by Parker Bilal
It was difficult to gain much from the annual school photograph, hard enough to pick out the girl from within the rows of faces. She would have been around fifteen, Makana guessed as he came nearer. He had the impression of a slim figure, her eyes looking away, off to one side. There was something furtive about her, as if she was uncomfortable with having her picture taken. Other girls grinned broadly, or tried to look sincere, or serious, or pretty. Nagat looked unhappy.
‘How long after this did she leave?’
Madame Fawzia fiddled with her ring. ‘Oh, quite soon afterwards. A year perhaps, maybe less.’
‘She was very young. It must have been quite a scandal.’
‘Oh, she was used to creating scandal.’ For the first time Madame Fawzia smiled, her eyes still absorbed with the old school photograph. ‘We all look so young,’ she murmured to herself.
‘You knew her quite well.’
Madame Fawzia turned back to him. ‘We were friends. I sometimes think she liked to have me around because I did what she asked. Nagat liked to be in charge. She wasn’t like Safira.’
‘What exactly happened to Safira?’
‘Nobody knows. She wandered off into the desert. It’s easy to get lost, and if you do no one will ever find you. It was an unlucky family.’
‘Do you know who owns the family land now?’
Madame Fawzia shook her head.
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Makana said. ‘I shall make a note of it in my report.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she murmured.
‘I only have one last request. I need a copy of that photograph.’
‘A copy?’ Her brows furrowed. Finally, she reached for the frame on the wall and removed the picture from inside before handing it over.
‘Your need is greater than mine. I can have an extra copy made up to replace it.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ Makana said.
As he made his way back through the streets Makana spotted a messy, fugitive figure stepping out of the post office.
‘Doctor Medina?’ Makana hailed. The deep-set eyes, red from lack of sleep or something else, momentarily sought escape and then resigned themselves. The two men shook hands. As they fell into step Makana spied the Bedouin in the supermarket. He was leaning forward, his forehead almost touching the glass, chewing slowly. The gaunt face was framed by posters advertising washing powder and chocolate eggs.
‘I caught one of Hamama’s men searching my room last night,’ said Makana.
‘Really? Did they find anything?’
‘I don’t know what he was looking for.’
‘Money, probably. They are all disreputable.’ Doctor Medina paused to find his Rothmans. He nodded at the ’ahwa they were passing. ‘Why don’t we drink a coffee?’ he suggested.
They sat on the terrace that was about a metre wide around a metal table that sat awkwardly on broken paving stones. The doctor nodded greetings to what seemed like a continuous stream of people wandering by.
‘You seem to know everybody,’ observed Makana.
‘In America, everyone has a therapist to talk to. In Italy, the Catholics have their priests. Well here, all we have is our doctor. So I know all their intimate secrets. I know about the kidney stones, the constipation, the impotence. They would like to hate me and some no doubt would like to kill me but they know they would not survive for long without my help.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘It feels like a lifetime,’ sighed Doctor Medina. ‘I love the open air, the land. When I first came here I would go out into the desert for days. So much space, and the stars! Instead we crowd together like sheep. What does that tell you about human nature?’
As the doctor puffed away on his cigarette, Makana wondered if his buoyant mood was due to a lack of alcohol or the anticipation of what was to come. The fact that the doctor was able to function more or less normally suggested that he had some control over his drinking but Makana had met alcoholics before. The smart ones were clever at concealing it.
‘You should be careful of Sergeant Hamama.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Makana.
‘Simply a friendly warning. You can be sure that he wants something from you in return.’
‘Like what?’
‘Who knows? Hamama may not look ambitious, but he is. Ever since he took over as police chief when Captain Mustafa died.’
‘When was that exactly?’
‘Only about a month ago, maybe less. Captain Mustafa was an outsider, like me. He’d been here for years but was never really accepted. Hamama is a local boy. There’s a lot of support for him but he doesn’t have the rank. There are rumours that the high command in Mersa Matruh have their doubts about him. That’s why he’s so keen to clear this case up as fast as possible. It’s his chance to prove himself. The longer it drags on the more likely it is they will send an outsider in.’
‘What happened to the captain?’
‘A car accident.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Out on the old desert road west of the town.’
‘Where does that road lead?’
‘Oh, it’ll take you anywhere you want to,’ the doctor smiled. ‘The desert routes take you west into the Libyan desert and beyond, to Niger, Mali, or south to Chad and Sudan, but it’s dangerous.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s easy to hide in such a vast open space. There are a lot of bad people out there. The type you don’t want to meet. Smugglers, armed men of one faction or another.’
A movement drew Makana’s eye to the upper floor of a building on the far side of the square. The previous evening he had noticed a young man there. He appeared to be back again, yawning, leaning on the parapet blowing smoke into the air.
They finished their coffees and got to their feet. Doctor Medina insisted on paying. ‘How are you getting around?’ he asked as they stepped back into the road.
‘On foot, most of the time, unless Sergeant Hamama happens to be around.’
‘I have an idea,’ said the doctor. ‘Follow me.’
They crossed the square to the narrow street that ran behind the hotel, past the mosque Makana could see from his hotel window and which appeared to be inhabited only by stray cats. At the corner was a small restaurant and beyond that a shop that rented out bicycles to tourists. Doctor Medina hailed a young man of about twenty with long hair who emerged from the shadows, his hands black with engine oil.
‘Kamal, this is Mr Makana. He needs some means of transport while he is staying here. I thought of the Norton.’ Kamal scratched the back of his neck. ‘It is working, isn’t it?’
‘Of course, ya doktor.’ With a gesture of apology, Kamal ducked away to attend to a couple of blonde girls in search of bicycles.
‘He keeps telling me he’s fixed it,’ Doctor Medina said to Makana, ‘but it’s never ready. This is a good opportunity to sort this out once and for all. It’s a good machine,’ he beamed. ‘You’ll like it.’ With that Medina turned and began walking away. He had only taken three paces before he stopped. ‘Why don’t you come over later?’ he called. ‘I may have something to show you.’
Makana promised he would look in. As the doctor left, Kamal came back over.
‘Would you like to see it?’ he asked before leading the way through to the back of the workshop. The Norton looked like it belonged in a museum.
‘How old is that thing?’ Makana asked sceptically.
Kamal grinned, rubbing his hands with a dirty rag. ‘It’s from when the British were here, during the world war.’
‘And it still works?’
‘Oh, these machines just need a little care and attention. They last for ever.’
It was a spirited defence, but Makana was not entirely convinced about the wisdom of getting on a death machine like this.
‘How long has it been sitting here?’
‘Well, it had a few problems. Some spare parts are difficult to get
hold of, but the doctor loves this thing. It’s just that, well, he had a couple of accidents.’ Kamal glanced at Makana to see if he understood that he was referring to the doctor’s drinking habits.
‘You know him pretty well.’
‘The doctor? Sure, everyone knows him. He’s a good man, he just has his moments.’ Kamal ran the rag over the wide leather seat. Makana could see cobwebs between the spokes. ‘You’re the one who came here to help the police, right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘They need all the help they can get.’ Kamal grinned. ‘You should see the sights. Iskander the Great came here, you know, famous Roman general?’
‘I think Iskander was Greek.’
Kamal frowned. ‘Greek, Roman, what difference does it make? In the end they left. Just like the British. Everyone leaves in the end. Except us.’ As he talked, Kamal was nervously going over the motorcycle, twisting the throttle, tugging the gear cable, stamping on the footbrake.
‘You want to leave?’
‘Me?’ The young man sniffed. ‘I would leave tomorrow if I could.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘Cairo, of course. I’ve never been. What’s it like?’
Makana considered how on earth to begin explaining a city like Cairo. It would be like the story of the blind men and the elephant. Each one touches a different part of it and imagines an entirely different creature. But Kamal wasn’t expecting an answer. He already knew.
‘I imagine it shines. There are a million lights, and beautiful girls, like the ones you see in Amr Diab’s videos. And no one ever sleeps.’
It would have been cruel to puncture the boy’s illusion, to remind him of those who lived in obscurity, hidden from view in the dark corners of the metropolis, the abject poverty, and the millions just like him who had watched their dreams crumble to dust. As they came back out into the sunshine a horn sounded as the battered police pick-up rattled and screeched its way to a halt and Sergeant Hamama leaned out of the window.
‘Get in,’ he called to Makana.
Chapter Fourteen
A half-eaten ful sandwich wrapped in newspaper occupied the passenger seat. Hamama tossed it quickly up onto the dashboard as Makana climbed in. The car took off before he had even managed to pull the door closed.
‘People are not happy. I’ve been on the phone all morning. Everyone wants to know what happened. Naturally, they all seem to blame me.’ Hamama steered carefully around a family of goats that had taken up residence in the middle of the road. ‘The Qadi was a highly respected figure. Of course, everyone around here hated him, but what can you do?’
‘He must have made a few enemies over the years.’
‘A man in his position? Naturally.’ Hamama glanced over at Makana. ‘This case is important to me. I talked to Mersa Matruh this morning and I get the feeling my promotion depends on me catching this killer. Doesn’t make it any easier.’
‘It shouldn’t be that difficult, for a man of your experience.’
Sergeant Hamama narrowly avoided running over a donkey and several pedestrians.
‘You wouldn’t be laughing at me now, would you?’
‘I was trying to be encouraging.’
‘Well, keep it to yourself next time.’
‘What I really meant was that whoever did this had a motive. And that motive may lie in the Qadi’s old cases. The sentences he has handed down over the years.’
‘It’s a possibility. Still, it’s not going to be easy. What kind of a man can cut another up like so much basturma?’ The sergeant drew a hand across his substantial belly and shivered. He threw Makana an odd sideways glance. ‘You’re not here to keep an eye on me, are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ the sergeant hesitated, apparently not sure what he meant. ‘State Security, the Ministry of Justice?’
‘I’m not here to spy on you,’ Makana said. ‘So you don’t need to send your men snooping around in my room.’
‘You mean Sadig?’ Sergeant Hamama sniffed. ‘He gets carried away. He thinks I’m too trusting and that it’s a little suspicious you turning up just when the Qadi gets butchered.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I think good police work is about eliminating possibilities. That means everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise. You’d do the same, right?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Now listen,’ Hamama went on, ‘I think Sadig gets overexcited. He doesn’t mean any harm, so there’s no need for this to go any further. The point is, if you help me to find out who butchered the Qadi I will be very grateful.’ He saw the scepticism on Makana’s face. ‘I mean it. Whatever you need is yours.’
‘So I shouldn’t expect him in my room again?’
‘You have my word on it.’ Sergeant Hamama settled himself back in his seat and stared ahead as the lake came into view, shimmering softly in the sun.
‘Where are we going by the way?’
‘The scene of the crime. Where else?’
They slowed and Sergeant Hamama pulled off the road. The two men sat for a time in silence with only the sound of the wind whistling by. It should have been peaceful, but Makana felt uneasy. He cracked open the door and stepped out. The salt in the sand formed a hard crust that cracked under his shoes. The spot where the Qadi had been found was marked out with a couple of poles from which plastic tape flapped in the breeze.
‘Any idea what he was doing out here?’ Makana turned towards Hamama who was leaning on the front of the car. ‘Perhaps we should talk to his office.’
‘Lucky for us you’re here, or I would never have thought of that.’
‘You’ve already done it?’
Hamama tried not to look pleased with himself and failed. He reached into his pocket for a packet of gum to celebrate and chewed away gleefully. Perhaps what he needed was less an expert to help him in his investigation as a witness to his own brilliance.
‘Some kind of business delegation was on the way out here to meet him.’
‘What kind of delegation?’ asked Makana, turning his back to the wind to light a cigarette.
‘The assistant I spoke to thought it was something to do with a tourist venture.’ Sergeant Hamama squinted at the lake. ‘They come here and smell money. They want to build fancy hotels and open up the airport, bring people in from all over the world.’
‘The town benefits, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’ Sergeant Hamama studied his scuffed boots. ‘We have a limited supply of fresh water and these tourists come from places where it rains for months. They still want their pools filled and three showers a day, and I don’t know what else. And besides, the big money goes right by us and into the pockets of the big fish.’
‘And the Qadi was involved in the sector?’
‘He was the Qadi, he took care of all the legal matters.’ Which was Hamama’s way of saying he really had no idea.
Makana looked out over the thin sliver of water that seemed to almost float on top of the sand. Beyond it the desert unfurled like a silken carpet. Where it ended was another story. You could literally drive for days and still not find the end to it. The desert made him think of home, and the long journey that had brought him here.
‘How did he get into the water?’ Makana wondered aloud as they walked back along the edge of the lake towards the car.
‘How?’ Sergeant Hamama straightened up and focussed all his powers. ‘His killer must have rolled him in, I suppose.’
‘It’s hardly deep enough here, and he was completely immersed.’
‘Well, maybe he walked further out.’
Makana pointed at the shack out on the point. ‘That’s where the farmer made the phone call, isn’t it?’
‘That’s Luqman’s place,’ said Hamama. ‘He sells snacks and things to the tourists. He’s all right. We questioned him but he saw nothing.’
‘Maybe we should try again,’ suggested Makana. ‘Sometimes things come
back to people.’
Hamama planted his hands on his ample hips. ‘I told you, my men already talked to him. He didn’t see anything. It’s a waste of time.’
‘We won’t know that until we speak to him, will we?’
Hamama stared at Makana for a moment and then spat out his gum on the sand. ‘I’ll bet they really hated you,’ he said.
‘Who did?’ Makana was mystified.
‘The people who used to work with you,’ said Hamama over his shoulder as he climbed into the police car.
Makana was silent as they drove back a short distance before turning to follow a short track onto the point that jutted out from the shore. The sergeant had no idea how right he was. He thought of his former adjutant, Mek Nimr, and the lengths he had gone to to get Makana expelled, first from the police force and then the country.
Khalid Luqman was in his mid-thirties, a slim man with a pleasant face and an air of calm about him. His hair was shaved close to his head. There was an air of scruffy abandonment about the coffee shop. Two makeshift structures were built on the sandy patch of scrub. One of them appeared to be a storage room and the other was a shack open on three sides by means of panels that were lifted up and held in place by strands of frayed nylon rope. A warm but not unpleasant breeze blew in from the water. The area in front of the shack afforded an unimpeded panorama of the lake and beyond. In the distance a strange escarpment of striated rock rose like a whale against the horizon while further to the right a fringe of palm trees indicated the direction of the town. The water, pale with salt, lapped at the edge of the promontory where deckchairs and tables made of old cable reels had been spread out. Two of these chairs were occupied by a European couple wearing sunglasses. They stared out at the water and passed a cigarette between them. The sweet smell of hashish drifted in with the breeze. Nails held between his lips, Luqman was trying to repair a chair that looked beyond salvation. The plasters on his fingers suggested he was not the most skilled of handymen. Seeing them he put down the hammer and got to his feet, spitting the nails into his palm.
