by Parker Bilal
‘A man’s family is his own business.’
‘That’s funny, I got the impression you didn’t much care for him.’
‘He’s arrogant, thinks he’s smarter than all the rest.’ The hustler reflected for a moment. ‘The boy is sick, some defect he was born with. He needs an operation.’
‘What kind of operation?’
‘Something pretty big, like his heart maybe. Anyway, I don’t really recall. All I remember is that he found a clinic that would do it as soon as he had the money. That’s what he always said. It was all for his son.’
‘You remember the name of this clinic?’
‘Sure, something strange, Hazara, Hashara?’
‘Hesira?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded the man, pleased with himself. ‘That was it.’
Chapter Twenty-five
There was a desolate air about Aswani’s restaurant at that dead hour of the afternoon. People were still hard at work. Later on the place would begin to fill up when the shops began to close down and things started to tail off towards sunset prayers. Now the place was dull, lifeless and dark. To spare expense, the lights still hadn’t been turned on.
‘I see you’ve brought your radical friend with you,’ muttered Aswani as he wandered over, one hand tugging at the waxed ends of his long moustache. The big cook kept one fierce eye fixed on Sami. ‘Why is it that when I see your name in the paper I know there’s going to be trouble?’
‘The problem with you, old man, is that you’ll never be satisfied until we bring the Ottomans back to rule this country.’
‘What’s the trouble with what we’ve got? Even Laura Bush, wife of the American president, says we have democracy. That’s good enough for me. What do you have to complain about?’
‘What do you call an eighty-eight-per-cent win, a miracle, a gift from the gods?’ Sami was shaking his head. ‘What you call democracy is a farce.’
‘Try to talk some sense into him, will you?’ Aswani appealed to Makana. In all the years he had been coming here to eat there had always been tension between these two. They just seemed to rub each other the wrong way, an insoluble conflict. ‘All I know is that if you open up this country we’ll all be wearing beards and cutting off people’s hands. You know that. Tell him what it’s like being ruled by fanatics.’
‘I’d rather eat, if that’s all right with both of you.’ Makana glanced longingly towards the grill area behind the counter where one of Aswani’s kitchen hands was stoking the flames. Aswani wasn’t going to be rushed.
‘All I’m saying is that once you start messing with the way things are, there’s no telling where it will end.’
‘That is exactly the kind of attitude that is holding us back,’ Sami called at Aswani’s retreating back.
‘It’s what most people think.’
‘It’s what they want you to think. If not us then the flood. The president and his jackals have the whole nation trussed up like one fat sheep awaiting the butcher’s knife. Everyone lives in fear. Foreign conspiracies, Israeli agents poisoning the water and, above all, our bearded brethren.’
Sami was enjoying himself too much. It seemed like a good time to change the subject.
‘How are you getting on with Mourad’s computer?’
‘Interesting. Whatever that boy was involved with it wasn’t urban planning.’
‘You found something?’
‘You could call it that.’ Sami flipped open the laptop and spun the screen round for Makana to see. ‘Like I told you before, he’s into some pretty specialised stuff, web chatrooms. Not many people get in there, and I’m guessing that our fabled State Security and Investigations wouldn’t be able to find their way in with a sledgehammer.’
‘This means that he and his friends were able to communicate safely, without anyone seeing what they were up to?’
‘Exactly,’ Sami nodded. ‘If you know what you’re doing there are loopholes in the internet, dark corners that are safer even than talking on the telephone. Mobile phones are particularly prone to eavesdropping. They can hear what you’re saying, pinpoint where you are, listen to your messages.’
Makana regarded the object lying on the table with more contempt than usual.
‘Mourad hasn’t answered his phone since he disappeared.’
‘That suggests he’s hiding. If he’s smart, he’ll get himself another untraceable one that has no connection to him.’
‘These message boards, or what did you call them, chatrooms? Is there any sign Mourad has been on there in the last week?’
Sami winced. ‘Well, that’s the problem. They don’t sign on under their own names. They use aliases. So we have.’ He paused to scrutinise the screen. ‘Doctor Octavius. Clark Kent. Pecos Bill.’
‘I saw those names on the printout of the messages you gave me.’
‘They seem to have a weakness for comic-book characters.’
‘There was another name you mentioned last time, Lassie something?’
‘Antonio Lasciac. Not a cartoon character, but a real-life Italian architect who was here in Cairo in the nineteenth century. He built that old palace near Talaat Harb Square.’
Makana knew it. A crumbling, majestic building in the centre of town that had been uninhabited for years.
‘The place where Champollion lived.’
‘That’s just a rumour,’ said Sami, unfolding a sheet of paper. Jean-François Champollion, gifted scholar to some, barefaced looter to others, had never actually resided in the palace while deciphering the Rosetta Stone, although the street alongside was named after him. ‘These are references and dates, numbers. I can’t make sense of any of it.’
Makana took the paper. ‘Any idea how many there are in the group?’
‘It seems to vary, but altogether I’ve counted six. Some of them could be the same person with a different online handle. It’s likely that they’d change the names they use from time to time, for security.’
It seemed to Makana that every time it felt like he was getting a grip on something, it would wriggle out of his grasp.
‘So we still have no idea who they are.’
Sami rocked his head from side to side. ‘A small group, young. Rebellious by the nature of the comments. Given the references and the university connection, the most likely scenario is that they’re all at Ain Shams.’
‘Any clue as to what they are up to?’
‘Well, that’s the big mystery. I thought at first it was something political. Then I ditched that and I started thinking about what sort of things interest people at that stage in life, students. I told you I considered the idea that they were into some kind of drug-smuggling scheme?’
‘You said it didn’t fit the profile.’
Makana was thinking about Mourad’s friend Ihab, and his odd behaviour. Could he be on drugs?
‘Right, and it doesn’t, not really. And besides, these messages refer to transport and cargo leaving the city, not coming in.’ Sami shook his head. ‘We don’t have drugs to export. Not unless they’re coming in over the border from the south and going out north, or east. But that’s serious business that could lead to the death penalty. It’s not the sort of thing that this lot would be involved in.’
‘I get the impression Mourad runs on idealism, not greed. He wants to make the world a better place. That doesn’t square with smuggling drugs.’
Their talk broke off with the entrance of Barazil, who poked his head around the door and then sauntered straight over with the off-centre limp of someone who had suffered polio as a child. Barazil was something of a local character. Everyone knew him, while he in turn viewed them all as nothing less than potential customers. Barazil never let an opportunity slip by him. Versatility was his trump card. He could sell anything to anyone, even if they had no idea they had ever needed it before meeting him. As always, he was dressed in his own inimitable style. A checkered two-piece brown suit over a canary-yellow polo-neck sweater, the price tag still dangling from its sleeve. A w
alking mannequin, advertising his wares.
‘I thought I spotted you.’
‘You have the eyes of a hawk,’ said Makana, causing Barazil to beam with delight. Mere recognition was greeting enough for him.
‘Nothing escapes me. Believe me, before they print it in Al Ahram, it has passed my ears.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a second.’
‘Another of your disreputable friends, I see,’ muttered Aswani as he arrived to set plates on the table. Barazil had an uncanny ability to time his arrival with the food. His small eyes widened as they roamed the table, feasting on dishes of Aswani’s special pickles, baba ghanoush, humous, glistening slivers of fried aubergine sprinkled with sesame seeds, an assortment of olives and fermented cheese, a mountain of golden discs of warm bread heaped in the basket.
‘I was hoping you might stop by,’ Makana said, ignoring Barazil’s mournful eyes. ‘I might be in need of a telephone.’
‘A new one? Why didn’t you say so? Today you’re in luck. I have something special.’ He delved through his pockets: the oversized jacket doubled as display case and storage cupboard all in one. With the dexterity of a magician doing card tricks he set six devices on the table in a row.
‘It’s not for me. I just want something simple.’
‘I have just the thing.’ Barazil picked one up and turned it over deftly. ‘Good quality. Reliable and handy. Excellent value for money.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Oh, you know me,’ Barazil grinned. ‘I hate putting a price on things. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you just take it and then give me what you feel like.’
Makana was used to this routine. If he took it away he would be in debt. The price would rise exponentially, with no relationship to its real value. Barazil had missed his calling. In another life he would have been advising statesmen and brokering world trade agreements. As it was he was an itinerant pedlar hawking household items around the bazaar and trying to avoid trouble with shopkeepers and police officers.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Makana, casually reaching for the bread. With someone like Barazil you had to bring your own tactics. Eating in front of him was tantamount to torture. The sooner business was concluded the sooner Barazil knew Makana might invite him for a bite to eat. A gout of flame burst from the grill on the other side of the room and the smell of roasting meat filled the place. Barazil named his price. Already low, Makana halved it and they settled somewhere in-between. Business over, Makana offered him a piece of bread until the main course arrived. Sami was eager to get back to the matter of Mourad.
‘So, if it’s not drugs and it’s not political agitation, what is our friend up to?’
‘I wish I knew. Mourad was trying to help the girl, Estrella. I have a feeling she plays a part in this, but I’ve no idea what.’ Makana was thinking of the good Reverend Corbis and his Homehavens Project. Well-meaning Americans spreading kindness through the world, or something else? ‘Estrella wanted to follow her friends Beatrice and Jonah to America. And now she’s disappeared.’
‘How about them, can’t you ask them?’
‘They appear to have already gone. I’m going to try and contact them, if it’s possible.’
Estrella, Beatrice, Jonah. Somewhere in among that group somebody had to know something. Makana felt as though he was seeing with only one eye. He lacked perspective. Right on cue his phone began to buzz in his pocket. An unhappy Sindbad explained that he had lost his quarry.
‘Sorry, ya basha, I followed him into town and then I lost him.’
‘Do you think Ihab saw you?’
Sindbad’s unhappiness deepened. ‘It’s possible. He was in a snack bar in Talaat Harb. The owner there knows me and made a big fuss, inviting me and making a lot of noise. I noticed the boy looking back at me when that happened. Right after that he disappeared.’
The moral of the story being, send Sindbad into a snack bar at your own peril. Makana sighed and stretched. He’d lost his appetite. He ought to have a serious conversation with Ihab. Drop the easygoing manner and get Sindbad to lean on him. With some people coercion was the only way to get cooperation. He sat back and watched Barazil tuck in with the gusto of a man for whom food never lost an element of novelty. He lit a cigarette as Aswani waddled over with a platter piled high with lamb chops. Skewers of his famous kofta and kebab. Barazil’s smile lit up the room.
‘Did you say this girl, Estrella, was trying to get to America?’ Sami asked.
‘Everyone wants to go to America,’ offered Barazil with his mouth full. His eyes lurked over to the meat and Makana nodded his permission. Taking food from under his nose would be like kicking a stray dog.
‘Try and find out what you can about something called the Hesira Institute,’ Makana said, getting to his feet.
‘Are you leaving me here with him?’ Sami asked, watching Barazil tucking in with an alarmed expression on his face.
‘Don’t worry,’ Makana said. ‘He won’t turn on you. There’s enough to eat on the table.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Bar Kadesh was set in a narrow, blistered sidestreet behind Nasser Metro Station that appeared to have never known pavements. The ground rose and fell in uneven waves in the gloom. From the entrance a gentle incline sloped down like a soft riverbank. In the winter they hung doors across the opening. Badly neglected, the wood had been in need of attention for decades, centuries even. The faded paint was like a watermark that harked back to long-forgotten days, other regimes, other rulers. Time had a habit of smoothing out the wrinkles. Nobody could believe that things were ever quite as bad as they were now, or as good as they had once been.
Through a grubby pane of cracked glass past a torn white star advertising Stella Beer, Makana glimpsed a half-empty room. It was early. Empty tables and a desolate air that looked as though it would never recover. Marwan was sitting with a small group of men playing dominoes.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, as Makana pulled up a chair. ‘I thought you might turn up. That was you who rolled by the other day wasn’t it, in that taxi?’
‘I thought I’d look in on my compatriots.’
‘In word only. Those people live a life as different from yours as night and day.’ Marwan was a large, untidy presence, his Central Security Forces tunic unbuttoned at the neck, his belt unbuckled to allow room for the beer belly he was cultivating. Getting to his feet, Marwan indicated a more secluded table further over in an empty corner. He waggled two fingers at the short, scruffy figure almost hidden behind the counter.
‘So, to what do I owe this honour?’
‘No reason. I saw you and wondered what you were up to.’
‘A social visit? Nice try.’ Marwan nodded as the barman set two cold bottles of beer on the table. The glasses bore grimy testimony to years of service, like the faded painting of a victorious Ramses riding into battle on a chariot that appeared on the wall behind the bar. Everything in here looked like a sacrifice to a long forgotten god. Even Marwan. A hero from a bygone age when heroes made some kind of sense.
‘You forget that I know you. If you turn up here, it’s for a reason. Let’s not kid ourselves that we are friends.’ Marwan gulped beer. It was always hard to tell where you stood with him. He seemed to bear a grudge against everyone. It wasn’t personal, it was just the way he was. If you stayed on the right side of him he could be useful, generous even, but he was unpredictable and surprisingly touchy for a man with such a tough hide.
‘What’s going to happen with the protest?’
‘It’s not going to last much longer. One of these days they’re going to give us the order to clear the square, and it won’t be pretty.’
‘Why not just leave them?’
Marwan looked aghast. ‘You can’t just leave people. That’s an invitation to chaos. The whole country would be on the streets, thinking that sooner or later they’ll get what they want.’ He leaned his bulky shoulders back against the wall. ‘The thing is, t
hey don’t really know what they want. Most of them don’t want to be in this country to begin with, but here they are. They aren’t refugees because we’re neighbours and we have an open-border agreement, even if it is temporarily suspended. We’re all people of the Nile Valley. They can’t apply to another country for refugee status because it’s the first country you land in that counts. So they’re stuck.’
‘And you don’t think the UN will change its mind?’
‘Why? If they wait long enough these people will crawl back into the hole they came from.’
A key to any exchange with Marwan was to keep your temper. He liked to think of himself as a provocateur, a convenient alibi for a bully. Nothing he liked more than to shove people around a bit and see how they responded. Makana was used to it by now. He didn’t take the bait.
‘What choice do they have?’
‘Plenty, according to what I hear.’
‘What do you hear?’ Makana asked the question while pouring more beer into his glass.
Appearing to be drinking took a certain amount of technical skill, especially when you were alongside a dedicated drinker like Marwan, who was already eyeing the dregs in his glass and contemplating ordering another one.
‘Israel. I hear they’re all running to Israel for safety.’
‘I’m surprised to hear that kind of rumour coming from you.’
‘No smoke without fire. The Jews will take anyone in if they think it will improve their case. They want the world to believe they’re the front line between Muslim terrorists and the civilised world.’
‘I thought that was your job.’
‘Careful.’ Marwan waggled another two fingers at the barman. Makana didn’t object. Whatever he left behind on the table would be hoovered up by his companion after he had gone. ‘Essentially we’re on the same side on this one. The only thing is, we deal with our fundamentalists quietly, the way we’ve always done. We don’t go crying to the world about how wonderful we are.’
‘You should tell that to the president.’
