The Cairo Diary

by Maxim Chattam

Marion collapsed to one side, and hugged it to her.

  44

  Jeremy climbed the steps up to the rail car, all his senses on alert, already concentrating on the evasive move he would make if he detected a hostile presence, preparing to strike.

  The darkness was too intense to make out his surroundings clearly. The blackness of the night was amplified inside by the narrowness of the windows.

  First he heard it coming.

  Then he saw it.

  A silhouette, rushing to meet him.

  He did not move.

  It raised an arm to strike him.

  Jeremy made not the slightest attempt to escape.

  And he took the violent slap full in the face.

  “How can you think that?” cried Jezebel, the sound of sobbing still in her voice.

  He had recognized her shape, the way she moved, and her perfume the moment she appeared in the half-light.

  “Humphreys came to the house to report what you said about Francis. His son has been abducted! What more do you need? Well? Tell me, Jeremy, what more? Does he have to die himself? Or will you go on relentlessly pursuing his corpse? In the end, what has he done?”

  She turned away and, clearly on edge, strode back and forth across the sitting room.

  Jeremy breathed out through his nose. Suddenly, the alcohol and the tiredness weighed a little more heavily upon him. He picked up a packet of matches and struck one to light an oil lamp, whose light licked at the velvet drapes and the wood in the room.

  Jezebel was now standing very straight, facing him.

  The short flame sparkled against the jade, ebony, and ivory of her eyes, emphasizing the sleek lines of her beauty, her pale pink lips, her porcelain skin, and her intoxicating curls. She shone like a precious stone.

  Jeremy gazed upon her like a work of art; his eyes lingered on the beauty spot placed in the middle of her cheek like the signature of a great master.

  “Don’t tell me this is because of me,” she said, her challenge barely louder than a whisper.

  A fringe of tears appeared along the bottom of her eyelids.

  She whispered again, painful effort distorting her intonation: “Why can’t you forget me, Jeremy?”

  Jeremy, whose shoulders were drooping, drew himself up. Raising his head, he swallowed, then poured himself a glass of whiskey, and gulped down a mouthful straightaway.

  “Don’t pursue him, please,” she murmured. “He is my only family, you know that.”

  Jeremy rubbed the palm of his hand on his jaw, the skin scratchy with a fresh growth of beard, then massaged his temples. “Look on the desk,” he said eventually.

  Jezebel hesitated, then went over to the desk.

  “Do you see that notebook in the middle?” he asked. “That’s the diary I began at the start of this investigation. This evening I shall add my final thoughts to it, my recent conclusions, and it will be almost finished. The truth is inside it. If something were to happen to me, everything is in there. I want you to know that.”

  He turned to look at her. “Do you still like Puccini?” At which he wound up a gramophone, which launched into the opening notes of Turandot.

  Jezebel remained silent for a few bars, then she sat down at the desk and started playing with a lock of her hair. Her other hand stroked the wooden surface of the desk, lightly brushing the objects placed upon it; her eyes lighting on a pile of dog-eared books.

  “One Thousand and One Nights,” she said as she read the spine. “Francis is crazy about it,” she admitted weakly.

  Jeremy snapped back instantly: “I know, I remember now that it was with those stories that he seduced you at the New Year’s party.… My murdered colleague believed that was a lead for our investigation. Myself, I think that the killer uses them to play on myths, to re-create a legend. Because that immortalizes him, at the same time keeping the superstitious natives away.”

  Jezebel’s fingertips moved to the area between her eyebrows, and she shook her head. “Why do you persist?” she wanted to know. “You know that Francis is not a monster. He hasn’t killed anyone, you know that.”

  Her voice was saddening and sweet. Jeremy thought he could make out a tear, trickling along the bridge of her nose.

  “You know me,” she went on. “I can sense what people are like, I’m not wrong about what they are. It’s in me. I am an orphan from Alexandria, a little girl with foreign parents who abandoned me in this land where I am nothing, and I have become a respectable woman. Thanks to that gift, I can feel people. I have created myself all by myself, you know that very well; I have climbed the steps of the world without any help. Today I have found Francis, and I know what he is, I know his good qualities and his flaws. He is hard, it is true, but he is absolutely not the man you think he is. You can’t pursue us like this, you can’t.”

  Jeremy drank a mouthful of whiskey, listening to the words of this woman he loved. Puccini was growing more passionate.

  He was willing to give anything to feel her snuggle into his arms. To make love to her, one more time. He missed the warmth of her body, the folds of her skin, the taste of her sex, and of her tongue with its sweet flavors. She was standing there, only a few feet away, within reach. And yet so far away.

  “You have to accept that I no longer belong to you,” she continued. “I am going to be blunt with you, Jeremy. I can feel people, and when it came to you, I never managed to work out what you were. At first, that’s what attracted me to you, that savage charm that great explorers have. Then that was what irritated me, before … before it began to scare me.”

  She gazed at him in the amber-colored chiaroscuro that divided the desk. “You have never really understood why I have been so hard with you since we parted, have you? To help you to draw a line under us. And because your fidelity and your naïve hope got the better of my patience in the end. By constantly harassing me with your indiscreet questions about my relationship with Francis, you pushed me to the limit. If you and I didn’t stay together, it is because you disturbed me, Jeremy.”

  The green of her eyes hypnotized the detective.

  “In your soul, you possess the indifference of those who have gone too far, too far into nature, too far into solitude, and who have never returned. You are never entirely here, Jeremy. There is always a part of you that remains there, in those strange lands that you alone know, in those memories of war, in those wanderings through the savannah, and here”—she raised both palms to the ceiling—“in the muffled distance of this rail car. What is inside you escapes me, and makes me afraid. I think that you are a delectable lover, but you will never be an attentive husband, still less a good father. That goodness and that ability to give to others are no longer possible for you; you have lost them over the course of the last ten years, in all of this tormented life. The other evening, when you were telling that sordid story of what you experienced in the trenches during the war, I understood; that is why I wept. I understood, you know. And yet you are still this … ghost; you are never really here. You are not like us. I am sorry.…”

  She wiped her eyes swiftly, before delivering the coup de grâce: “But you cannot hate Francis for bringing me everything that you could not give me.”

  Not another word sullied the intensity of their gaze as they looked into each other’s eyes. Puccini and his dramatic melodies carried them into this soul-to-soul exchange. At last, Jeremy put down his empty glass and broke the bond by turning around to go and fetch an object wrapped in a piece of cloth.

  “Soon you will really understand who I am,” he said at last. “I am your guardian angel, Jezebel. And like all angels, I am half invisible. One day perhaps, you will see me as I really am.”

  From the cloth, he took a Colt M1911 semiautomatic and the magazine that accompanied it, loaded it, and slid it into a holster that he retrieved from a shelf.

  “And Francis is the devil in disguise. You have been manipulated, that’s all.”

  Jezebel darted her flaming eyes at him and, wi
th a furious sweep of her arm, knocked over everything on the desk.

  “Enough!” she shrieked.

  Then she jumped up and ran outside.

  Jeremy clenched his fists.

  He put on his holster under his jacket, picked up his diary, which he slid into one of his pockets, and left in the furious wake of this ethereal siren.

  He ran behind her to sharia Abbas, where she jumped onto the first streetcar that came, just as the doors were about to close.

  Jeremy sped up, the alcohol making his blood heavy. His poorly oxygenated brain weighed three times as much as usual, and his legs would not obey him as quickly as he wished. He forced the pace even more, struggling for breath, and leaped onto the rear footplate of the streetcar while it was picking up speed.

  The lights of the city hummed in the darkness; they processed into the distance behind the windows of the tram, drowning in between the passersby and the cars that were driving in the opposite direction.

  Jeremy opened the door and entered the compartment. He pushed his way through the other passengers and seized Jezebel by the wrist. “You are going to hate me,” he carried on. “I know that. I shall be your scapegoat, but one day, one day, you will understand. You will accept the truth. You must know that I will be there, I will wait.”

  Roughly, she tore her arm from the detective’s grasp. “You are making a monumental mistake, Jeremy. Monumental. Jealousy has made you lose your reason. And by accusing Francis you are going to destroy your career.”

  She was about to run away from him when he grabbed the central pole and used it like a turnstile, swinging around and reappearing in front of Jezebel. “Your husband is guilty. He has enough influence to have found the so-called ghoul, and to use it to carry out his dirty work. He knows Arab myths well enough to play on them; it is his smokescreen to direct us onto the wrong track. The victims are children he knows, since he has them right in front of him—children from his foundation. After all, why search further afield? All he has to do is discreetly gain access one night to the children’s files. The nights of the murders, you say he was sleeping with you, but how can you be so sure? You sleep heavily if I remember well.… And the night Azim was killed, he heard me repeat the address I was to go to. With his powerful car, he could have got there before me.”

  “Francis did not go out that night!” shouted Jezebel. “After you took off like a whirlwind, we went back to bed. It doesn’t hold water…”

  “All right, and how long did you stay awake before you fell asleep? Hmm? How long? Two minutes? Five? It doesn’t matter, he’d have waited, and his famous superfast Bentley would enable him to make up for lost time and reach Azim before me.”

  Jezebel pushed away the detective, watched in alarm by the other travelers who had witnessed the scene. “Francis is not a criminal!”

  Jeremy reached into his jacket and took out the old papyrus that had been found in Azim’s clothing. “And your husband adores the history of Cairo. He is at the head of a bank that finances a number of archaeological searches; he must have learned of the existence of old underground tunnels, where he hides his ‘ghoul.’ Soon I shall have all the proof I need against him.”

  Jezebel was no longer listening to him.

  The streetcar slowed down. A more and more compact crowd filled the pavements and the middle of the road for a hundred yards. Eventually the car stopped and the doors opened.

  Outside, in the gathering darkness, the demonstrators were mingling with a tide of curious onlookers, young sensation-seekers, and anti-English slogans sounded alongside those extolling a strong Egypt, governed by the people’s representatives. The current regime was being castigated for its indulgence toward the British occupiers.

  Everyone was walking quickly, shouting as they moved back up the boulevard.

  Jezebel slipped between two groups and melted into the masses. “Jezebel!” shouted Jeremy. “Jezebel!”

  He pushed away the bodies that stood in his way, zigzagging through this forest of flesh, shouts, and growing hostility.

  Arms were raised to protest, and mouths directed aggressive reprimands at him.

  Jeremy struggled not to lose sight of his target. Jezebel’s black hair rippled to the rhythm of her random movements. Jeremy had the impression that her long hair escaped all the laws of earthly attraction; it was as if it floated in water. Jezebel had slipped in among the procession.

  Suddenly, a furious face occupied his entire field of vision.

  An old Arab, who started insulting him in the language of the prophet Mohammad.

  Jeremy pushed him out of the way without gentleness, to regain sight of the enchanting apparition. He sought her in vain.

  Dozens of heads, even more turbans, fezes, tarbooshes, but no more Jezebel with her accentuated movements.

  Jeremy was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. Perspiration was running down the length of his spine. All the protests, the braying, the yelling whirled around his ears, forming a great merry-go-round of confusion and suffocation.

  Windows shattered, shopfronts were smashed in by bricks before collapsing with a clatter. The din of the malcontents rumbled like a wave, spreading toward the back of the human snake.

  There was a bend in the street. A fabulous halo of lapis-lazuli blue rippled across the fronts of the buildings. Their stone was covered with a luminous, electric blue skin, moving like water on fire, striped with red veins, and in the panes of the bow windows volcanoes were reflected, spitting out bubbling sapphire lava.

  Negotiating the bend, Jeremy was stunned to discover what was suffusing the whole street with this extraordinary brightness.

  All the lampposts had been decapitated, and the gas was shooting several yards into the air, burning skywards in a flaming column, a real artery of buzzing fire, of a magnetic blue that changed to orange at the summit and whistled furiously.

  Then he spotted Jezebel, twenty yards ahead, pushing away two men who were ranting and raving at her. One of them stepped behind her and caught her by the hair.

  Enraged, Jeremy shoved aside the onlookers in front of him, cleaving the crowd.

  Jezebel started to scream as she was being manhandled.

  A youth, excited by the general revolt, recognized Jeremy as one of the British occupiers and stepped into his path, determined to prevent him going any farther.

  Over his shoulder, the Englishman saw that Jezebel had been dragged to one side, and slapped twice.

  His fist clenched and dealt the youth a stinging blow to the liver. He bent double, then fell on all fours, expelling all the air from his lungs. Jeremy wasted no more time, and stepped over him.

  The first individual did not see him loom up and was immediately felled by a powerful blow between the shoulder blades. He fell forward and broke his nose and several teeth on the pavement. The other let go of Jezebel and ran forward to grab the detective by the throat. Jeremy sidestepped him and raised his knee, striking the man hard between the thighs.

  The blow hit home but also unbalanced Jeremy. He saw the street spin around and only had time to put his hands forward and cushion his fall. He blinked. The alcohol was no longer having any effect on his senses. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that his adversary, who was lying just under his own legs, was attempting to get to his feet.

  Jeremy raised his thigh and with all his strength brought down his heel on the troublemaker’s chin. Something broke under the violence of the impact.

  Jeremy grabbed hold of the metal grille in front of the building and used it to haul himself to his feet. Jezebel shrank back, afraid.

  The detective spun around and saw a band of angry men bearing down on him, led by the youth who was still holding his belly.

  Hatred was written all over their faces.

  Six were approaching him, and there would soon be ten of them.

  They were going to break him into pieces. Him, and then Jezebel.

  Jeremy unfastened his holster and brandished his gun.
<
br />   “Halt!” he roared.

  The group paused in its march, while the hundreds of others passed by, speeding up their pace, heading for the front of the assembly, barely paying any attention to what was being played out between this couple of Westerners and a faction of their own people. The outcome of the confrontation was in no doubt.

  Emboldened by the weight of numbers, the youth rushed at Jeremy.

  Jeremy lowered his arms.

  The lampposts poured out their sparkling torrent above their heads.

  The crowd chanted its nationalistic litany.

  There were hundreds of passersby, and they were almost running.

  The shot from a .45-caliber weapon barely made a sound in the general chaos, stifled as it was by the chest of the youth who was at its business end when Jeremy pulled the trigger.

  The boy’s eyes changed all at once. The vengeful fever turned into incomprehension. Jeremy saw no pain there, only disorientation, and then fear.

  The youth died in the grip of terror. He collapsed, his eyes searching for some possible escape, some comfort, but already he saw nothing more than his own abyss, which was progressively engulfing him.

  He closed his eyes, refusing to drown in nothingness like this, and was shaken by one final convulsion. His hands flopped limply to the ground and began to turn cold.

  The other men who accompanied the boy watched him die, then turned their eyes on Jeremy. The detective realized that they were going to charge. His weapon mattered little; they were going to rush him, in a single movement, to submerge him and make him pay for what he had done.

  A din grew louder from the front of the tumultuous procession. A roar that was transformed into terror.

  Shots rang out between the façades of the buildings. Sharp and metallic. Rifle shots, Jeremy guessed.

  The army was charging.

  Already the demonstrators were running in the opposite direction, terrified.

  Jeremy turned his attentions back to the danger that directly affected him. Several individuals were approaching him, looking menacing.

  He checked that Jezebel was definitely behind him, and put his finger back on the trigger. Panic was flowing back from the front of the human mass, all the way back to where they stood.