by Parker Bilal
Meera’s death puzzled him. If the intention was to kill her as a political statement why had the gunman not cried ‘Allahu akbar’ or some other religious sentiment? If not religion, then what was the motive? And there was something else, something about the shooter that had lodged awkwardly in his head. He replayed the whole event in his mind over and over.
After a time he realised that thinking made him hungry after all. In the kitchen he found the remains of a pot of koshari he had bought from Abu Siniya’s stand under the overpass four days ago. It didn’t smell too bad and with a squeeze of lime juice and some hot pepper it was miraculously restored to something edible. He started eating and then thought of something, so he set down the pot and went out onto the lower deck. He moved aft to a point where he lay down against the cold wood and reached down over the side, his hand scrabbling about until he found the narrow chain. He hauled it up carefully, the water trickling over his fingers and wetting his clothes. At the end of the chain a sturdy canvas bag was tied. Unlocking the chain he opened this and reached inside to extract a heavy plastic bag. Retying the canvas and making sure the horseshoe inside it was still there, he dropped it back over the side, hearing the chain paying itself out.
Back upstairs he opened the plastic bag and took out a cloth-wrapped package that was dry. Inside was a 9mm Beretta. Makana spent the next hour or so taking the gun to pieces, cleaning it carefully and oiling it. He didn’t like guns, but this seemed like a good moment to become reacquainted with one. Checking the shells in the clip he put the whole thing back together again. He had taken the gun from somebody a few years ago and held onto it since. Officially, he had no licence for it and kept it for emergencies only, which he felt this qualified as.
It was while he was reassembling the gun that he recalled the sight of the gun in the hand of the killer. It had seemed big, more than big. It had made him think of a toy. And there was another thing. When he had crashed into him and brought him down, he had been surprised at how little the man weighed. He set the Beretta down on the table. It hadn’t been a man at all, he realised. The killer had been a boy.
Chapter Thirteen
Meera’s death sent the country into a state of shock. A Christian woman gunned down in broad daylight. The spectacular nature of the crime triggered a wave of nationwide soul-searching. What does this say about us? The question was repeated in countless variations by a string of columnists and editors, talkshow hosts and taxi drivers. Rumours proliferated and there was no end to the speculation. Conspiracy theory worked overtime, producing a number of scenarios: it was a plot designed to get Christians to leave the country; a secret list had been found of targets, all of them high-profile Copts. According to this theory Meera was targeted because of the controversy generated by her marriage. The more lurid sectors of the press suggested she was an Israeli spy who had been silenced for refusing to betray Egypt any longer. The hot metal of the presses buzzed furiously as one rumour arrived hard on the heels of the next. Everyone had an opinion. And the anger spilled out onto the surface. A family in Mar Girgis were pulled from their car and set upon. The car was torched while bystanders stood idly by. A church in Qena was attacked – two people killed, fourteen sent to hospital. Angry mobs charged through the streets demanding . . . What were they demanding? No one seemed quite sure. Various ministers appeared on television making statements to the effect that justice would be served and the culprits tracked down. No one held their breath. Meera’s death was eclipsed by the outrage it had provoked.
‘You’re a hero, you know.’ The little girl held up a grainy picture of what looked like a statue of a poor relation of Ramses II brought up from the bottom of a muddy lake. Where they had managed to get a picture of him he had no idea. Aziza brought the papers up every morning. She sat cross-legged on the floor as she read.
‘Who is the mystery man who took his life into his hands? What was his relation to the young and attractive victim?’ Aziza looked up. ‘You were in love with her?’ Makana pulled a face and Umm Ali’s little girl went back to her reading. ‘Police sources confirm the man is known to them. Does this explain his shyness in coming forward to talk to the press?’
‘Aziza! Aziza!’
The girl closed her eyes, silently wishing the voice to go away. It only grew more insistent.
‘I’m hungry. You need to go and fetch me my breakfast!’
‘Why doesn’t he just die?’ she asked, then her face brightened. ‘Maybe I could poison him?’
‘He’s your uncle.’
‘I’ll bet you know all about poisons.’
‘Just go,’ he said, shooing her on her way. Afterwards, Makana went back to his reading. At noon he decided that enough days had passed for it to be a decent time for him to pay his respects to the family.
He took the riverbus across to Zamalek and walked the rest of the way. It wasn’t hard to find the house. Meera had pointed out the tree-lined street on the afternoon when they went to the Alhambra café. Now the narrow entrance was crowded with people and a lorry filled with folding chairs. A faded set of coloured drapes had been put up to fence off the street. A police saloon was parked against the wall. Three officers leered at him as Makana made his way through workers ferrying stacks of chairs only to find his way blocked by a group of young men.
‘What’s your business here?’ the leader asked as he stepped forward.
‘I’m here to see Doctor Hilal.’
‘Well, you have no business with him if you don’t tell us what it’s about.’
Makana had seen him before somewhere. He had high cheekbones that looked like bruises and eyes like wet stones. A stout man with a neck like a gamous stepped between them. He looked Makana up and down.
‘Don’t worry, Ishaq,’ he said, ‘this one’s not going to cause any trouble.’
‘You must scare a lot of people talking like that,’ said Makana.
He brought his face closer. He smelled vaguely of fish. ‘Are you scared?’
‘Oh, I’m scared all right. I’m shaking so badly I can hardly stand up.’
One of the others giggled and the stout man glared at him.
‘I’m not here to cause trouble. I was a friend of Meera’s. I was with her when she died.’
‘That was you?’ The one named Ishaq pushed forward again. Makana noticed that a couple of the young men were wearing T-shirts printed with the logo of the Seraph Sporting Club.
‘Does Father Macarius know you are here?’
‘You know Father Macarius?’ In the right light he might have been considered handsome. He clearly thought he would have made a fine film star on any day of the week. His hair was long, oiled and combed back like a dog’s pelt after a heavy rain. He jerked his head indicating Makana could pass.
‘Just watch your step.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Makana, winking at the bullish one who was breathing hard enough to burst a blood vessel.
The apartment building had a high surrounding wall painted a sandy-brown colour and a metal gate that stood open. It had about it a gentle air of dereliction and more than a hint of long-gone glory. Beyond this was a garden of sorts. A row of heavy plant pots on the steps leading to the entrance contained huge cacti whose leaves flopped around like the flailing hands of mad clocks. In the front hall more men wearing shirts with the eight-winged seraph motif waved him up to the first floor. Around the doorway to the flat, other men stood together speaking in low voices. They stepped aside for him to enter.
The flat was dark and gloomy with death. The narrow hallway was further constricted by the books that covered every available surface: fitted bookcases, hastily put up shelves, crooked tables, all to stem the flood which eventually spilled into heaps on the floor. Directly opposite the front door was a living room where a number of women sat in reverent silence. Others came and went through a side door carrying trays laden with biscuits and cups of tea. Close friends and family, Makana guessed, from young nieces to wizened aunts. Some in headsc
arves, others wearing crosses, they appeared to hail from both sides of the family.
‘Can I help you?’
On turning, Makana found himself facing Meera. A larger, cruder version of the original. Shorter and bulkier, padded in hips and face where the original had been lean and economical. The effect was unsettling.
‘I’m here to see Doctor Hilal.’
‘We are only welcoming family members at this time.’ She wrung her hands together as if squeezing a cake of soap. Her hair was dark like Meera’s but combed back in a fierce bun that pulled her eyebrows apart horizontally, like the splayed wings of a dragonfly.
‘It is urgent that I speak with him. My name is Makana.’
By now the conversation around them had come to a halt. The assortment of widows, spinsters and aunts had fallen silent. Tea went undrunk, biscuits remained unswallowed. A certain tension had entered the room. All eyes were now on him.
‘Can you at least tell me what this concerns?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t.’
The woman’s face grew livid. Her cheeks flushed. Behind her, he could hear the women whispering. He knew what they were saying and she said it for them.
‘You are not welcome here at this time.’
‘Maysoun, please.’
With a heavy sigh, a large figure shuffled forwards in the gloom. Ridwan Hilal was an untidy, overweight man, with a voice like a baritone. The walls rumbled as he approached. Another deeper silence fell over the women in the room. Hilal had thick, fleshy lips and thinning hair that looked as if it might have contained a recently abandoned bird’s nest. He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt that was buttoned up to the neck and whose tails had come loose. His face was slick with the sheen of a man who has just awoken from a nightmare to discover it was all true. Breathing hard from his exertions, he stared at Makana.
‘Do I know you?’
‘My name is Makana. I knew your wife.’
The keen eyes fixed on him as sharp as any bird of prey and there was a brief nod in response.
‘Yes, of course.’ Hilal pursed his lips. ‘You were with her when she died.’
A rustle went through the room. It seemed to shake Ridwan Hilal out of his stupor. He lifted a large paw like a soft lump of dough and gestured.
‘Come with me. We cannot talk here.’
Like buzzing insects, the voices of the women scrabbled along the corridor behind them as Makana followed the doctor. At the end of the dark hall was a study. Here, too, the walls were covered with bookshelves. There was a desk next to the window, which was shuttered. Somewhere in the distance the muezzin started his call for the sunset prayer. The smell of stale cigar smoke hung in the air. Ridwan Hilal eased himself down into a padded armchair behind the desk that looked as if someone had beaten the life out of it. He gave an exhausted sigh and passed a hand over his beard before remembering he was not alone. He opened his eyes and gestured at a chair pushed back against the wall. The eyes were dark and buried under thick eyebrows that jutted out from his head. Makana’s gaze fell on a photograph of Meera as a young woman. Ridwan Hilal noticed, and leaned forward to lift the frame off the desk.
‘She told me about you,’ Hilal said. ‘She wanted us to talk, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under more pleasant circumstances.’
‘Have you ever been in love?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘Before I met Meera I knew nothing about love. I read poetry. I studied it, analysed it. I even wrote papers on the stuff. But it was only when I met her that I realised I had never understood a word of it.’ He blinked nervously as he spoke. ‘Without her I am the same bumbling fool I always was. Perhaps that is the way of things. Love is a brief light that when it fades leaves the world darker than it ever was.’ He set down the picture and sat for a moment gazing at it before looking up. ‘Why have you come here?’
‘I spoke to Meera the day before she died. She believed that she was in danger.’ Makana reached into his pocket to produce the copies he had made. He set them down on the desk. ‘Have you seen these before?’
Hilal glanced over the sheets in front of him before giving a shake of his head.
‘That’s probably because she didn’t want to worry you. She believed they were a threat meant for her personally.’
Hilal leaned back in the chair, large hands clasped together over his sizeable paunch. ‘Are you suggesting that these letters are related to her death?’
‘Meera thought so.’
‘This is the Sura of Al-Nejm. We look to the stars for direction. Stars are not threats, Mr Makana, they are a portent of something bad or evil. A warning.’
‘You think someone was trying to warn Meera that she was in danger?’
‘That is what I would have said, had she asked my opinion. My wife had a strong sense of drama, which is probably why she interpreted these as a threat.’
‘You’re sure of that, even now?’
‘Certainly. My wife had little time for religious texts. That was my department. She excelled in English literature. She knew them all. Pinter, Bond, Beckett, as well as the classics of course. Marlowe and, naturally, Shakespeare, whom some of our Islamic brothers believe was an Arabic sheikh. Ignorance knows no bounds, Mr Makana.’
Once he got started nothing stopped, or even slowed down Ridwan Hilal. The big hands rested on his large belly and he lowered his head to stare at Makana.
‘I repeat my question. Why are you here, Mr Makana?’
‘I was hired by Mr Faragalla at the Blue Ibis company. He thought one of the letters were a threat aimed at him. That might still be the case. Meera understood them to be meant for her. She talked to me about them. She wanted me to talk to you.’
‘Why would she want you to talk to me?’
‘I think she thought I might be able to persuade you to go abroad.’
Hilal was silent for a moment. ‘Are you saying that we might have prevented what happened?’
‘Meera knew she could never hope to persuade you to go abroad. I don’t think she wanted to go herself, but I believe she was considering the idea. She was scared.’
‘She was one of the bravest women I ever met.’ The big head rolled from side to side like a melon balanced on a stick. His voice was anguished. ‘Do you know what a crime it was for her to have to work in that awful place? A travel agency? With her intelligence? Her learning? She could talk to you for hours about Hardy and George Eliot and make you want to run instantly to read them all. She inspired people.’ He bit his lip. ‘I was against it. I told her it was beneath her, but she insisted. She went out and found the job herself without telling me a word. Your work is the most important thing, she would say.’
There didn’t seem to be much to say in response to that, so Makana remained silent. But thinking about his wife seemed to knock the last vestiges of resistance out of Ridwan Hilal and his head bowed with a sigh like a gasp. A drop fell with a loud plop onto the table. With a sniff, he wiped a hand across his nose and looked around for a handkerchief. Makana passed him a box of tissues lying on the desk.
‘It’s true she didn’t want to worry me, Mr Makana. I have a heart condition. The doctor says I am to avoid stress, which in this world is like trying to stop breathing.’ Hilal spread his plump fingers in the air. ‘Now, I have police protection. Twenty-four hours a day. What good is that, when they have taken the one thing that matters to me? Those bullets were meant for me, and frankly they could not have done a better job. I am as good as dead right now.’
‘This was a professional execution. If they were meant for you, they would have hit you instead of her.’
‘But why would anyone want to kill her?’ Ridwan Hilal was sitting on the edge of his seat now, his hands gripping the armrests. His stomach heaved as he tried to draw breath. Sweat was beginning to form damp patches on his shirt. ‘Please,’ he wheezed impatiently, ‘whatever you have on your mind, I want to hear it.’
‘If she was the intended target then there has to be a reason someone wanted her dead.’
A heavy paw lifted and dropped to the armrest. ‘Meera’s only crime in life was to marry me. She could not offend anyone. Look outside. Her former students have come to guard her home.’
‘There was nothing controversial about her work?’
‘She taught literature.’ Hilal looked pained. ‘Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf. Things that are too complicated to offend people. They would need a modicum of intelligence.’ His hands still gripped the arms, as if he couldn’t decide whether to break the things or fling them across the table.
Makana took a moment to study the man who had been branded an apostate. His detractors claimed he had taken the sacred book and treated it like a historical dissertation that had not aged well. Was it any surprise some people wanted him dead? Another thought occurred to him. Was it possible that Hilal could have arranged to have his wife killed? He would have needed a strong flair for the dramatic to attempt it this way. A man of his intellectual prowess could surely have worked out a dozen quieter ways of getting the job done. Besides, the sad figure before him told its own story. Makana found himself distracted by the question of what had drawn Meera to this man in the first place. An intellectual attraction of like minds? Now that she was gone, Makana found himself wishing he had had a chance to get to know her better.
‘Violence marks our complete failure as human beings,’ mumbled Hilal. ‘Physical brutality makes us no better than dogs.’
‘Unfortunately, there are still enough dogs about to complicate matters for the rest of us.’
The professor gave a brief, concessionary nod. He passed a hand over his eyes.
‘I’d like your permission to look into her murder.’
The heavy-lidded eyes jerked open. ‘Money? Is that what you are after?’
