by Parker Bilal
This was too much for the host of the programme. ‘Please, everyone. Let’s try to keep this dignified.’ He cut to an expert, or at least as close to one as he could get. A senior journalist with a state-run paper who provided the conservative view.
‘As we have seen recently with the brutal attack on our colleague Sami Barakat, there appears to be a team of senseless killers preying on innocent people. And as the honourable Sheikh Waheed has pointed out, a man who is much more knowledgeable on these matters than myself, there is a tradition for such ritual slaughter in certain religious beliefs, such as the Jews, and the Christians.’
‘Shame on you for broadcasting such nonsense,’ said the next speaker, quite irate. ‘We have to ask who benefits from us killing one another. Ask your esteemed studio guest that question. Who benefits? While we are all fighting amongst ourselves, his friends are stealing this country from under our very eyes.’
The point was disputed of course and for a time it went back and forth until Makana, unable to bear any more, reached over and switched off the radio.
‘He was right though,’ said Sindbad. ‘That last one. They wouldn’t let him speak, but it’s true what he said. We have to stick together. One thing is for sure, ya basha. You couldn’t pick a better time to leave. Let’s hope the city is still here when you get back.’
‘We can only hope.’
The platform at Giza station was gloomy under the faint glow of a few sparse lights. It was almost deserted at that hour. Makana wandered along the open platform among the odd figures standing around in the shadows. Most passengers went into Ramses main station, leaving only a few stragglers waiting here on the city’s southern edge. He lit a cigarette and looked up at the stars. In the narrow gully of the tracks the light was thin enough to allow a glimpse of the heavens. The longer he stared upwards the more seemed to appear, as if seeing them was more a matter of faith, of believing they were really up there.
The darkness moaned, long and low, announcing the train’s approach. At the last minute a portly woman came scurrying through the narrow station building from the street accompanied by a taxi driver weighed down under enough luggage to slow a small elephant. He set down one trunk after another, wiped the sweat from his brow, then went back out for the next lot. The woman counted the items of luggage repeatedly, as if afraid they might sprout legs and run away. The other passengers were mostly single men. A newly married couple heading home after a honeymoon in the city of lights. The bride still wore her new clothes, the palms of her hands were decorated with whorls and flowers painted in henna. Three pinpricks of light grew steadily as the big flat-nosed locomotive rumbled out of the gloom from under a flyover with a heavy, reassuring grumble. A plaintive cry sounded as it rolled by like a wounded beast.
Makana carried a small holdall with a change of clothes. His provisions consisted of two packs of Cleopatra and a cone of peanuts wrapped in newspaper stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. He hauled himself up the steps and shuffled past the eager passengers until he found a compartment that was empty. Choosing a seat by the window, he settled himself down in the upright seat.
Whenever he left this city a part of him wondered if he would ever return, as if it was not real at all, but simply a figment of his imagination. Perhaps he would find a new life for himself in Upper Egypt – land of his forefathers. Nubia, the fabled kingdom, straddled the borderline. Not that he was sentimental about such things.
When he closed his eyes he saw the orange glow of the lights on the bridge, felt the thump of the car as it hit the railings and the slow, tortured screech of the metal as it gave way and the car began to tumble, ever so slowly, down into the dark water. Surely Nasra could not have survived that fall? Makana fell asleep, his mind feverish with the events of the past few days. It felt a relief to be moving, as if all that was being left behind him, as if the train’s purpose was to distance him from a troubled world, when in actual fact it was supposed to be the opposite.
When he opened his eyes he realised he was not alone. The compartment was dark save for the light of the moon which infused it with an indigo glow. A man sat diagonally opposite him, facing the other way, close to the door. He appeared to be asleep, sitting stiffly upright. An innocent passenger, or something more? A State Security agent perhaps, sent to keep him company? Or something more dangerous? The Beretta was wrapped in a shirt at the bottom of the bag that his foot rested on. Makana wriggled upright and looked out at the rural landscape that shuffled past the window. Fields flew by to be replaced by more fields. They changed in length and breadth, in the placement of the little square buildings on them, but otherwise little. Here and there a crack of light split the darkness as a window shot by affording a fleeting glimpse of domestic life, or the flicker of a fire, embers shooting into the starry sky to vanish without trace. Whether it was the gentle lulling of the train, or the sense of being in motion, Makana fell into a fitful sleep. When he opened his eyes again the sky was lightening and a family was spread out on the seats facing him: father, mother and three children all nodding soundly in sleep.
Makana stepped out into the corridor and pulled open a window to let the air in. He chewed peanuts and watched scraps of stray paper turning over lazily in the air until he realised they were herons. When you looked at these fields it was hard not to think that little had changed since the days of Hatshepsut. Less than an hour later they were ticking through the points on the outskirts of Luxor, the train juddering from side to side.
As he walked through the sleepy town towards the river, Makana recalled coming here years ago with Muna. In the time before Nasra’s birth. The trip had been a wedding gift from her father. A man Makana still recalled with some affection. Unlike some in the family, including Muna’s mother, he had never voiced disapproval of his daughter’s choice. Perhaps she should have listened more closely to her mother. His daughter might still be alive and married to a banker or businessman. Who would want their daughter to marry a police officer? Not even Makana’s father wanted him to join the force. He had not done badly in school. There were other options open to him. Makana grew up with the privilege and the curse of having a teacher for a father. Privilege because it got him out of the government schools and into one of the best schools in Khartoum for a fraction of the price. And a curse because, well, if your father was a teacher what could you expect but the regular taunts and occasional beatings? It was his father’s dream for his son to attend university, something he himself never had the opportunity to do. So he stood in front of the blackboard day after day and stared out of the window listening to fifty boys repeating their times table and imagined his son an engineer or doctor. A father should be allowed to dream.
The market was coming slowly to life. Merchants yawned as they greeted one another. In a few hours it would be crowded with people trawling up and down for the loofahs that hung in strings like desiccated fruits; tubs of spices heaped like miniature hills; peppery vermilion, coppery turmeric and dusty cumin, little brown pearls of coriander and heaps of dates, of which there was an encyclopaedic variety. These were separated by other stores packed with items shipped in by container from distant continents; brightly coloured plastic tubs, upright fans and plastic slippers, huge underpants flapping in the breeze like flags, towers of shiny metal bowls. On and on it went.
When he reached the Corniche, the air lifted and the palm trees bobbed gracefully in greeting. A battered and faded metal sign announced Blue Ibis Tours with a handpainted version of the strange bird logo he knew from the Cairo offices. Their centre of operations comprised two rusty boats shackled in parallel. In the gully between the two hulls golden ripples of sunlight on water outlined a man perched on a wooden bosun’s seat refreshing the paint on the name, Nile Star. His dark skin stood out against the oversized grubby white vest he was wearing. The brush hovered in mid-air as his eyes followed Makana crossing the gangway above him.
In the centre of a lobby area with a low ceiling, a large vase stuffed wi
th plastic roses stood on a circular table. The colours were faded and dusty, proving that even artificial flowers had a finite lifespan. In one corner of the room was a high counter with the word Reception above it. There was no one behind it. Doors opened to left and right. He had no idea where they led. The sound of voices drew him to a sign marked Dining Room where he observed tourists having their breakfast. He was about to go in when a voice behind him said:
‘Can I help you?’
Makana turned to find a small woman in a dark suit clutching a clipboard. The very image of efficiency. Pinned to the breast of her nylon jacket was a silver badge with the name Dena on it.
‘I’m looking for Ramy.’
‘And you are?’
‘Makana. Faragalla was supposed to inform you of my arrival.’
‘Well,’ she frowned, ‘we’ve heard nothing.’
‘That’s very strange. He gave me his word he would arrange everything.’
‘I would have sent a car to the airport.’
‘I came by train,’ Makana said, although it didn’t seem important.
Dena held up a finger as a herd of tourists swept through. They seemed a very mixed bag. Some Asians. The majority being middle-aged Europeans suitably clad for an expedition into deepest, darkest Africa. Their outfits resembled military fatigues, with heavy boots, belts and straps everywhere. Each carried a small rucksack and several had water bottles clipped to their swelling waists. Faces broke into smiles when they caught sight of Dena. They waved and smiled and bowed. For her part she managed to flit effortlessly between half-a-dozen languages. Makana picked up French, Spanish and English.
‘Arigato, arigato. Hai.’
Four small women bobbed their heads in return as they marched off up the gangway towards the Corniche and the waiting tour buses.
‘Full ship?’
‘Not exactly. We are carrying about thirty per cent of our full capacity. For some of them this is the trip of a lifetime. They spend years dreaming of coming here. Imagine their disappointment.’ The way she studied his rumpled appearance and creased clothes suggested they were not the only ones to be disappointed. ‘It’s odd that Mr Faragalla didn’t tell me about you.’
‘He has a lot on his mind these days.’
‘Yes, of course, the shooting. That poor woman. I think I might even have met her once.’
‘I’d like to see Ramy as soon as possible.’
‘Oh,’ Dena’s face fell. ‘I thought Mr Faragalla would have explained.’
‘Explained?’
‘Ramy is not here. He had to inspect our Aswan offices.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, late last night.’ Her teeth gleamed impossibly white as she smiled. ‘Can I ask what this is regarding?’
‘It’s confidential, and rather urgent.’
‘I understand. Well, I can only offer to give you a cabin. The Nile Star will be sailing tonight. We shall be in Aswan the day after tomorrow.’
‘Can’t we get there any faster?’
Dena laughed. ‘The whole idea is for the tourists to relax and see a bit of the country. Maybe you could do with a bit of a rest yourself.’
Makana was reminded that he was not at his best. Dena led the way down a narrow staircase to a corridor running the length of the vessel. Halfway along she produced a key to unlock a cabin door, which turned out to be a rather cramped office with a bank of grey filing cabinets and shelves along one side and a desk that was almost as wide as the cabin. Compared to Faragalla’s office in Cairo this was a model of efficiency – everything was neatly set in place. She cleared the surface of the desk of everything save a telephone and some pencils. Motioning him towards a chair she went behind the desk and sat down. Clasping her hands together on top of the blotter she studied him for a moment.
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked, reaching into a drawer for a packet of cigarettes and an ashtray before he could answer.
‘Not at all,’ he replied.
‘We’re not supposed to smoke in front of the customers. It gives a bad impression.’ She struck a match and lit hers and then leaned across to light his. ‘Some cultures frown on women smoking almost as much as ours.’
‘We can take some comfort in that, I suppose,’ he smiled. ‘How long have you worked for the company?’
‘Oh, only six months. But I really like it.’ She nodded enthusiastically. She was in her twenties he reckoned. This was probably her first job after finishing her studies.
‘And how is it working out with Ramy down here all the time?’
Dena regarded him cautiously. ‘Is that why you’re here? To assess his work?’
‘I can’t really discuss that.’
‘What exactly do you do for Mr Faragalla, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Management consultancy. I look for ways of improving the company.’
‘This is because he hasn’t been back to Cairo, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘I tried to persuade him to go back, just for a bit, but he refused.’ Dena stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray with hard stabs. ‘I knew this would happen.’
‘It sounds like you and he are quite close.’
Her eyes flicked up, quick and sharp. ‘We work together, that’s all.’
‘Still, you must have been happy to hear that he was moving down here full-time.’
‘Well, naturally, it makes my job a lot easier.’ Everything was already neatly in place on the desk but still, she shifted a pencil as if it held some deep significance.
‘Really? Because it looks like you have things pretty much under control,’ Makana smiled. ‘You must have been used to taking care of everything before. How often did he come down here?’
‘Once a fortnight. Sometimes more often.’ She got to her feet abruptly and smoothed down her jacket, suddenly bored with his company. ‘You must be tired. It’s a long journey by train. I’m surprised you didn’t fly down.’
‘I’m not here to create problems for you,’ he said as he stood up. ‘All I want to do is talk to him.’
It was plain that she didn’t trust him. She had made up her mind that he was a threat and she would do everything she could, he was sure, to prevent him speaking to Ramy.
‘As I explained, there was business in Aswan for him to attend to.’ Dena stopped short and glanced at her watch. ‘I have to get back to work.’ She ushered him out of the office, locking the door carefully behind her. ‘I shall arrange for a cabin to be made up for you. You can wait upstairs. Have you eaten breakfast?’
‘No.’ Breakfast sounded appealing. If he was going to be stranded on this vessel for days he might as well make himself comfortable.
The dining room had just been vacated by the tourists. A couple of waiters were trying to tidy up. The buffet table formed an island of white cloth in the middle of the room out of which popped outcrops of plastic flowers and steel food dispensers. As he helped himself to what the tourists had not managed to finish, Makana wondered idly how much it cost to fly halfway around the globe to get here. It seemed like a long way to come for such unremarkable food.
After eating he walked around the deck, breathing in the clear air, listening to the cars honking along the riverbank, the clatter of a horse-drawn hantour going by, harness and bells ringing. As the caleche disappeared along the Corniche, a thumping noise to his left brought his attention back to the boat. In the prow a plank of wood and a pot of paint stood alongside a coil of rope. A heavily built man climbed over the railings with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who has learned from painful experience that accidents are caused by sudden movements.
‘Your work is never finished on these old ships, I imagine?’
‘Oh, they’re not too bad.’ The man had large, doleful eyes, weighed down by weary pouches. He patted the railings with affection. ‘There is nothing you can’t do to them.’ At first he had taken him for an old man, but on closer inspection he realised
that he was younger, perhaps not much more than Makana himself, although he carried himself like someone many years his senior. His skin was darkened from long hours spent in the sun. His chin resembled an iron brush, thick with grey bristles. ‘Are you the one they sent from Cairo?’
‘And you are . . . ?’
‘Adam. Everyone knows me.’ A bead of sweat ran down his chest and disappeared into the open neck of the overalls he wore. His hands were gnarled paws that seemed permanently curled into claws. He squinted at Makana. ‘You don’t look like you belong in Cairo.’
‘Actually, my family are originally from the village of Shallal.’
‘Shallal? I know the place. It’s gone now, of course. They drowned it when they raised the first dam.’
‘The price of progress.’
‘The people who lived there saw it differently.’ Adam took the cigarette Makana offered. The tips of his fingers were dried and cracked.
‘Can I ask you a couple of questions?’
‘That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?’ The beady eyes held his.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’d better ask what you want. Of course, I don’t really know anything.’
‘It’s about Mr Ramy.’
‘An unlucky man.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know. It just came to me.’ Adam smoked slowly, savouring the taste, staring off at somewhere over Makana’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know anything about anything. Doors get stuck, pipes are blocked. Then they call Adam.’
‘But you hear things.’
‘Yes, I do.’ There was a black mark on his cheek where some mishap had left a scar.
‘Mr Makana?’ Dena was waving from the rear deck. ‘Your cabin is ready.’
As Makana turned, Adam moved silently away.
‘I have spoken to Mr Ramy,’ Dena said when he reached her. ‘He informed me that I am to co-operate fully with you.’ She looked him over carefully. ‘In fact he insisted that you might be more comfortable staying in his cabin.’
