Dogstar Rising

by Parker Bilal

  ‘What happens when he gets back?’

  ‘We will find a solution.’ She smiled as though this wasn’t going to be a problem.

  ‘When do I get to see him?’ Makana called as she crossed the lobby in long strides. She couldn’t wait to get away from him.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘He’ll be there when we arrive in Kom Ombo. You’ll have time to talk there.’

  A nameless man, whose teeth were stained brown from tobacco, led him along the downstairs corridor to a cabin in the bow of the boat. It was quieter there, away from the engines, the man explained. He wore a waiter’s uniform of black trousers, short jacket, white shirt, green tie and cummerbund. He led the way into the room and stood waiting for a tip, tossing the key in his hand. Makana handed him a crumpled note which he unfolded carefully before sniffing in disappointment and leaving, dropping the key unceremoniously onto the bedside table as he went.

  Whoever had cleaned up the cabin had certainly done a thorough job. The bed was made, the bathroom bare. A tomb robber would have left more. In the wardrobe a pair of shoes had been overlooked on a top shelf. Other than that there was no trace of Ramy. The chair squeaked unhappily as Makana settled into it and turned his attention to the table against the wall. A large map of the country was spread over it. Pins and stickers marked where Blue Ibis was operating. Felt-tip lines in red, green and blue marked various routes on their little mystery tours through the land of the pharaohs. Alongside the map was a simple chart. Across the top was a calendar of dates and for each week there were figures and names marked in squares. These appeared to correspond to the number of people and which company they belonged to. Blue Ibis worked with firms in Europe, North America and Asia which sent them visitors. To someone to whom the idea of taking a holiday seemed quite alien, Makana thought it remarkable how extensive the tourist business really was.

  Makana unscrewed the window hatch to let some air into the fetid room. As if set there by the Ministry of Tourism, a fisherman floated into view, poised barefoot on the prow of his felucca to cast a net out over the water. The loop widened in the air, spreading gently before it settled, just kissing the surface. Ripples spread out as the net sank, then he started hauling the line in, arm over arm, with the steady, even rhythm of a man who has been making the same movements all his life. From somewhere close by Makana could hear the click of camera shutters accompanied by cooing sounds of amazement in a variety of languages from the passengers on the deck above him.

  Alongside the desk was a shelf of books. Makana ran an eye over the titles. He thumbed through the index of an English guide book, finding references to Dengue fever and advice for lesbian travellers. There were books on Egyptian history, ancient and modern, on the pharaohs, and the exploits of various European explorers. One title leapt out at him: The Winged Seraph. On the cover a subtitle was added: The History of Wadi Nikeiba Monastery, by Father G. Macarius. It was a fairly humble production, the paper rough and spattered with stray ink from the printing press, held together with thick staples. A younger version of the pugilist priest stared moodily back from a scarred photograph on the back cover. The monastery had been originally constructed in the ninth century but had been abandoned after an outbreak of cholera in the early eighteenth century. The book told the story of how the monastery was rebuilt by a small group of dedicated monks, among them Father Macarius. Makana lay on the bed and closed his eyes and in moments had fallen into the deepest, most profound sleep he had had for months.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When he opened his eyes the room was dark and he was completely disoriented. He thought he was dead, floating in the darkness under the earth.

  ‘Nasra?’ he called out.

  When he sat up he realised that the woman he had been pursuing in his dream was not his daughter, but Dena, the girl who was running the boat in Ramy’s absence.

  The boat filled him with a strange calm, as if he was at home. Had Ramy been banished here to protect him in some way? What was the connection between Ramy and Rocky? They had been in the army together, but there had to be something. He took out the photograph he had found in Meera’s desk and clicked on the bedside light to examine it again. Three men in army fatigues standing in the desert somewhere. Ramy, Rocky and a third man he had never seen before. Where had they been stationed? Ramy was young enough to have been doing his national service. Faragalla had mentioned that he had given Ramy a job when he got out of the army.

  After a time he became aware that the throbbing feeling that was coming through the deck was not the engine. It had a different rhythm. The music cut in again just above his head and he lost his concentration. He decided he wasn’t going to do much more thinking after that and instead closed and locked the cabin before following the music upstairs to a large open saloon called The Ball Room, complete with upholstered couches and low tables that ran around the walls. These were occupied by passengers who, having eaten their supper, were now settling down for the evening’s entertainment. The thumping music came from large speakers set against the wall. On the small stage a man was yelling something unintelligible into a microphone while waving his free hand in the air in some kind of universal signal which the guests appeared to understand. They got to their feet and began shuffling round. Crew members herded them into crocodiles that went waltzing around the room. Everyone placed their hands on the shoulders of the person in front of them. Makana had to admit this was a facet of existence he had never glimpsed before. Next was a dance in which they broke into couples. Here they had to wiggle their hips provocatively while holding a rod between them at waist height in what seemed like an exercise in group humiliation – for tourists and crew members alike. Despite this, they all loved it. A whirling dervish leapt onto the stage and spun round with more enthusiasm than skill, removing his skirts to whip them around his head like a flying siniya before folding the cloth into the shape of a swaddling baby. The symbolism of this was lost on Makana, although the Germans next to him applauded ferociously, sighing, ‘wie süss’ to one another, whatever that meant. For the finale a man in a loin cloth performed a crude evocation of savage Africa, a reminder perhaps of the continent into which even now they were drifting in darkness. He jumped and stamped his feet, stuck out his tongue and widened his eyes in a clumsy mime. Most Africans would have run screaming at the sight of this display of obvious insanity but the Japanese adored it, clapping their hands to their faces in rapturous delight. With the floor show over, a band took to the stage. More torture. This time inflicted by a keyboard player who seemed incapable of using more than two fingers. The singer warbled like an off-key muezzin. What he was trying to sing, or even what language it was, remained indecipherable. Makana marvelled at this collective ability to inflict and endure indignity and humiliation. The passengers had paid for the experience of a lifetime, and the crew were there because they were being paid. There was some lesson to be learned here. It was a form of foreign domination that made you yearn for Suez again, for revolt of any kind, to free the country of this subservience. In despair, Makana took himself up on deck where he could be alone.

  The lights along the shore threaded the dark water with silvery beads as the Nile Star eased southwards. The lights gave way to complete and utter darkness. The moon had not yet risen and the landscape was so utterly dark that it appeared as if they were floating through liquid blackness. And finally, there were the stars. The sheer number of which astonished him, so many it was impossible to count. No wonder the Ancient Egyptians saw some great mystery in the heavens. Down here, the Nile Star, with its tinny music and the odd peal of laughter from the confines of the ballroom, seemed foolishly small.

  ‘They remain unchanged in thousands of years.’

  Makana turned to make out the shadow of a figure leaning on the railings further along – Adam, the handyman who repaired everything. ‘We look up and think they are moving, but it is we who move. We see the stars from different angles and draw our own conc
lusions.’

  ‘So you’re an expert on astronomy as well.’

  ‘I’ve looked at these stars every night for half a century. That ought to count for something, but I feel the same mixture of wonder and ignorance as I did as a child.’

  Makana held out the Cleopatras and waited for the thick, oily fingers to fish one out of the packet. Adam held it under his nose as if savouring a Cuban cigar. Reaching into his pocket Makana produced the book he had found in Ramy’s cabin.

  ‘Do you know anything about this place?’

  Adam held the book under a deck lamp and stared at the cover long enough for Makana to realise that he couldn’t read. It didn’t matter. He seemed to recognise the picture. Rubbing a flattened thumb over it the taciturn mechanic said:

  ‘Wadi Nikeiba. They closed down the monastery years ago.’

  ‘Do you remember why?’

  ‘They were running a brothel out there.’

  ‘In the desert?’

  It seemed an unlikely story, a kind of modern folklore driven by what people wanted to hear.

  ‘I don’t recall the details. They went out to the desert to look for God, maybe they found something else.’ Adam broke into hoarse laughter, his grin revealing the complete absence of teeth in his upper gums. After a time he grew tired of laughing and his face became serious again. ‘Actually, I don’t think it was a brothel. I seem to remember someone was killed out there. That’s what closed it down.’

  ‘Do you remember when this was?’

  ‘Ten years ago, maybe more.’ Adam shrugged and sucked happily at the cigarette.

  ‘You don’t remember who was killed?’

  ‘I just remember it was bad. Very bad. A child, something like that.’

  ‘Do you know how to get out there?’

  ‘I can find it. You’d need a car, of course. But what’s the point? There’s nothing out there but ruins.’

  With that Adam tossed the cigarette butt over the side and moved away, leaving Makana alone with his thoughts, suddenly impatient for this voyage to end.

  The following day was interminable. For long hours time stopped and there was nothing to do but stare at villages as they went floating by. Makana watched herons perched along the river’s edge and hawks turning like leaves buffeted by the warm air. Lean, long-horned gamous trampled through muddy green fields. Waterwheels turned as if no technological advances had been heeded in the last two millennia. It was like seeing the world through a telescope looking back over time.

  Incredibly, when they finally arrived at Kom Ombo there was a traffic jam, with cruise boats lodged together around the landing dock and continuous herds of people tramping on and off shore. Encouraged by Dena’s assurances that Ramy would be waiting for him, Makana went ashore with the mob. A sign in English read: ‘Overlooking ancient temple of god Sobek was to worshipped. Refreshments right next toilet.’ If the locals had fled before the visitors he wouldn’t have been surprised, but instead they ran towards them, knocking one another over in their haste to sell them souvenirs – pocket-sized sphinxes, postcards in long streamers, hats and T-shirts. Makana wandered the ruins of the old temple dedicated to a crocodile god – although Sobek’s descendants were no longer to be seen north of the High Dam. Perhaps it was a good thing, progress and living relics of the prehistoric age being mutually exclusive. Or perhaps it was just an illusion of progress. He overheard a guide spreading enlightenment: ‘Are you seeing film Cleopatra for Richard Burton and Liz Taylor?’ The question provoked nods and smiles all round. A teenage girl frowned, whether because she had never heard of the film or could not see the relevance wasn’t clear. The guide beamed. ‘If you see this film then you are knowing story of Cleopatra,’ he explained happily. A short cut through history. The guides seemed to regard their charges with contempt, as if by the very act of coming here and paying handsomely for the experience, they qualified to be treated like idiots. More importantly, here was a chance to assert the superiority of the native culture. The opportunity to bring arrogant westerners to their knees. How better to do it than by throwing Hollywood back at them? Makana, too, felt like a fool as he wandered the island looking for someone who clearly wasn’t there. He almost missed the Nile Star. When he arrived back, half an hour before the departure time Dena had given him, he found them already casting off. They had to drop the iron gangway back down to let him aboard.

  ‘You nearly got left behind!’ laughed Adam. ‘You have to pay attention. On a ship you can’t afford to be careless.’

  ‘I daresay you’re right,’ he said, not bothering to explain that either his watch was set to another time zone or someone had planned to leave him behind under Sobek’s guardianship. The sister ship had come and gone north, leaving a softly fluttering flag in its wake as the light drained out of the sky over the Western Desert. And not a trace of Ramy.

  Dena proved adept at avoiding him. He was sent in every nautical direction imaginable only to discover that she was always at least two steps ahead of him. The crew, ever apologetic, were unable to help him find her. He finally decided to disappear as well and took himself off down to the cabin in the bow to wait. There he discovered that someone had been through his things. His holdall poked out from under the bunk as if it had been kicked there carelessly. An oily rag lay beside it on the floor. He picked it up and held it in his hand. A quick search of the bag revealed that the Beretta which had been wrapped up in it was gone. Nothing else was missing. With a sigh, he threw himself down on the bunk. He seemed to be stuck on a river that was taking him to his doom.

  A few hours later, he made his way upstairs to find the evening already in full swing. The noise from the dining room grew steadily in volume and pitch as the combination of plentiful food and wine began to loosen tongues and warm up the guests. The well-fed men and women threw their heads back and howled with laughter. Glasses clinked as the waiters rushed back and forth. The central area was being cleared. Plates were carried away and tables slid aside. The lights dimmed and a moment later the music started up again as the evening’s entertainment began. This time a small troupe of three strolled around the room, having changed out of their waiters’ uniforms into white gelabiyas, their heads wrapped in matching immas. They rattled their tambourines and thumped their drums and one of them blew a high keening note from his flute.

  ‘They are like children, always playing. They get younger while we just get older.’

  Makana turned to find Dena standing in the doorway alongside him. It took him a moment to realise she meant the tourists.

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ she said, fumbling with a lighter. ‘I understand there was some confusion.’

  ‘You’re not helping him, if that’s what you think.’

  She blew smoke into the air but said nothing.

  ‘Ramy might be in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘And you are here to help him?’ A loose strand of hair bobbed around her right ear. Her composure was coming apart. She pushed it back in annoyance and blew smoke in his face. ‘How do I know you are not planning to hurt him?’

  ‘If I had wanted to hurt him I would have done this another way.’

  She fell silent for a moment, considering her options. ‘What is it you want from him?’

  ‘A woman was killed. I think he might know who did it.’

  ‘You mean Meera?’ Coming from her the name sounded like an ailment. ‘Does it matter who killed her?’

  ‘Perhaps it doesn’t, but it’s what I am here to do.’

  ‘I understand. I’m sorry about this afternoon.’

  ‘Ramy came here because he was afraid. He knows he’s in danger. How long do you think you can protect him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Truly. I wish I did, but I don’t. He doesn’t tell me anything.’ Dena inclined her head against the door frame. Beyond her a loop of coloured lights floated out of the darkness past the window. Yet another cruise ship on its way north.

  ‘This is more than a working relationship, isn’t
it?’

  She was silent.

  ‘Is this something new or did it happen before, when he was travelling back and forth from Cairo?’

  ‘These things take time,’ she said. ‘I care about him.’

  ‘If you do, you must persuade him to talk to me. Sooner or later whoever he is afraid of will find him, and then it may be too late.’

  ‘I understand. Really, I do. And I’ll talk to him. Tomorrow, I promise. As soon as we are in Aswan I’ll arrange for him to meet you.’

  She sounded sincere and Makana decided there was nothing more he could do. He turned his attention back to the spectacle. ‘They seem to enjoy themselves,’ he said.

  The musicians had retreated and now a tumbling ball of colour rolled and gyrated, spilling blues, greens and reds somersaulting around the room. Into this kaleidoscopic cascade leapt a figure in a long robe bound tightly around his waist with a sash. He leapt and whirled and the guests went mad for him. His lean, bony face was handsome in the fierce slashes of light, and he played to the crowd, leaning in over the tables, casting a shawl around the shoulders of one of the Spanish women, flirting outrageously, drawing her into the circle of his dance. The guests were having the time of their lives, whooping their approval. It took on the appearance of a ritual ceremony.

  ‘It’s not easy, trying to run an operation like this,’ Dena said.

  ‘As a woman, you mean?’

  ‘We think of ourselves as being enlightened, but the same prejudices run through this country as anywhere else in the Arab world. People don’t like their daughters to be mixed up in the tourist trade, and certainly not spending the night on a boat full of them.’

  ‘You’re the exception.’

  ‘My father used to be in charge of this boat. There was a lot of respect for him. I’ve been on these boats up and down this stretch of the river since I was a child.’

  ‘So you’ve known Ramy since you were small.’