by Parker Bilal
‘This is always a great honour. The autumn exhibition has now become, I am proud to say, a key event in the cultural calendar of this great city. It gives us the opportunity to discover some of the wonderful talent that surrounds us as we go about the rather dull business of earning a living.’ He gestured at the walls around them. ‘Artists allow us mere mortals to dream. Their vision enriches our lives. Each year we discover brilliant new talents and this year is no exception.’ He mentioned several names that meant nothing to Makana and pointed out certain people in the room. There was some polite clapping. Kasabian went on to thank a few of the private patrons and sponsors without whom, he emphasised, the exhibition would not have been possible. There were more smiles and nods as they enjoyed their moment in the spotlight. Everybody seemed pleased to be there. Makana knew that for Ali this evening meant a lot. The guests who thronged the room, clutching non-alcoholic grape juice in champagne glasses, were the cream of society. Wealthy entrepreneurs, businessmen and investors, bankers and men of industry, along with a good sprinkling of embassy staff and expats. They were the patrons every struggling artist was hoping to captivate with their work and maybe make a few sales.
When Kasabian finished his speech the noise level rose as the guests resumed their conversations. Some moved around and for a time Makana moved with them, grateful for a break from Ali’s fretting. He was now busy chatting away with potential buyers. To Makana he resembled a man out of place. Most of the time he was Ali the Mechanic, who ran a car-repair shop just off Sharia Sudan Street.
From the snippets of conversation he picked up Makana concluded that wealth did not qualify a person to understand art. The pictures reflected a range of style and quality. It was a strange business. The fortunate ones would find their way to a wall in a house or private flat, in the lobby of an embassy or the boardroom of an insurance company, proof of the sophistication and taste of their new owners. Makana stared at a picture of a bowl of what might have been artichokes but on the other hand could have been a family of dead frogs.
‘Are you really his manager?’
Makana turned to find the woman he had briefly met earlier, Dalia Habashi.
‘I’m afraid Ali is a little nervous this evening. I came to lend support.’
That made her laugh. ‘Well, at least you’re honest about it.’ She leaned over to whisper. ‘Which is more than most people here are.’ Her eyes lit up when Makana produced his cigarettes. ‘You’re a mind reader, but they won’t allow it in here, I’m afraid. Let’s go outside.’
The veranda was lit by the soft glow that came from a huge copper lamp with glass sides, hanging from the ceiling above the stairs.
‘It used to belong to King Farouk,’ whispered Dalia Habashi.
‘He left it behind as a parting gift?’ queried Makana, lighting both of their cigarettes. Dalia Habashi leaned back and exhaled at the stars.
‘Not at all. How it came into Aram’s possession is a mystery.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘But then you know all about that.’
‘Lamps?’
‘Aram’s mysteries. I understand you are here to help Mr Kasabian.’
‘Then you know more than I do,’ said Makana.
‘You’re discreet. I like that. Sounds like an interesting life, investigating people. Is it?’
‘It has its moments.’
Dalia Habashi smiled. Her accent was Lebanese and she had that olive complexion that spoke of being bathed in money for generations.
‘What did Ali tell you about me?’ A mischievous gleam twinkled in her eyes.
‘I’m afraid he isn’t making much sense tonight.’
‘You’re being diplomatic, or evasive.’
‘I’ve never really thought of this city as being a place for art collectors.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. The Cairenes, the wealthy ones at least, like to think of themselves as closer to Rome or Paris than to, say, Khartoum.’
Mention of his hometown prompted a stab of anguish in Makana. ‘I don’t need convincing of that.’
‘There is a market for artworks, certainly, but it tends to be less about quality than about who you know.’
‘Who would have thought?’
Makana saw her eyes pass over his shoulder and turned to see a broad-shouldered man in a blue-striped suit. From newspapers and television appearances Makana recognised him as Deputy Minister Qasim Abdel Qasim. People were falling over themselves to shake his hand. In itself this wasn’t all that surprising. Qasim had a lot of influence nowadays. He was part of the inner circle of the ruling National Democratic Party and a close personal friend of the president’s son. You couldn’t get much better connected.
This was what these events were really about – being seen with the right people. And it seemed that Makana was about to become one of the chosen ones, since Qasim was headed straight towards them. The deputy minister was clearly interested in speaking to Dalia Habashi, who in turn seemed reluctant. There was a slightly awkward moment, which Makana’s presence did nothing to alleviate. When introduced, Qasim ran his eyes over Makana and dismissed him as insignificant in the general scheme of things, but then a frown crossed his face.
‘Makana? That name rings a bell. What business are you in?’
‘Mr Makana is an investigator, so watch what you say.’
‘An investigator? Really? I must be mistaken. I thought you were someone else.’ Qasim apologised as sincerely as any politician was capable of doing and turned to start chatting to Dalia Habashi about things such as mutual acquaintances, perhaps in the hope that Makana would take himself away, which he might have done, except that he objected to having to move for a man like Qasim. And besides, Dalia Habashi had not asked him to leave. Instead she turned and handed him a card with her name and the address of the Zerzura Gallery.
‘You must come and have a look. You never know, you might decide to become a collector.’
‘I’m sure an investigator hardly has the time to take an interest in art,’ said Qasim. He didn’t exactly sneer, but it came close. Makana wondered if the deputy minister had somehow mistaken him as a rival for Dalia Habashi’s affections. ‘Now I remember where I heard your name,’ Qasim said suddenly. ‘You were involved in that business last year in Siwa.’
Makana’s part in the events in Siwa involving a supposed arms shipment and a wanted terrorist had not been made public. The deputy minister would have read about them in an intelligence report, or been briefed by somebody in the know. Whatever it was, he now regarded Makana with what looked like deep suspicion.
‘You have a reputation for getting yourself into trouble.’
‘I’m honoured to have any kind of reputation at all,’ said Makana before making his excuses.
‘I mean it, you must come and see the gallery.’ Dalia Habashi said in parting. Makana returned her smile, if only to annoy Qasim.
‘I’ll certainly try.’ He turned to find one of the waiters standing before him, dressed in spotless black and white that made Makana feel like he’d just crawled out of a cave.
‘Mr Kasabian will see you now,’ he said.
Kasabian’s office was on the first floor at the back of the villa. The old house was surprisingly robust, if a little run-down. There were artefacts of historical and artistic value dotted around. Paintings of red-faced pashas in tarbooshes, landscape scenes of camels in the desert along with several views of the pyramids and assorted ruins. Twin ebony statuettes of Nubian slaves bearing spears caught Makana’s eye. Modelled on some of his ancestors, no doubt. A reminder of his place in the scheme of things. By the time they had climbed the creaking staircase and walked down the hallway, the sound of voices coming from below had dimmed to a distant murmur. Once he stepped inside the office it was as silent as a sealed tomb beneath the sea.
Aram Kasabian was pouring himself a whisky from a drinks cabinet the size of a small handcart standing beside a large wooden bookcase that ran around two sides of the room.
‘We can
’t serve alcohol at these events. It’s bad for our reputation and besides, people go mad at the hint of free alcohol. They behave badly.’ He gestured at the array of bottles. ‘Can I offer you something?’
‘No, thank you, I’m fine.’
‘Please.’ Kasabian gestured for Makana to take a seat. Two high-backed armchairs facing the desk were upholstered in soft leather held in place by brass studs. It felt like sinking onto the upturned palm of a giant genie. Kasabian held open a silver cigarette box lined with aromatic sandalwood. Makana helped himself as Kasabian sipped his drink and moved behind the desk. The room was lit discreetly by a desk lamp and some kind of lighting that ran along beneath the shelves on the walls. Through the glass of the window behind where Kasabian sat, Makana could see the Nile. Beads of light trickled across the bridge like tracer fire aimed at the distant outlines of hotels and apartment buildings in Dokki. Makana took a moment to study his host a little more closely. In here, under these lights and away from his guests, it was easier to see Aram Kasabian’s age. His silvery hair was straight and slightly longer than it perhaps ought to have been. He constantly pushed it back from his face with a practised movement that betrayed a certain vanity. Then he folded his hands together on the desk.
‘I’m not sure where to begin, to be honest. I had been wrestling with this problem for some time when by chance I mentioned it in passing to Ali. He told me about the line of work you are in. I immediately realised you would be perfect for this job.’
‘That rather depends on what Ali told you.’
Kasabian opened his hands outward. ‘He’s a loyal friend and I am sure that he was only trying his best to help you. Over the years, however, I have learned to be wary of offers of help. People invariably want something more in return.’ He paused to lean back and swirl the ice in his drink. ‘Ali tells me you have a reputation for honesty and discretion. Both of these qualities will be needed for the task I would like to propose.’ Kasabian took a moment to make himself comfortable, resting his head against the back of the chair.
‘Perhaps if you told me what you had in mind.’
‘Of course. I apologise if I seem evasive. It’s a strange business. Recently I was approached by a wealthy client from America, through an art dealer in New York.’ Kasabian chuckled. ‘As you can imagine, there are not many occasions when a foreign buyer has reason to call on us. I was surprised and yes, somewhat flattered.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Just over a week.’
‘And you’d never had contact with this man before.’
‘Never.’
‘Did he say how he came across your name?’
Kasabian looked a little nonplussed. ‘Well, I assume it was through the dealer, Mr Norton Granger. Since he mentioned him by name.’
‘You’ve had dealings with this Norton Granger before?’
‘No. I know him by reputation only. One of the finest houses in America.’
‘And you were flattered that your reputation had arrived in New York.’
‘In a way, yes.’ Kasabian smiled and folded his hands together. He looked uncertain whether to continue.
‘Please go on.’
‘Very well. This is where it becomes interesting. The buyer claimed to be looking for a number of very rare pieces of modernist work that have been missing for almost a century. You understand, Mr Makana, that the art world is full of such mysteries. Paintings appear and disappear with unfailing regularity. So I was not unduly shocked, although the idea that such a masterpiece might have found its way here, that it could be in Cairo, right under my very nose, so to speak, did surprise me.’
Kasabian spoke with authority. Little happened in the art world here that did not somehow come to his attention. Nothing of great value would be in circulation without him getting a sniff of it. Makana had made his own enquiries prior to coming here this evening, enough to know not only that Kasabian was respected but that he was a shrewd and wily customer. Beneath the smooth, easygoing manner was a hard-nosed businessman and tough negotiator. He also had political protection. Friends in high places, like Qasim no doubt. You had only to glance at the guest list to know that.
‘Might I ask the identity of this buyer?’
‘For the moment I’m afraid that must remain my little secret. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but his approach to me was conditional on maintaining his anonymity. This is understandable under the circumstances. One expects it.’ Kasabian gave a philosophical shrug. ‘A stranger in our country, and particularly in the business we are in . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘One has to be cautious.’
‘And is he here in this country at present?’
‘Yes, he came here to find me, to find this work.’ Kasabian nodded gravely.
‘Is that usual, for someone to come all this way for a painting?’
‘Yes, but if he is right then we are not talking about one painting but about a collection. A very special collection.’ Kasabian gave Makana a stern look.
‘What brought your American client to Cairo?’
‘According to him, rumours began to surface in New York a few months ago that someone was trying to sell a painting, The Tower of Blue Horses by Franz Marc, a German Expressionist.’ Kasabian chuckled, which lent him the air of a jovial uncle. ‘Cairo is hardly the place one imagines finding such a priceless work.’
‘But nevertheless he flew straight here. It must be a valuable painting.’
‘The Tower of Blue Horses went missing during the Second World War. Nobody has seen it since. Today it would be worth a fortune.’ Kasabian resettled himself at his desk, setting the heavy glass carefully on a place mat.
‘Forgive my ignorance, but it strikes me as a little odd that such a painting could wind up here.’
‘I understand your scepticism.’ Kasabian allowed himself a smile. ‘The art world is nothing if not full of surprises.’ He leaned forward, his face half in shadow. ‘It is a curious fact. On the one hand we collectors crave exposure for the works we buy, and on the other, we hide them away, for decades, sometimes for centuries.’
‘You said there were more paintings?’
‘Absolutely. If the information is correct, we are talking about a unique collection of some of the great masters – Chagall, Matisse, Picasso, Nolde . . .’
‘And your client is aware of this?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Kasabian peered into his glass.
‘Can you explain how such a collection of masterpieces might arrive here?’
‘Well, for that we have to go back to the Second World War. Just before it, in fact. In 1936 Adolf Hitler ordered a purge of modern art from German museums. Hitler, as you may know, was himself something of an amateur painter, but very traditional. He detested the avant-garde. He saw the development of modernist forms such as Expressionism as degrading to the German spirit.’ Kasabian shrugged. ‘He was a small man with very conservative views. He didn’t like change. He associated this new art with Jewish interference in German life. So he confiscated thousands of pieces and arranged for them to be displayed publicly with the idea of ridiculing them and the artists who produced them, many of them Jews, of course. Degenerate Art, as he called it, threatened to corrupt the minds of all good people; it filled them with images that were impure and unclean.’
‘He was ahead of his time,’ said Makana. ‘I can think of a few people around today who would agree with him.’
‘Yes, indeed. There is not that much of a gap between Hitler’s views and those of our religious purists.’ Kasabian sipped his drink.
‘I may be missing something but I still don’t see the connection with the here and now.’
‘I’m coming to that. When the Nazis realised they were losing the war they started to move artworks out of Germany for safekeeping. A number of them have never resurfaced.’
‘Not even on the black market?’
‘Not even there.’
‘So how did they wind up here?’
>
‘We can only speculate on that, but if you like I can give you my personal hypothesis.’
‘Please.’ Makana reached for a cigarette and lit one.
‘We all remember the First Gulf War of 1991. Well, when Saddam’s forces invaded Kuwait his soldiers behaved like barbarians. They ransacked and they robbed, including a number of private art collections. None of us had any real idea what they might have contained, but we suspected that some great works were hidden there.’ In Kasabian’s measured tones Kuwait City sounded like a modern-day Aladdin’s cave. ‘In a few months some curious works began appearing on the world market. Some of these, it was suspected, came from the private vaults of Kuwaitis now in exile. Little information was forthcoming because owners are not always keen to explain how they came by certain works.’
‘And you think that’s how this collection wound up here?’
‘It’s the only explanation, in my opinion.’
Makana recalled the time. The year the Americans had expelled Saddam from Kuwait was the year he had fled from Khartoum. The sight of US forces gathering in Saudi Arabia had outraged pious souls in the region who saw sacrilege in the presence of infidels on holy soil, even if they were there to defend it. Makana was struggling against his own version of religious zealotry at the time, so he had little sympathy. Not that he was a supporter of the American-led aggression. He recalled the images of the road to Baghdad littered with blackened vehicles of the retreating Iraqi forces. They seemed to deserve one another, the Americans and their unruly puppet.
‘That was more than a decade ago. Why has it taken so long for these paintings to surface?’
