Dogstar Rising

by Parker Bilal

  ‘I don’t need your money. I am still employed by Mr Faragalla, which means I am obliged to inform him of what I find. But I would feel better knowing that I had your consent.’

  ‘I can’t see what good can come of this. I would prefer Meera to be left to rest in peace. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Certainly. But until we understand why this happened other people might be at risk.’

  Hilal’s mournful eyes darted around the walls, as if expecting them to cave in on him at any moment. ‘Mr Makana, if I understand correctly, you blame yourself in some way for what happened to Meera. I understand. Speaking for myself, I am convinced that you proved your bravery by trying to go to her aid during the attack. You cannot be held responsible for the actions of a mad man.’ He handed Makana a card. ‘That is my private number,’ he said, pointing to the telephone on the desk. Call me at any time, day or night. I am willing to cooperate in any way.’

  Makana left him there, holding the picture of his wife in one hand and copies of the letters that might have killed her in the other. A shipwrecked man clinging to the debris of his life. As he made his way back across the city, Makana wondered if Hilal was right, if maybe he was taking Meera’s death too personally. It was one of those questions to which he had no particular interest in finding an answer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I don’t know why I came in today. Allah knows there isn’t any work to do.’

  Surprisingly, it was Arwa, the headscarf-wearing, gum-chewing sceptic who appeared to have been most touched by Meera’s death.

  Meera’s desk was now buried under a small hill of flowers. They had arrived from people in the office, the building and even beyond, from the entire city even, judging by the cards and little messages that had been delivered. Strangers turned up at the door holding fancy cellophane-wrapped bundles. Others strode in carrying wilting handfuls of grey roses, plucked from an exhausted roadside park nearby. The desk had otherwise been completely cleared. No files, folders, even the computer had been unplugged and disconnected. Arwa gave another loud sniff.

  ‘My husband says they all should go. The country would be purer without them, but he is an idiot and doesn’t even say his prayers regularly.’

  ‘Where are her things?’

  ‘Yousef cleared it all out. He enjoyed that.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘That dog was glad to see her go. She was the only one who took the work seriously and they couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘It looks like someone cared for her.’

  ‘This is an Egyptian thing,’ she said, pointing at the heap of flowers. ‘Those crazy bearded men tell you it’s wrong. That this is all pagan tradition, nothing to do with Islam. Who cares what it is, it’s beautiful to see how people decorate the graves of their loved ones, right? We’re not animals.’ Another loud sniff followed by a vigorous rub of her bulbous nose. ‘I feel bad about some of the things I said to her. We’re all Egyptians, mush kedda? I mean, at the end of the day that’s what it’s all about. I should never have come in today.’

  ‘It’s probably good to keep yourself busy.’

  ‘Busy? In this place? That’s a laugh. There’s hardly enough to keep one of us occupied.’

  Makana watched her as she pottered about, sniffing and sobbing, arranging the flowers on Meera’s desk, pausing to dab her eyes.

  ‘The sad thing is I barely knew her. She never talked about herself. Wild horses wouldn’t drag words out of her.’ Arwa broke off to lift a telephone that was ringing and barked into the receiver. ‘Who? No, he’s not here. We are not working today. Why? Don’t you read the newspapers, you donkey?’ She slammed the phone down and sniffed. ‘Even if she was married to that terrible man, so what? What can we do about the men we marry? If my husband was as smart as he thinks he is, we would be living in a palace instead of a hovel fit only for six-legged creatures. He said her husband lost his job because he was a blasphemer. I don’t believe it. She was a smart woman. Imagine, she could have been teaching at university, but here she was, working with us. That tells you a lot. She never looked down her nose at any of us, which is more than can be said for some. You know why people say those things? Because they can’t stand the idea of a woman making something of herself. Even my stupid husband. All men are the same.’

  ‘She never talked about being in trouble?’

  ‘She kept to herself. Well, except for Ramy.’

  ‘Ramy? You mean Faragalla’s nephew?’

  ‘They were friends for a time. Of course, that got everyone talking. People have evil tongues.’ Arwa raised an eyebrow. ‘What do we know about anyone, right? I mean, here am I talking to you like I’ve known you all my life, but I don’t even know that it’s true about you being here to help us.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘You don’t look like an accountant. They have flat heads and narrow eyes.’ She twirled a length of red twine that had come loose from a bouquet of orchids. ‘My husband says you are probably with the police.’

  ‘Why would he say something like that?’

  ‘And that’s the other thing,’ Arwa jabbed a stubby finger at him. ‘You always answer a question with another question.’

  ‘It’s a bad habit, I’m sorry. You said she was close to Ramy?’

  ‘Like I said, there were a lot of malicious whispers.’ She gave another sniff. ‘Not that I had anything to do with that.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘No, she was a decent person. Worked harder than anyone else. She was in here first thing in the morning and didn’t leave until last.’

  ‘What exactly did Ramy do to be sent away?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not a bad person, but he’s young and not too good about keeping away from trouble.’ She picked at a thread on her sleeve, as if absenting herself from this conversation for a moment, before bouncing back. ‘It’s that Rocky from downstairs.’

  ‘Rocky?’

  ‘You know, like the film? Honestly, anyone would think you had been living in a cave. I don’t know why they call him that, but everyone does. He’s the one who runs the ’ahwa downstairs. He’s up to all kinds of mischief that one.’ Arwa lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘If you ask me, that’s why she was killed.’

  ‘Because of Rocky?’

  ‘No.’ Arwa glanced around her briskly. ‘Hashish.’

  ‘Hashish?’

  ‘Rocky sells it and Ramy smokes it ’til it comes out of his ears.’ She nodded as she spoke as if agreeing with herself. ‘Also I heard he was messing with some of the clients. Women.’

  ‘Women? Tourists, you mean?’

  ‘I mean the kind young men have shameful thoughts about.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Because men are all the same. No better than animals, most of them.’

  ‘No, I mean about Ramy being involved with them.’

  ‘I hear a lot of things,’ Arwa said confidently. ‘So did Meera. Maybe she told Faragalla. You think that’s why she was killed? That’s the other thing you do. Either you answer a question with a question or you go all silent. Where’s the fun in that?’

  Before Makana could manage to process what Arwa had just told him, Yousef swept in. As usual, wearing his leather jacket and carrying the briefcase that seemed to go everywhere with him.

  ‘I thought we were going to clear this out?’ he snapped, staring at the heap of flowers.

  ‘Spoken like a man with a stone for a heart.’

  Yousef turned to her. He looked as though he were about to say something, but then changed his mind.

  ‘We just had a tragedy here, a real tragedy,’ she went on, fiddling with the flowers.

  ‘That’s no reason for the whole world to stop, is it? Tragedies happen every day.’ Yousef marched over to his desk, shrugged off his jacket and began rolling up his shirt sleeves. ‘Unless you happened not to notice, this company is fighting for its survival. Now, I advise you to stop thinking about the past and
concentrate on your future, because without this company you don’t have one.’

  Arwa stared at Yousef’s back for a time and then idly started turning sheets of paper over. She exchanged a long glance with Makana, as if to say, this is how I pretend to be working.

  Faragalla appeared and summoned Makana into his office immediately, closing the door quickly behind him.

  ‘You see now what I told you?’

  Makana watched him trying to slide himself behind the desk, dislodging another avalanche of folders and papers, which fell to the floor and were instantly forgotten. The heavy bags under the sunken eyes seemed more swollen. Faragalla leaned his hands on the desk.

  ‘I was right. It was a warning.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘This, the killing. They shot that woman as a warning to me.’ Faragalla straightened up and moved over to peer out through the dirty, broken wooden shutters. ‘We have no idea who they are, or what they look like.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to panic.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t, eh? Then what should I do? I mean, have you found anything?’

  ‘It’s too early to say. The counter-terrorism unit are onto it, under a Lieutenant Sharqi.’

  ‘I know all that. That’s not why I am paying you. They’ll never find anything. You know what they are like. Like anyone working for the government, they do the least they can without getting fired. I hired you to get to the bottom of all this.’

  ‘I can tell you that there were more letters.’

  ‘More?’ Faragalla seemed to stagger. He put a hand to the desk to steady himself. ‘More of the same you mean? Where were they? Why didn’t I know about this?’

  ‘Meera thought they were meant for her.’

  ‘Poor woman. She didn’t deserve to die like that. I regret talking badly about the dead, but she should have told me who she was. I mean, imagine not telling me who her husband was.’

  ‘She was afraid you would fire her if you knew.’

  ‘Really? Well that’s just . . .’ He sank down into his chair with a thoughtful expression on his face and reached for his pipe. ‘She should have come to me about these letters.’

  ‘When you hired me I asked if you could think of anyone who might have an interest in seeing this company ruined. Have you had any further thoughts on the subject?’

  ‘Are you joking? All my rivals are sending me messages of sympathy. We all have to stand together, they say. If one of us goes down it’s only a matter of time before all of us do. Secretly, of course, they are hoping this will finish me off and they can close in and pick up my business.’ Faragalla puffed away nervously. ‘Who knows, maybe there is some way of turning this to our advantage. I’m calling a press conference this afternoon. Put a determined face on it. Let them know that we don’t scare easily. We have a tradition to defend. In my grandfather’s day there was respect for our profession.’

  ‘So, I take it you want me to carry on with the investigation?’

  ‘Why do you think I am paying you? Get to the bottom of this. And I want to be informed of any progress you make. Anything at all, you understand?’

  When he came out of the office Yousef was waiting for him. He nodded for Makana to follow him out. As they walked down the stairs, Yousef paused to flick his cigarette through a window with no glass.

  ‘What did the old man want?’

  ‘He’s worried. This whole thing has shaken everybody.’

  ‘You turned out quite the hero,’ smiled Yousef.

  ‘The papers exaggerate, it’s their business.’

  ‘No, I heard you really did go for the gunman. That takes guts, or was it something else?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Yousef said with a sly look. ‘I saw the way you watched her.’

  ‘You see what you want to see.’

  ‘Come on, I’m joking. You were in the army, weren’t you?’

  ‘So what if I was?’

  ‘Nothing. We have to look out for one another, that’s all.’ Yousef reached into his jacket and came up with an envelope which he handed over. ‘I need you to run an errand for me.’

  ‘What kind of errand?’ The envelope was full of cash.

  ‘The kind that makes you lots of money. Go back to the place we went to the other day.’ A map sketched on the back of the envelope showed the route to the House of Birds. ‘The old man will give you a package which you bring straight back to me. Think you can manage that? Tell him there won’t be more work for a while. We need to lay low until all this fuss blows over.’

  Life in the arcade was slowly returning to normal. Broken windows had been covered with flattened cardboard boxes held together with adhesive tape on which Mickey Mouse and his friends gambolled jauntily along. Two police officers stood by the street entrance and a third sat on a chair picking his nose, a scarred AK47 bridged across his knees.

  Eissa was back behind the counter. His forearm was wrapped in plaster.

  ‘You’ve been in the wars. How’s the arm?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the boy grinned, holding it up. ‘It itches.’

  ‘How did you break it?’

  ‘A fight.’

  ‘At the gym?’

  ‘No.’ Eissa laughed revealing a set of remarkably dirty teeth.

  ‘You get into a lot of fights, do you?’

  ‘A few. People come looking for trouble . . .’

  ‘You heard about Meera?’

  The boy dropped his head to stare into the sink in front of him. He busied himself with washing the dirty glasses.

  ‘You knew her quite well, didn’t you?’ Makana said. There was no reply. After a time he realised the boy was no longer stirring the dishes. He was just looking at them.

  ‘She was a good person,’ said the boy without lifting his head. ‘She didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’

  After a time Eissa resumed his washing up.

  ‘About those cigarettes.’

  Eissa sniffed and wiped his bare arm over his face. ‘You want me to get you some? How about a couple of cartons?’ He still had his back to Makana.

  ‘Can you get me that many? Or do you need to ask Rocky?’

  ‘I don’t need to ask Rocky anything.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’d still like to know where they come from.’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ he said, turning to face Makana. ‘They’re the same cigarettes you buy in the street, but half the price.’ Eissa picked up a rag and began drying his hands. ‘So, you want them or not?’

  ‘If you think you can get them by yourself.’

  ‘I just said I would,’ snapped the boy, turning away again. ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  Half an hour later, Makana was retracing his steps from the day when he had followed Yousef. The square with arches around three sides looked much the same except the colonnades were now filled with deep shadows. A rat squeaked somewhere underfoot. In the centre of the square a stone pedestal housed a circular well that had long since been filled in. The square was so perfectly sealed it appeared as if the walls had closed in behind him, obscuring the way in and out. He reached the wooden door decorated with iron birds. An old Ottoman-style house that had once been a caravanserai, a resting place for merchants who had travelled for weeks at a time, carrying ivory and gold from the interior of the continent, incense and silk from Syria and Baghdad. In the Middle Ages, Cairo was larger than Venice, a vast city of legend, and anyone with an interest in trade had to come here. The door had a heavy iron grille in the middle. A handle was set into the stone wall beside it. On pulling this Makana was rewarded with the tinkle of a bell somewhere far off. After a time footsteps approached and the door creaked open to reveal a young boy of around fourteen wearing a blue gelabiya and a red tarboosh.

  ‘Is the master of the house in?’

  Without a word, the boy stepped aside, bowing for him to enter. Makana felt as though he was stepping int
o another age. The narrow yard was well tended with flowers and grass, which gave it the aspect of a verdant oasis in the midst of the city. A path led to a small archway and a stone staircase. Beyond were buildings that once were stables, kitchens and stores.

  The boy led the way up the stairs which wound about a stone pillar scarred by centuries, rubbed smooth by countless hands. A gallery led through the building, past a window alcove that jutted out over the garden and was decorated by an elaborate carved mashrabiya. Traditionally, these window screens allowed the women of the house to observe visitors discreetly, without being seen themselves. In the gallery dozens of birdcages were hanging on long chains from the rafters high above. They were a variety of shapes and sizes and were suspended at different heights. Large, small, round, square, some made of wood, others of iron. There were even some made of ornate silver and gold. The birds they contained displayed an astonishing array of colours and types. Makana was no ornithologist. He might claim to know the difference between a chicken and a pigeon if they were on a plate in front of him, but that was about the size of it. But even he recognised that these creatures were remarkable. The overall effect was like looking at a wall of living flame going from orange to green, to red and yellow, through every brilliant shade of the spectrum.

  Another open doorway and three steps led into a circular room lined with books. A few small birds (or were they bats?) fluttered about high above, flitting from one side to the other. It was as Makana might have imagined the library of a wise king. Perched high on a ladder on one of the walls of paper was an old knot of a man wearing dark glasses.

  ‘Hello, Yunis.’

  The two men had met some years ago. In those days, Yunis had run his forgery business from inside an old junk shop in the bazaar. Now the old man climbed carefully down and clucked his tongue when he looked at Makana. Without a word Old Yunis led the way back through the gallery of birds to the enclosed balcony where a cool breeze came in through the wooden lattice. He sat down on the carpet and crossed his legs. Makana followed suit.

  ‘You look well.’

  ‘The doctor says these help to keep the cataracts under control,’ Yunis removed the dark glasses. ‘But I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about. I can hardly see a thing.’ The beady eyes flickered with fury. The years had not dulled his edge. The hollow face had the texture of old wood. He reached into the pocket of his black gelabiya and produced a packet of cigarettes.