Dogstar Rising

by Parker Bilal

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well what’s that on your face? You look disgusting. Wipe it off before anyone sees you.’

  There came the sound of running water. The tone of the other speaker softened. Makana thought it could be Rocky, but he wasn’t sure.

  ‘I’ll get him. I promise you. Didn’t I promise you? I’ll get the retard.’

  Makana edged closer and peered through the crack between the half-open door and the frame. Rocky stood with his back to him. From this angle it was easy to see that he had been a boxer. The broad shoulders and neck. He saw Eissa shy away as Rocky lifted a hand to slowly caress the back of his neck.

  ‘You don’t have to cry, you know. I’m not going to hurt you. I told you that. You’re special. Not like the others. You’re my lieutenant, right?’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll get the retard who killed him. Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘But why? Why did he do it?’

  ‘Because he’s retarded. I just told you. Now get this place cleaned up, okay? Otherwise that old man out there will start asking questions.’

  When Rocky was gone Makana stepped out of the storeroom. Eissa stared at him.

  ‘Is he the one who did that?’ Makana indicated the plaster cast. Eissa turned away.

  ‘He didn’t mean it.’ The boy stared down at the floor. ‘He gets carried away.’

  ‘Stay away from him, Eissa,’ said Makana. ‘He’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘What do you care?’ demanded Eissa, then his face brightened. ‘I can still get those cigarettes, if you’re interested?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Makana. ‘Then we can all smoke ourselves to death.’

  Makana’s mind was still in turmoil. The thought of Nasra having been alive all of these years struck him as absurd. How could it be? He felt as if his whole world had been turned upside down. It was a short walk to Amir Medani’s office. The lawyer was buried, as usual, beneath a thick layer of stale tobacco smoke and a wall of yellowing paper heaped up around the desk; a maze of human rights abuses and war crimes that came to rest in this shabby little room like malevolent spirits. Amir Medani was a genial, slightly overweight man with a weary face. A deeply political animal who was incapable of keeping his mouth shut. It had landed him in prison when Makana was a police officer and Medani a simple criminal lawyer, and it had eventually landed him here, in this office in Cairo, fighting the good fight. He gave Makana the same advice Makana had just given Eissa.

  ‘Take my advice and stay away from Damazeen. He’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘But what if it’s true?’

  ‘Listen to me, don’t spend any time thinking about it. You’ll only torture yourself. Why would Mek Nimr bring her up as his own? It makes no sense.’

  In a way it did make a strange kind of sense. Here was Mek Nimr’s ultimate revenge: taking over Makana’s life, or what was left of it. Nasra became his daughter. She probably had little or no recollection of her early life. The problem, Makana realised, was that a part of him wanted to believe Damazeen. He stared out through the window at the elevated overpass and the constant stream of traffic flying over it. Immediately across from him a cart piled high with huge bundles wrapped in burlap was holding up traffic. Between the shafts, in place of a horse or donkey, was a man trying to move it along. It was a superhuman task, a sight that defied belief as he struggled beneath the towering objects above him.

  ‘And why does he want you in on this arms deal?’ Amir Medani demanded. ‘He’s setting up a trap and if you are not careful you’ll fall right in the middle of it.’

  ‘But why would he be setting a trap? What does he want from me?’

  ‘Who knows. But I don’t trust him and neither should you. Stay away from him. Meanwhile, I’ll make some enquiries. We’ll find out soon enough if there’s any truth to this.’

  Across the way, the man leaned all his weight forward, straining to place one foot in front of the other like a man trying to walk on the bottom of the sea. Behind him a bleating flock of vehicles scrabbled to try and get past him.

  ‘How easy is it to sell arms?’

  ‘Easy enough,’ shrugged Amir Medani. ‘It’s all quite legal. You can sell weapons to anyone you like. All you need is what they call an end-user’s certificate. And remember, we have had a civil war in our country for almost twenty years. Seventy per cent of the annual budget goes on arms. There are lots of guns. When was the last time you ate?’ Amir Medani looked at his watch. ‘Listen to me, you have to be very careful with this. You’re not thinking straight.’

  ‘I need to know if it’s true, if Nasra is really alive.’

  ‘Just leave it with me. Don’t think about it. Let me make some calls. If Damazeen is planning a weapons deal in this town you can bet that our friends in State Security know all about it. Nothing happens here without them getting their cut.’ Amir Medani rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. ‘I have a bad feeling about this. Promise me you won’t do anything until you hear from me? I’m sure this is a trap.’

  Makana looked at him. He wondered what choice he had.

  Chapter Twenty

  On the way to Ridwan Hilal’s place Makana noticed that a small motorcycle seemed to be following them. It hung back, always three or four cars behind. A couple of times it actually passed them. The bike was an old Java, in good condition, running smoothly and producing little exhaust. The rider was a man in his forties, slightly overweight, with thinning hair, unshaven, chin flecked with grey, wearing a brown flannel shirt and a pair of soft shoes with split seams. A television set was strapped to the baggage rack. It seemed like an unlikely amount of trouble to take to make him look convincing. He didn’t turn his head and after a time Makana decided he must have been wrong.

  There were other distractions. A long and turbulent stream of rustic philosophy churned its way from Sindbad’s mind and out into the world.

  ‘It’s not as if I have anything against them, ya bey,’ he laboured, trying to explain himself. ‘I am a simple man and if Our Lord says they are ahl-al-kitab, well, that’s good enough for me.’

  The People of the Book. The notion that all three monotheistic religions derived from the same written source, drank from the same well as it were, and therefore were deserving of mutual respect. It was a nice idea in theory.

  The mourning area had gone, leaving the narrow street quieter and devoid of drapes and chairs, though it was still occupied by Ishaq and his boys. There was a discipline about them that was reminiscent of a trained military unit. They nodded and exchanged whispered commands as he approached. Ishaq stared at him sullenly and nodded for him to be waved through.

  Inside nothing appeared to have moved since his last visit. The door was answered by the same sister although dressed more informally in a black gelabiya with gold embroidery, her hand on her plump hip as she peered at him. Maysoun. Her name came to him as she led the way down the hall.

  Ridwan Hilal was sitting in exactly the same position as Makana had left him, as though he had taken up living behind his desk in his study. He wore blue pyjamas that he appeared to have been wearing for days. The top buttons were undone, exposing a large expanse of white undervest covering an expansive midriff. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label that had almost been drained of its contents stood on the desk in front of him. Maysoun rolled her eyes as she left them alone. ‘As you can see,’ Hilal wheezed, ‘I find solace in the evils of man. Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Makana produced his cigarettes and placed one in his mouth to light.

  ‘Now you see, there is one of the great contradictions of our age. The Holy Quran.’ Hilal bowed forward until his head was almost touching the desktop. He remained like that as if he had lost his train of thought. Then he sat up and fished about in the plastic bowl for ice that wasn’t there.

  ‘Maysoun! Maysoun!’

  Makana wondered how long he had been in this state. A strand of hair had come free and hung lankly down the doctor’s forehead. He brushed at it absent
ly.

  ‘Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Sura 4, Verse 43 of the Holy Quran tells us: Believers, do not approach your prayers when you are drunk, but wait until you can grasp the meaning of your words.’ He chuckled and sipped his warm whisky before going on. ‘How reasonable that sounds. To ask that you are sincere in your worship. What does it mean? I shall tell you. It means that alcohol and faith are not mutually exclusive. It demands only sincerity in the act of devotion. Isn’t that beautiful?’ He thumped a hand on the desk which made pens and papers jump. ‘Now, my point is this.’ His eyes were glazed buttons behind the thick lenses. ‘Why can these men who try to bore us to death with their Islam not show the same reason and tolerance as their own sacred text? Are you a religious man, Mr Makana?’

  ‘That depends on who’s doing the asking.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. Now take that cigarette you so casually lit. Naturally, you are aware of the hazards to which you expose yourself, yet as a grown man you take responsibility for your actions. Had cigarettes been around in the sixth century, you realise, there is little doubt they would have been banned. We happily pontificate about alcohol while placing between our lips something which Doctor Freud would call a substitute for our mother’s nipple. Do you imagine I could stand up in public in Attaba Square and explain that without being lynched?’

  Makana was examining his cigarette in this new light as Maysoun entered the room carrying a bowl of ice cubes. She placed it quietly down and left the room.

  ‘I accepted her offer to stay on and help,’ Hilal sighed, reaching for the bottle. ‘And with every clumsy gesture she reminds me of how unique my beloved Meera was. Now let me continue my lecture on the abuses of religion. You are familiar, of course, with the famous Sheikh Waheed. Infamous, I should perhaps say.’

  ‘I witnessed him speaking the other day.’

  ‘Good for you. My question is this: why is Sheikh Waheed spreading rumours that these children are being sacrificed in some kind of Christian ritual? You’re familiar with these murders in Imbaba of course.’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘How easily people are swayed by rumour. The papers are talking about the Angel of Imbaba, a strange apparition that some believe is evil and others benevolent. Anyway, clearly there is a maniac at large who should be apprehended. Sheikh Waheed is well aware that he is talking nonsense.’ Hilal drank thirstily and refilled the glass, ice cubes skittering across the table. ‘I heard him myself on the television telling the world that these children are being sacrificed in rituals conducted by Christians. Blood libel was an accusation raised for centuries against the Jews, not the Christians. The Protocols of Zion. You are familiar with them?’

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ Makana muttered, trying to hold on to the man’s logic.

  ‘That is where you will find such fairy tales. Sheikh Waheed is not a fool, he is much more dangerous than that. He is a knowledgeable fool. And while we are at it, let us ask, why is the government supporting him?’ Ridwan Hilal sat back like an elder statesman, hands folded across his paunch, his eyes closing for a moment. ‘I don’t have to tell you the answer to that.’

  ‘I understand Meera used to teach the boys English at Father Macarius’ church.’

  The eyes opened and Hilal poured the remaining dregs into his glass, setting down the empty bottle with a sigh.

  ‘It was one of Meera’s little obsessions. She always said that if she ever had the chance, and the money, she would start a charity. Well, she never did, but she did help Father Macarius with his little youth club. She volunteered there. She taught the boys to read. She wanted to do good.’

  ‘Have you had any further thoughts on what appears in those letters?’

  Hilal sat up and straightened his glasses, suddenly alert. ‘You understand that the verses of the Quran can be divided into those which are precise in meaning and those which are ambiguous, yes? The ayat muhkamat and the ayat mutashabihaat. There is some implication that those whose hearts are troubled by doubt follow the ambiguous parts. In other words, these encourage dissent.’

  ‘And the Sura of The Star is one of the ambiguous ones?’

  ‘Precisely, which supports the theory that they were not meant as a threat at all.’

  ‘You mean, it was some kind of warning? For whom?’

  ‘For me, of course.’ Hilal’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Why didn’t she show it to me?’

  ‘Meera knew you would think she was trying to persuade you to leave the country. She knew you wouldn’t leave, because of your work.’

  ‘She told you that?’ Hilal pondered for a moment. ‘What do you know about the nature of my work? The history of Islam?’ Hilal brushed his own question aside impatiently. ‘Have you at least heard of the Mu’tazilites?’

  ‘The group of medieval philosophers?’

  ‘Very good. The Mu’tazili school of rationalism believed that God is perfect and complete. Man has to be free to make mistakes. To find solutions that will answer the challenges of society, we must apply reason to what is written in the Quran. This type of rational discourse is of course known simply as kalam – to talk or debate.’

  Ridwan Hilal was transported by the mere act of explaining. This, Makana decided, was the man Meera had fallen in love with.

  ‘Another school of thought emerged around the same time which naturally believed the exact opposite. The Hanbalis. To them adherence to doctrine was everything. But see’ – Hilal stretched his big paws across on the table – ‘how close we are to Western civilisation in this. The roots of Greek democracy lie in the Athenian agora where citizens gathered to stroll freely and to talk – kalam. For Islam to endure, it has to grow, to become, as Ibn Arabi put it so beautifully in the thirteenth century, a religion of comprehensive love.’ Ridwan Hilal was like a lost man seeking solace in his mind. ‘Ibn Arabi sought to make Islam contemporary, to reconcile it with other faiths. Ideas are the most dangerous thing we have. You can kill a man but his ideas live on.’

  Makana stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and stood up. Through the window the view of the street was obscured by a large carob tree. The long, hanging pods dangled like strange worms between the branches. Below, he glimpsed the young seraphs huddled together in conference, perhaps planning to get him when he left the building.

  ‘You’re saying you would rather die than give up your ideas. Meera believed in you.’

  ‘I believe she was trying to persuade me to go abroad, if only for a short time.’

  ‘She told me she had the feeling things were about to change.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Things,’ repeated Makana. ‘That’s what she said.’

  Hilal shook his head. ‘That makes no sense to me.’

  ‘Meera was spending a lot of time at the office.’

  ‘She worked hard, yes.’ Hilal shrugged. ‘There is nothing unusual about that.’

  ‘She stayed late and arrived early, which suggests that she wanted to be alone.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe she was working on something. Did she ever talk about the Blue Ibis?’

  ‘It was work, nothing more. It kept us alive.’ Short of breath, the plump man gave a long sigh and reached for his cigarettes. Placing one between his lips, he flicked the lighter. The flame warmed the pallid face, slick with a thin film of perspiration. ‘I wish you would leave this alone. For the dignity of her memory.’

  ‘Other lives may be at stake.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘We still do not know why she was shot. Until we do know we can’t rule anything out.’

  ‘Fine. Fine,’ Hilal muttered impatiently. ‘If that’s what it takes.’

  ‘Tell me about the scandal that lost you your job, and Meera hers.’

  ‘Our lives stopped from one minute to the next, thanks to that charlatan.’

  ‘You mean, Sheikh Waheed?’

  Hilal nodded. ‘Even you must have noticed the level
of education to which our beloved president has managed to lower this country. Graduates who are barely able to spell their own names. Writers who are awarded honours for praising his Highness. Sheikhs are the court jesters.’

  ‘It was a difference of opinion that started it?’

  ‘It was corruption. These new Islamic banks look for figures to endorse them. Sheikh Waheed has a high profile, a lot of followers. If he appears on television to recommend a certain bank they will go with him. It made him a rich man.’

  ‘What about Professor Serhan, was that professional rivalry?’

  ‘Serhan?’ Behind the glasses the twin buttons seemed to glow with fury. ‘The man is an idiot. His vanity eclipses his stupidity. He steals most of his ideas.’ Hilal was working himself into a frenzy. He wheezed and puffed on his cigarette as if determined to choke himself to death on the spot. ‘Intellectually, that door you came through is superior to him. He has the brains of a small child and that’s being unkind to children.’

  ‘He was instrumental in opposing your professorship. Yet, you were friends when you were students, I understand.’

  ‘When one is young, the putty is still unformed. It is easy to form acquaintances which, in the course of time, prove themselves to be errors.’

  ‘Would it be possible for me to look through Meera’s things?’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘I think it might help at this stage.’

  ‘Very well. Maysoun will show you.’ He raised his voice and the sister appeared in the doorway clutching her hands together. After another long moment’s hesitation she turned and led the way to a narrow doorway off the hall. She opened it with an air of cautious ceremony as if half expecting to find her sister still sitting there, working away. It was a simple study. Half the size of her husband’s room at the other end of the apartment. It contained bookshelves along one wall and a desk over which hung an old Metro Cinema poster of Laurence Olivier in Hamlet.

  ‘Did she ever mention that she was planning to leave the country?’

  ‘Leave?’ Tugging a white handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and burying her nose in it, she said, ‘Never. I mean, she talked about it. Who can live in this country?’