by Parker Bilal
When he had first landed in Cairo, Makana discovered Damazeen was already part of the exile community. Their paths crossed a couple of times. By then Makana had lost his job, his wife and child, and his home, and he was discovering that no one makes it on their own. It was the nature of exile. With flight you lost your surroundings, the context in which your previous life existed. No matter what you did you could never get that back, but you could meet people in the same situation and that was a help, of sorts.
Eager to put the awkward start behind them, Talal was keen to make amends. ‘Mo has been telling us all about the new centre he is planning to build. It’s going to be a retreat for international artists from all over the place.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Makana said.
Mo, as he was known in London and Paris, had put on weight. His hair was threaded with whorls of white now and his shirt was tight across an expanded midriff. All of this only added to his sense of his own presence. He carried himself like a celebrity. In the early days he had been something of a firebrand who talked of fighting the regime through art and politics. A charismatic character. The media loved him. In Cairo’s cultural circles he had played the ingenuous country bumpkin, the exotic cousin to their Arab reserve. As far as most Cairenes were concerned, Africa was a distant and very dark continent inhabited by savages. The art world was no more enlightened than most. In those days Damazeen could have marched on stage with a leopard-skin over his shoulder and they would have adored him. As the years went by and the regime showed no sign of stepping down, Damazeen began to tone down the act. Murmurs of compromise circled. He talked of longing for home, returning to his roots. From there to fully fledged apologist was but a short skip and a jump. The old regime had abandoned its hard-line beginnings, he claimed. Some believed him. Others had their doubts. Rumours circulated that he was an informer. When the Americans rained cruise missiles down on Khartoum in retaliation for the attacks on US Embassies in East Africa, Damazeen appeared on state television to voice his outrage. It was a public declaration of his ties to the regime.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Come on, lighten up!’ Damazeen carried himself like a mediocre actor who believed his hour had come. ‘We have a duty to encourage talent, which is why Talal has got to attend the Viennese Conservatory.’ He patted Talal on the shoulder.
‘You’re going to fund him?’
‘Why not? What better cause is there than nurturing young artists?’
It worried Makana to see them together. Talal was impressionable, and a few stories about how close Damazeen was to his father would go a long way, and this made him uncomfortable. He also wondered what the connection was between Damazeen and the Zafrani brothers? They enjoyed a reputation as one of the most ruthless organised-crime families. The stories of beheadings, of victims being left buried up to their necks in the desert, or pulled apart by horses, sounded like theatrical replays of medieval practices, but Makana knew enough to take them seriously.
A waiter appeared and Bunny nodded. She and Talal got up to go and inspect the grill on the far side of the room, perhaps also to leave the two men alone to work out their differences.
‘So, you’re here on art business?’
‘You never give up, do you?’ Damazeen laughed in slow guffaws. ‘A man of virtue, convinced that all around him is darkness and corruption. You should take a look at yourself sometime.’
There were rumours of fat commissions on contracts supplying the military with trucks. Damazeen had always denied it, of course, claiming he was simply selling more paintings than anyone else. He had a mysterious buyer in the Gulf. But everyone knew it would take an awful lot of canvas to pay for his new lifestyle. Now that he was friends with the regime he spent his time with entrepreneurs, army men, unsavoury types who met in shabby hotels and drank only when they thought no one was looking, prayed when they thought they were.
‘I had doubts, just like you, but things have changed. Now there are opportunities. Great opportunities. The boom has just begun. There is enough for everybody now that petroleum is finally flowing from the wells. The Chinese are building roads, pipelines, refineries. And they are not the only ones. Malaysians, Indians, Turks. We are on our way to becoming a developed nation.’
‘A few people making themselves obscenely rich doesn’t make a developed nation.’
Damazeen reached for his glass and twirled the wine around it. ‘You should get over yourself, you know? And stop poisoning the boy’s mind with all your paranoia. He’s talented.’
The sound of Bunny’s laughter echoed across the room. The cook had provided her with another appreciative audience. A handsome man in a tall white hat, he seemed to amuse her, flirting openly, wielding a carving knife in the air like a mad dervish.
‘Why did you turn against me? I never understood. We were friends once.’
‘That was a long time ago. Things change.’
‘You don’t trust me. I get it. But you can’t live here in isolation for ever, like some exiled king awaiting his glorious return home. It’s over. The world has moved on. The sooner you accept that, the better for you, believe me.’
‘Why are you really here?’
‘I told you,’ said Damazeen, refilling his glass. ‘I’m here to support Talal.’
‘That sounds very generous.’
‘I like to help people,’ Damazeen said. His eyes were tinged with red from the wine. ‘What if I said I could help you?’
‘I’d tell you to go and peddle your stories elsewhere.’
‘You haven’t even heard what I am offering.’
‘I don’t need to hear. And stay away from the boy.’
‘What if I told you I can give you your life back?’
But Makana had heard enough. As he pushed back the chair to get to his feet, Damazeen tried to block his way, putting a hand on his arm to restrain him, which was a mistake. Hassan Saleh, the man who taught Makana self-defence in the police force, had been trained in East Germany. Descended from a long line of wrestlers in the Nuba Mountains, Hassan was short and squat and as hard to budge as a well-oiled boulder. For some reason they had become friends and Makana had been one of his best pupils. One of the first things he taught Makana was to act on instinct. When an opportunity is set before you, don’t think, just act. Makana acted. He grasped hold of Damazeen’s hand and twisted it in a clockwise direction, pressing outwards. It didn’t take much force. Damazeen was off balance to begin with and the wine probably didn’t help. He lurched back into the next table, tipped over a chair before tumbling to the ground. The bald waiter raised his eyes to the heavens. All that fuss about wine and see how it ends. Still, it pained Makana to see the disappointment on Talal’s face. He patted him on the shoulder and smiled at Bunny, who twirled a ribbon around her finger.
Chapter Ten
Makana was left standing on the pavement in front of the Binbashi feeling annoyed with himself as much as anything else. He shouldn’t have used violence. It was an unnecessary and vulgar display. He regretted having Talal witness it, but he knew why. Damazeen had triggered an old and deeply buried anger in him. Talal’s father, Abdel Aziz, was arrested on returning from a trip to Cairo and charged with conspiring against the government. Makana had always suspected that the person who had tipped off the intelligence services about Abdel Aziz having met with members of the opposition in exile was none other than Damazeen himself.
A taxi was parked up under a large banyan tree and he climbed in without further hesitation and asked the driver to take him downtown. At that hour the traffic was light and in a little more than fifteen minutes he was in Aswani’s. The garish white light from the flyspecked neon tubes that buzzed angrily on the walls was a welcome relief after contemplating dinner in a place where you could barely see your hand in front of your face, let alone what was on your plate.
Aswani was busy tending a grill that threw up gouts of flame as if he had a pocket-sized dragon hidden under the bars. Beads of
sweat ran down his face as he dextrously flipped dozens of skewers threaded with kebab and kofta. Water hissed, steam rose in clouds, and orders flew left and right as his staff rushed back and forth to do his bidding. He resembled an ancient pagan sorcerer of some description. Makana found Sami sitting at the back at their usual table.
‘It’s busy tonight.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so,’ Sami tapped his watch.
‘Things didn’t work out too well.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s a long story.’
There was a plate of stuffed green peppers in front of Sami that he seemed not to have noticed, his nose being firmly tucked into a heap of newspapers spread out in front of him.
‘Didn’t you order anything else?’ Makana asked as he sat down, suddenly hungry.
‘I haven’t ordered anything. These came by themselves.’
Makana sniffed the maashi cautiously. Aswani must be trying out a new dish. Still, he was willing to give it a try. He wiped a fork on a paper napkin and dug it in.
‘So, you couldn’t stay away from my food any longer, eh?’
Aswani waddled up to the table. His grubby shirt was generously dotted with pools of sweat and he was wiping his face with a dishcloth.
‘Try my maashi, yet? The best in the city, I can assure you.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, but I was really looking forward to your kofta.’
‘Ask and it shall be served.’ Aswani gave a mock bow and wandered to the next table.
‘So, what did you make of Father Macarius?’ asked Sami.
‘He’s hiding something.’
‘Hiding what? He’s fighting to stay afloat.’
‘Then what is he hiding?’
‘You don’t know that he’s hiding anything. He’s trying to help these kids. Do you have any idea how many there are? They run away, they fall into the hands of unscrupulous men who promise them money and in return abuse them.’ Sami dug a fork into one of the stuffed peppers and chewed cautiously. ‘And there he is, rebuilding a church that everyone had given up on and taking in kids from the streets. In another country they would give him a medal, but not here.’
A medal for what, Makana wondered. Survival, perhaps, in a hostile environment.
‘The church doesn’t want him around. He’s a trouble maker.’ Pushing another forkful of rice and roasted green pepper into his mouth, Sami chewed for a while. ‘What makes you think he’s hiding something?’
‘He’s a priest. Priests spend their lives trying to convince people they are telling the truth, which means they are not very good when it comes to telling lies.’
Makana watched Sami polish off the second stuffed pepper. He wasn’t convinced this kind of sophistication would ever catch on with Aswani’s clientele. People came here for grilled meat. If they wanted something fancy they went elsewhere, dark places with low lighting.
‘There’s something else I want you to help me with. The other night you told me that Hilal had caused a lot of trouble with his criticism of Islamic banking.’
‘What he said was that they were exploiting people’s sentiments to make a profit.’
‘Why else would people invest their money in an Islamic bank? It makes them feel better.’
‘Exactly. So when Hilal went after the Eastern Star Investment Bank a lot of people got very upset. He took them to pieces.’
‘Over what?’
‘Basically, their accounting was unsound. Hilal alleged there were huge loopholes out of which the directors took sizeable profits while paying investors a pittance.’
‘So he upset the directors. Is it possible to get a list of the major shareholders and the management of the bank?’ Makana paused. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know. This country’s in a mess. I mean, it feels like we’re on the verge of civil war.’
‘You really think it is as bad as that?’
‘One thing is for sure. This is not happening by itself.’
‘You’re talking about what, a conspiracy?’
‘I’m talking about . . . everything. You saw the crowd in Imbaba. There were agents there.’
‘The Merkezi?’
‘Exactly, Central Security Forces and their thugs. They are stirring it all up. They know it could explode at any moment. Muslim against Christian, and that would suit them fine.’
‘Riots in the street. Churches burning down.’
‘The whole thing.’ Sami leaned in. ‘The economy is in serious trouble. The rich are getting richer. The rest of us need two jobs just to get by.’
‘You think they might be involved in the murder of these homeless children?’
‘Why not?’ Sami said. ‘We both know how they operate. Who is going to mourn a child in torn clothes that has been sleeping rough, not eating well, probably sniffing glue and smoking bango? All of that adds up to criminal activity. The police are not going to raise a finger.’
‘And by killing them, they gain . . . what?’
‘Have you seen the newspapers? The television? The country is going mad over this. The whole country is outraged that Christians are murdering little boys in some kind of ancient ritual.’
‘Which is nonsense.’
‘Sheikh Waheed talks about it, so there must be some truth to it.’ Sami wagged a finger in the air. ‘Anyway, my editor has quietly asked me to drop the story.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He didn’t have to. Someone made a phone call. It’s like everything else. Besides, I understand perfectly. No editor in his right mind would publish a story claiming that State Security are trying to stir up anti-Christian feeling in order to take people’s minds off the economy, right?’
Makana caught the eye of a man at the next table. Was he listening? Informers were notoriously rife. Sami appeared oblivious, and continued unabated.
‘Tourists are too scared to come here. We would starve to death without American aid. We can’t even grow enough to feed ourselves. Last year’s presidential elections were a joke. Now they want to ban opposition parties. Parliament just extended the emergency laws for another three years. We’ve been living in a state of emergency since 1967. God, I could use a drink right now. A real drink, not these sugary sodas we are forced to consume. They are turning us into helpless children.’
Food was forgotten as cigarettes were lit.
‘They talk about democratic reform. Clinton drops by to say a few words about Palestine and everyone shakes hands and smiles for the pictures.’ Sami thumped the table with his hand, forgetting his surroundings. A few heads turned in their direction. Aswani waddled over to stand beside the table and set down a pile of kofta.
‘Keep your voices down. I don’t want to be closed down for running a hotbed of dissent.’
Aswani walked away, sharing a laugh with the man in grey at the next table, who gave Makana a cold, unresponsive stare.
‘Did you hear what they did to that poor novelist?’
Makana had lost his appetite. Sami drew quick nervous puffs, the smoke reeling around his head. ‘He got a six month suspended sentence for a book that was published eighteen years ago in Lebanon. Blasphemy?’ He put his hands to his head. ‘This country used to be the cultural centre of the region. We used to read everything. Now university students are banning Mohammed Choukri and all anyone wants is to draw a veil over their wives. I was thinking, maybe you could lend me some money, just for a time.’
‘I thought your paper was paying you?’
‘You know how it is, marriage is an expensive business. Rania is accustomed to a certain standard of living.’
Makana reached into his pocket for the money Faragalla had given him. ‘How about I pay you for the information about this bank.’
‘Sounds fair to me. Actually, a friend of mine, Nasser Hikmet, was supposed to be looking into the Eastern Star Investment Bank.’
‘That should make it easy.’ Makana handed over the banknotes and Sam
i counted them carefully.
‘I take it you’re paying for this,’ Sami gestured at the food on the table. Makana reached into his pocket again.
Chapter Eleven
The following morning found Makana sitting in the dreary café inside the arcade, contemplating his second cigarette of the day. The coffee cup in front of him was drained but he was actually considering ordering another. Eissa, the boy behind the counter, was eagerly showing him a carton of cigarettes that he was willing to sell for a third of their price.
‘You won’t get them cheaper anywhere.’
‘The question is, where did you get them?’
The boy grumbled something and slouched back behind the counter. When he looked up, Makana spotted Meera stepping in from the street, her figure silhouetted against the light behind her. She was strolling along, deep in thought. Once again, Makana was filled with an inexplicable sense of loss and regret that he couldn’t explain to himself. He was, he realised, still thinking about the meeting with Damazeen the previous evening. Somehow it had brought back all the memories of Muna and the life they once had. What he had lost. This was what hurt. Meera was undoubtedly an attractive woman. The kind who could go a long way towards helping you forget your troubles. But all she did was remind him of the love he had once had and lost.
Still, he seemed unable to take his eyes off her and instead followed her progress. Halfway down the arcade she paused to study the window display in the clothes shop with the hijabbed mannequins. There was some irony to that. Her face lifted as someone stopped next to her. Yousef. On his way out, it seemed, pausing to light one of his foul-smelling menthol cigarettes. He lingered, glancing at his watch before walking on. Meera followed him with her eyes as he walked away, a puzzled look on her face, as if he had said something she hadn’t quite caught. Later, Makana would play the sequence over and over in his head, trying to reconstruct the order in which it happened.
A man entered the arcade at almost the same moment Yousef exited. A slight figure, even shorter than Yousef, they almost bumped into one another. The man cannoned away quickly, head down. There was something odd about his posture, the way he walked, the fact that he was wearing an old army fatigue jacket. A woollen cap was pulled down over his head and the collar of his jacket was turned up. By now Makana was on his feet. He wasn’t sure why, but he found his way blocked. A group of men were trying to get in through the narrow doorway. They were making a lot of noise, laughing amongst themselves. Pushing his way roughly past, Makana ignored the insults. Slowly. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly. The light flooding in through the entrance reduced everyone ahead of him to silhouettes. People passed between them, shadows obscuring his view. The man’s face was half covered by a scarf. The distance between them was no more than twenty metres but the arcade seemed like a vast, endless hall. The man was fumbling inside his jacket, tearing at the folds. Meera bumped into the window behind her. The man’s hand came free, holding something so big it looked like a toy in his hand. Makana could hear himself yelling a warning. The shots echoed through the enclosed space. Meera spun off balance, stumbling backwards, the glass exploding around her as she fell through into the interior.
