by Parker Bilal
‘In America, where they know about these things, the people are donating millions. Actors from Hollywood are lending their name to the cause. It’s being described as a genocide.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Very few people could even find Darfur on a map a year ago, and now suddenly they want to save them all. Out of Iraq and into Darfur is the current slogan.’
‘We’re not important enough to warrant an invasion.’
‘Well, exactly.’ Amir Medani wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘You know they are trying to indict our president? They want him to stand trial for war crimes.’
‘Is that why they invited you to The Hague?’
‘The thought did occur to me. Of course, it would never come to court, even if they did manage to apprehend him.’ Amir Medani sighed, then produced the remains of his cigar from his pocket and lit it thoughtfully. ‘I must be getting old. I don’t think anyone really believes in the law any more. Like everything else, this is all about doing things for appearances. I can’t turn down the award, but I do feel like I’m being used.’
‘I can’t imagine a more unlikely candidate.’
‘In the meantime those people in the camp are trapped between two governments that don’t care for them. The United Nations has seventeen thousand cases in their backlog. It’s not even their job. Technically, responsibility falls on the government.’ Amir Medani puffed away like an engine building up steam.
‘Where would I go if I was interested in finding out more about the Southerners?’
‘One of the churches. I would try Our Lady Josephine in Arbaa-wa-Nus.’
‘I don’t even know where that is.’
‘It’s in the name, four and a half, as in kilometres, in this case from the road to Suez. It used to be known as Ezbet al-Haggana, but don’t expect a warm welcome.’ Amir Medani’s smile was that of a man who liked secrets. ‘To them, you and I are the enemy.’
Chapter Five
It was almost sunset when Makana climbed out of another taxi close to the Hunting Club. It wasn’t hard to locate Westies. An enormous hoarding climbed up one side of the building facing the street. It covered at least four floors and was in need of freshening up. At least a decade of dust, rain and sunshine had left traces of their passing. Barbecued chicken with our special tasty sauce, it proudly proclaimed. The restaurant’s logo was painted in blue and red letters and accompanied by the same image Makana had seen on the cap hanging on the back of Mourad’s door: a chicken on roller skates holding high a box that no doubt contained some of his less fortunate fellows now roasted and basted in special sauce. Westies . . . mmmhhh! Now that he looked at it Makana could actually recall eating something from here once. Ali Shibaker’s studio and car repair shop were not far away. They delivered food not on roller skates but in small vans and motor scooters.
The interior was dreary the way only a place that tries to look cheerful can be. The colours had faded. It seemed like an idea that had had its day, a franchise that had outlived its usefulness. Backlit signs over the counter gaped like missing teeth where neon strips had expired. At the far end of the counter a youth leaning wearily on a cash register radiated all the joy of a condemned man awaiting a reprieve. A wide hatch behind him afforded a view of the kitchen area where an argument was taking place.
‘How do I get one of those?’
‘One of these?’ The man straightened up and touched a hand to his cap. He seemed uncertain of himself, as if there was some trick to the question he couldn’t make out. ‘You have to work here,’ he frowned, as if the idea was patently absurd.
A swingdoor flew open and a short, sturdily built woman in her twenties strode out of the kitchen, still shouting at someone behind her. The language of fast food seemed to demand a certain amount of English, or American. They might have been speaking Mandarin as far as Makana was concerned.
‘Is that the manager?’ Makana nodded at the young woman giving orders.
‘Ruby,’ he nodded. ‘You don’t want to order anything?’
‘Let me think about it.’ Makana nodded in the direction of the manager. Reluctantly, the young man left his post and returned a moment later with the young woman. In case there was any doubt, the name Ruby was printed in English on the tag pinned awkwardly to her chest.
‘I wondered if I could speak to you for a moment.’
‘Is there something wrong?’ She frowned, immediately assuming a defensive position.
‘Are you the only manager here?’
‘No, there are two of us. But we work different shifts.’ She pushed her glasses back up her nose. She was not too tall, which accentuated her weight. Heavy with the kind of food they served in here. Already the sickly sweet smell was beginning to nauseate him. She indicated a Formica-covered table halfway down the room.
‘Ruby, is that your real name?’ Makana gestured at the yellow plastic plaque.
‘Look, if this is about the non-Egyptians we have working here . . .’ She lowered her voice. ‘All of that has been taken care of.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’
‘I mean, I can’t pay you, if that’s what you’re here for.’
‘It’s not about that.’
‘Then I don’t understand.’
Curious faces had gathered in the wide kitchen hatch to peer in their direction. Concern about his presence had obviously overcome whatever problems they were having in there. Makana reached into his pocket and placed the photograph Mrs Hafiz had given him flat on the table.
‘Do you know him?’
Ruby’s gaze barely brushed over the photograph before returning to Makana.
‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’
‘He’s been missing for a couple of weeks. His parents haven’t heard from him and they are worried.’
Her eyes returned to the picture and this time they lingered. ‘He did work here. Officially, I suppose he still does. But he hasn’t shown up for a while.’
‘Isn’t that unusual?’
Ruby shrugged. ‘People find other things. Nobody works in a place like this unless they have to.’
Underneath the hard shell Makana detected some measure of concern.
‘You said he hasn’t been here for a while, can you tell me how long exactly?’
‘A couple of weeks maybe. I can’t tell without looking at the records.’
‘Could you do that?’
There was a moment’s hesitation, as if she was still unsure whether to trust him.
‘I need a minute.’
She disappeared back through the swingdoors into the kitchen. More voices could be heard and then silence. Makana looked around him. A slim dark girl was wheeling a metal bucket between the tables as she mopped the floor. He knew at once that she was a Southerner. Her back bowed with fatigue, she didn’t once raise her head.
‘It’s less than two weeks,’ Ruby announced as she returned holding up a worksheet.
‘Can you tell me exactly when he was last here?’
‘Sure.’ She ran a finger down the paper she held. ‘It was the thirteenth of December, so that’s . . .’ She counted on her fingers.
‘Nine days.’
‘Right.’
‘And how long had he been working here before that?’
‘Oh, I’d say about six months. Since the summer.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘About Mourad?’ She put a hand to her hair a little self-consciously. ‘A hard worker. I used to tease him that if he put his mind to it he would have my job soon. He’s the kind that can do anything they set their mind to.’
‘Did he want your job?’
‘That’s just it. His heart wasn’t in it.’
‘Do you know why he was working here?’
‘Why does anyone work in a place like this?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He needed the money.’
‘Did you know his parents have a restaurant of their own?’
‘I knew he had some experience, which in a place like this makes yo
u a freak, but he didn’t talk about it.’
‘The work doesn’t require kitchen skills?’
‘It’s automated. There’s no difference between working here and running a garage. A trained monkey could do it. In fact, monkeys would be easier to deal with than this lot.’
‘Did Mourad ever talk about going away?’
‘No, not really. But he did disappear a couple of times, now that I think about it.’
‘How do you mean, disappear?’
‘I mean he just didn’t come in. No explanation, just said he was out of town for a couple of days. He didn’t say why.’
‘You weren’t curious?’
‘I just figured it was his own business. I mean, he got told off, but he was a hard worker. Dedicated. You only had to ask him to do something once, not like some people I could name.’ She glanced towards the kitchen hatch, where faces would appear for a time, watching them furtively before disappearing again. Work didn’t seem to be pressing. Behind him Makana could hear the slap of the mop and the squeak of the bucket drawing closer.
‘So you must have been surprised when he stopped coming to work?’
‘Well, like I said, people come and go.’
‘So, that was it? I get the feeling you knew him better than most.’
‘We talked.’ She gave an awkward shrug, slightly embarrassed. ‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Makana. ‘At this point it’s impossible to say.’
‘But there must be some indication. I mean, people don’t just disappear, do they?’
‘If you don’t mind my asking, how did you wind up here?’
Ruby gave him a long look. ‘My father had a stroke. He can’t work. He needs constant help, which means my mother has to take care of him. I have four younger siblings, three of them are still in school. One is at university. Somebody has to support them. I took the first job I could find.’
‘And now you’re managing the place.’
‘Well, this is as far as I can go, unless I win a million dollars and can buy the place and start building my own empire. Right now there doesn’t seem much chance of that happening, so I’ll just stick around and take it out on the rest of these poor losers.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw the swingdoors open and jumped to her feet. The new arrival had a round face set with a fierce frown. He wore a blue shirt and red clip-on tie. A pencil-thin moustache added an odd touch of vanity. He waved her explanation aside.
‘I don’t care. We are trying to run a business here. Any inquiries should be addressed to our head office in writing. You know that, right?’
‘Mr Khalil?’ She indicated that they should step away. Makana watched her speaking in a low voice. Whatever she was saying seemed to have an effect. Mr Khalil fingered his tie, which had the chicken logo on it. After a moment he turned and walked away. The swingdoors flapped behind him.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That you were a government inspector and that if he didn’t let me deal with you my way then we might be closed down.’
‘And he accepted that?’
Ruby sighed. ‘He’s a man. He likes to think he’s in charge, but knows that he could never manage without me.’
Chapter Six
Makana decided to walk back to the awama. It took him the best part of an hour. He was in no hurry and it gave him a chance to think. So far he had learned that Mourad had decided to find work in a fast-food place rather than to help out in his parents’ restaurant. According to them he had been missing for some three weeks, but for twelve of those days he had been well enough to come to work at Westies even though he had not been in touch with his parents. None of this was all that unusual. For a young man in search of independence, perhaps it was only natural that he should want to distance himself from his family. Nine days ago something had happened to change that, but what exactly? Nobody had seen him. The fact that he had gone missing with the end-of-term exams coming up so soon suggested that if he had gone missing of his own free will, and so far there was nothing to indicate otherwise, then Mourad’s disappearance might mean he had simply lost interest in becoming an engineer, that he saw his fate lay elsewhere. Even young idealists who dreamed of changing the world sometimes had moments of doubt.
Makana paused to stare out over the river, leaning on the railings to smoke a cigarette. At this time of the day, as the sun vanished and the shadows emerged to swallow it, this city was at its most enigmatic. Across the river white bars of neon flickered awake, casting their garish web over the world. Cars trundled across the bridge like soft thoughts sliding into oblivion.
Could it be a case of Mourad having had a breakdown of sorts? He wouldn’t be the first student to do so. Had he dropped out, gone to seek a better life elsewhere? If so, where? Curiosity led Makana on past the awama to where the fisherman had come ashore with his macabre catch. The riverside was muddy and scuffed from the traffic that had traipsed through there that morning. A torn plastic strip fluttered in the breeze; here and there lay other debris left behind by the police in their haste to be away from this place. He reminded himself to give Okasha a call to make sure they hadn’t decided to make life difficult for the fisherman. Sometimes the police felt a need to stamp on someone, just to remind everyone who was in charge.
Climbing the steps to the upper deck, Makana recalled the fatigue he had felt that morning. Now he was tired, but hopeful. Halfway up the stairs he heard the sound of someone coughing and stepped onto the upper deck to find that his place had been taken over by Sami Barakat. The journalist was curled up on the divan with a blanket around his shoulders, his unruly curly hair and face illuminated by the glow from his laptop.
His spectacles glinted as he looked up. ‘Aziza let me in, I thought you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Have you ever known me to refuse you anything?’
‘I never really thought of it like that, but you’re right. What are friends for?’
‘I’m not complaining, but what does your wife think of your decision to move in with me?’
‘Ahh.’ Sami gave what could only be described as a philosophical wave.
‘I’m not sure what that means. Don’t tell me you’re going through one of your phases?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sami removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I mean, it’s as if I’m not good enough the way I am. She wants to turn me into something else.’
‘Maybe she sees something in you that the rest of us don’t?’
‘That’s always possible.’ Sami set aside the computer and struggled to sit up.
Makana crossed to the corner where a small kerosene stove stood, and began making coffee.
Over the years, the upper deck had gradually become his living quarters. The awama was simply too big for him. The damp lower deck was now converted into storerooms. Up here he had the essentials. His books, folders and the stacks of newspapers that comprised his archives. There was a bathroom and toilet below and a kitchen which he rarely used. There was an airy sensation up here. He had never been able to sleep down below. It felt enclosed and claustrophobic, too close to the water. Up here he was not so much flying, but at least still floating, which was always something.
‘Did you never have that feeling that perhaps you were not suited? Never any doubts?’
Makana thought for a moment. It was a long time ago that he had been married. More than fourteen years had passed since Muna had died and not a day had gone by since then that he had not thought about her. He spooned coffee into the small brass pot.
‘Never.’
He pumped the lever a few times and struck a match. The lithe blue flame flickered around the edges of the burner. He set the coffee to boil and lit a cigarette.
‘If you want my advice you would be a fool to lose Rania,’ he said, blowing out the match.
‘I thought you would be understanding.’
‘You wouldn’t thank me for not being truthful.’
‘I wouldn�
�t be too sure of that.’
‘Whatever it is that’s bothering you, it’s not her fault.’
‘Have you talked to her about this?’ Sami looked alarmed.
‘How long have we known each other?’
‘This is not the first time for you to see me this way, is that what you mean?’
‘So what is it?’ Makana asked. ‘The thing that’s bothering you.’
‘Oh, the usual.’ Sami sighed as he lay back, hands behind his head, to look up at the ceiling. A man contemplating his future and seeing only problems. ‘This country. The mess we’re in.’ As usual with Sami, it wasn’t possible to separate his own life from the state of the world. ‘People have a right to know what is being done in our name. I still believe that, but the more I see around me the more that’s becoming impossible. We are living a lie. Our politicians are only concerned with lining their pockets. The president and his friends live on another planet, smiling for the cameras while they sell off everything they can lay their hands on.’ He raised his head to check Makana was still listening. ‘Did you know that we are selling off our natural gas reserves to Israel for a fraction of market value? What happens when it’s all gone? What do we do then? And why are we doing this? For political reasons? For stability in the region? No, because somebody saw a way of making a quick profit and screwing us into the bargain. You know what’s really amazing? If I write about this I can go to prison for treason because it’s deemed a security issue. Pretty funny, huh?’
‘You shouldn’t be here. You should be on holiday.’
‘Where would I go? Is there somewhere I can stop thinking about all of this? A drug, perhaps? Maybe that’s the answer. Rania is my wife and I love her, but it’s like we have fundamentally different views of the future. She’s optimistic. Imagine!’
Makana had a sense of where this was leading, but before he could say anything the coffee came to the boil. He let it reach the rim of the pot before lowering the heat, then brought it up again. Three times was the rule. He stirred in some sugar and then poured it into two small cups.
