain’s tone grew severe. ‘When I’m talking to you, don’t you stand there telling me, “I’ll speak to her,” and “Sorry, but,” and “She’s crying”. It’ll make things worse for you. Don’t sit here again. Take her away and put your faith in God.’
‘Right, right.’
The captain came closer. ‘And no more hanging out in this neighbourhood, mummy’s boy,’ he whispered, ‘so I don’t have to crack the whip over you two. There’s a minister living in the street behind us and the only reason I’m not going to put you through the wringer is because the girl with you looks like she comes from a good home. Or would you rather we called her home from the station?’
As he spoke he put the identity card back in Ahmed’s shirt pocket.
‘There’s no need, thank you. Thank you very much.’
Ahmed took Ghada and they left, the sound of the patrol car’s siren ringing in their ears. The officers’ eyes never left them as they drove past, looking at them with smug satisfaction and mockery from behind the glass. As for the onlookers, some pitied them while others chuckled to each other, sneering and gloating, genuinely believing that they had somehow deserved to be questioned.
It was a long way to Saad Zaghloul Square, long enough for one of them to have told their life story twice over. But it wasn’t that kind of situation. They walked along, the silence hanging heavily over them. A tear hung suspended from Ghada’s eye and some black creature lurking in Ahmed’s breast whipped up a storm of woe and despondency the like of which he had never known. For an instant he wished she would talk, scream even, but she did nothing, remaining silent and evading his advances.
She turned to him suddenly and said calmly, ‘Could you hail a taxi?’
‘Ghada,’ he said gently, ‘just five minutes. We should talk.’ She was forced to look into his eyes to understand him.
‘I have to go home. I’m late.’
‘I’m sorry about what happened. Did you understand what it was he wanted? He was a very decent guy, by the way. It’s just that there’s a minister living there, and the guy wanted to let me know that his convoy was about to leave. If anything had happened, the minister would have made trouble. These guys are just doing what they’re told, you know.’