by Parker Bilal
‘Small, you want small. All you have to do is say so.’ Barazil reached into his pocket and with a flourish produced something that would have fitted into a packet of cigarettes. It folded open. ‘This is my very own, but you know what? You can have it. Just say the word. It’s brand-new. Less than a week out of the box. Try it.’
It looked like a toy. To his alarm it begin to vibrate in his hand. Makana looked up. Barazil was grinning, displaying a row of yellowed teeth, speckled with scraps of chopped parsley. He was holding up another device.
‘I’m calling.’
‘What do I do?’
‘Just press the green button. You can change the tone if you like. I have hundreds of different ones. Your favourite song. Happy Birthday. Sheikh Imam. Amr Diab. Whatever. You name it.’
You couldn’t fault Barazil for lacking enthusiasm. He never tired of explaining things to potential customers, even those who stubbornly refused to grasp even the most basic concepts.
‘When you finish you just press the red one and the call is over. There are other features. You can hold one call on the line and answer another, for example. You can store all the telephone numbers you have in it.’
Makana weighed up the device in his hand. ‘How much?’
Barazil segued smoothly into his closing routine. ‘No, no really. I can’t take your money.’
‘Just give me a price.’
‘I can’t. I swear on my mother’s grave.’
‘I thought she sold you to the circus?’ Ali looked up from the device he was studying, from which an alarming range of songs was already emanating.
‘That doesn’t change the fact that she’s my mother.’
‘Give me a price for both of them,’ said Makana. Ali began to protest, but Makana indicated for him to be quiet. Barazil, sensing victory, named a price. Makana offered half that and eventually they settled somewhere in the middle.
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ sighed Barazil as he got to his feet. Aswani was approaching bearing heaped platters of grilled fish, but Barazil knew not to overstay his welcome. ‘From the mouths of my children,’ he said, tucking his money away.
‘I thought you were married to a chimpanzee,’ said Aswani. ‘I didn’t know they could have children with men.’
But Barazil was already gone. Makana began to eat. The fish was grilled to perfection. Aswani squeezed lime juice liberally over the smoke-blackened scales and withdrew. Ali was oblivious. He sat poring over his new device, as delighted as any child with a new toy.
‘You understand this means you have to bring the car in for me to fix.’
‘I’ll have a word with Sindbad, but he’s very attached to that car. Eat before it gets cold, then tell me what you know about Kasabian.’
When Ali Shibaker first arrived in Cairo he had decided he would turn exile into an opportunity to develop his artistic talents. He had taught at the Institute of Fine Arts in Khartoum, restricting his own creative work to spare time and holidays. The dream of transforming himself into a real painter was more romantic idealism than pragmatism. Kasabian had been helpful right from the start.
‘I went to see him early on. I showed him my paintings and the man gave me money to tide me over. Never asked for anything in return, always fair on prices, never had a problem with him.’
Cairo had a strong tradition of welcoming refugees from the Arab world and beyond. Men and women had found a safe haven here for centuries, as well as a cultural climate in which to nurture their work; writers, poets, artists. Kasabian worked tirelessly on their behalf, set up exhibitions, often reaching into his own pocket to do so. In those early days, Ali had thought it might be possible. Over time he began to see just how difficult it was. The Egyptians had their own artists. To them, Ali would never be more than an exotic distraction. There were occasional breakthroughs, but not enough. Finding a teaching post met with equal resistance. When he finally came down to earth he opened a car-repair workshop. Cars had been a hobby of his since he was a teenager. In the evenings he retired to his studio above the workshop.
‘You didn’t have to buy me that telephone, you know?’
‘We’re celebrating,’ Makana reminded him. ‘You found me work.’
‘Just like in the early days,’ Ali nodded. ‘Remember that? We always shared what we had.’
‘Things haven’t changed all that much.’
‘You still haven’t told me what Kasabian has asked you to do for him.’
‘I’m not sure he would appreciate my talking about it.’
‘I understand. Just do a good job, will you? He’s important to me.’
Aswani appeared with more food. This time a handful of red snappers, along with salad and rice. For a time the two men occupied themselves with eating, then Ali’s curiosity got the better of him again.
‘Did you ever get to the bottom of that business with your daughter?’
Makana looked up, wondering where the question had come from. He reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth, having suddenly lost his appetite.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing ever came of it. Just rumours I suppose.’
‘The worst thing is not knowing.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Something like that can drive a man mad.’
‘I try not to think about it,’ said Makana, reaching for his cigarettes.
Nothing more was said on the matter, but the mood had changed. While Ali ate and fiddled with his new possession, Makana smoked and looked around him. When they had finished eating he paid Aswani and walked Ali down to the main road to find a taxi.
‘Aren’t you coming along?’
‘No, I think I’ll walk for a bit.’
‘Probably ate too much,’ laughed Ali.
‘Yes, that’s probably it.’
‘Don’t forget to come by with the car, before it’s too late!’
Makana waved, then turned back to the city and the empty streets, the shuttered shopfronts, and began to walk.
Chapter Three
Makana never gave up hope that one day he would find his daughter. By now Nasra would no longer be a child, she would be almost eighteen years old. He could only imagine how much she had changed. All his attempts to locate her had failed, and the hardest thing was coming to terms with the fact that there was nothing more he could do about it. For the moment, at least. He would find her one day, he was sure of it. He had to believe that, just as he was convinced that she was still alive.
For ten long years he had thought she was dead, that she had died along with her mother on that night when everything had changed for ever. But if life had taught Makana anything it was that it was never done with surprising you. When he first heard the rumour three years ago that she was still alive he had thought it a trick by his old enemies, a way of getting to him, of forcing him to come home. He had set about trying to find out, pulling as many strings as he could. None of his efforts had produced any substantial leads. If she was alive she was living a discreet existence, possibly under another name. Eighteen years old. Almost grown up. It would mean he had missed her entire childhood. A feeling of dismay came over him, filling him up like the dark water he had seen close over the car in which Nasra and her mother had vanished all those years ago.
A part of him had never managed to shake off the feeling of guilt that somehow he had caused their deaths. Hardly a day went by, even now, all these years later, when he didn’t feel that combination of shame and regret. It was impossible to shake off the feeling that he had failed them. He should have been able to find another way out, an alternative. He could have cooperated instead of stubbornly sticking to his principles. What did principles matter when measured against the life of a loved one? He could have yielded. How many times had Muna urged him to compromise? But he hadn’t listened. He was a detective, a police inspector, and his job was to uphold the law. ‘If we let them define what we believe in, then what do we have left?’ All around him everything he had believed in was being broken down. A fr
ee press, justice for all, the law, the courts, the judges. Everything was being twisted into new shapes that would give the regime the control it wanted. Makana refused to go along. Not the smartest plan in the world, which was why he ended up in prison, why he was beaten and tortured at the hands of his former adjutant, Mek Nimr. In the end he saw there was no way out. That the only option left to him was to flee, to leave the country and never come back.
Makana walked on, trailing through the deserted streets towards the distant pull of lights and movement. In all these years he had never managed to find any satisfactory answers to these questions, but that didn’t mean he would ever stop trying. So absorbed was he in his own thoughts that he almost went right by it.
The bar was set in one of the narrow, uneven alleys behind Nasser Station. A simple walk-in place, open to the street. Light spilled out of two entrance openings with their metal shutters rolled up. The walls alongside were adorned with faded logos advertising Coca-Cola and the familiar white star of Stella Beer. Chairs and tables were spread about on the uneven flanks on both sides of the road. An old, hand-painted sign on the wall read Bar Kadesh. The name was accompanied by a few roughly fashioned hieroglyphs and a chariot bearing Ramses II into war. The place had been around for decades, or perhaps even centuries.
Finding Marwan was easier than he had anticipated; before he’d even walked through the door he heard his name being called, and when he looked round he saw the large, clumsy figure fumbling with his trousers as he lumbered out of the shadows at the corner where the rather rudimentary toilet was.
‘I thought it was you.’
The light was behind him but Makana instinctively registered the silhouette.
‘How long has it been?’ There was a touch of irritation in his voice which reminded Makana of the outsized chip Marwan always seemed to carry on his shoulder. ‘Come on, have a drink with me, for old times’ sake.’
The interior was noisy but the clientele seemed to know Marwan well enough to get out of his way. The Kadesh Bar was known to be frequented by off-duty police and security officers. The lower ranks, non-commissioned officers, along with the kind of thugs they hired from time to time to do their dirty work. In no time they were seated around a table in the corner with two cold green bottles of Stella in front of them.
‘Actually, I was hoping to run into you.’
‘You’re toying with my feelings now.’ Marwan wagged a finger and reached for his glass. ‘I’m always here. Everyone knows that.’ Marwan poured beer down his throat, his Adam’s apple bouncing like a runaway rubber ball. The drink unleashed a sentimental streak. ‘You remember where we first met?’
Naturally, Makana remembered. It would be hard to forget. It was out on the Red Sea coast. A bomb had exploded in a hotel. Marwan had been part of the State Security team whose job it had been to keep an eye on a Russian named Vronsky who was killed in the explosion. Marwan was part of the surveillance team and was busy tidying up afterwards when Makana turned up. That was about six years ago. Since then they had bumped into one another on a handful of occasions. It wasn’t like they were friends, but you didn’t get anywhere in this world without contacts. Makana’s life depended on that fact in more ways than one.
For a time they talked about the past, cases they had worked on, people they knew. Makana was about to make his excuses and leave – hanging around with drunken policemen was not his idea of fun – but he needed information and Marwan seemed to have something on his mind. He called for another beer, which appeared as if by magic at his elbow. Makana had barely sipped his first. He braced himself and then tried to stave off the deluge by asking a question of his own.
‘How’s Lieutenant Sharqi?’
‘Sharqi?’ Marwan didn’t so much say the name as spit it. Foam flecked the table, missing Makana’s hand by millimetres. ‘People like Sharqi always manage to come up smelling of roses. They take care of him. He’s presentable. Young. Smart. Knows about computers. The Americans like him. That’s important. He’ll go a long way. I think Colonel Serraj is grooming him, maybe to take his spot one day.’ Marwan shrugged as if this was of no importance to him. Another bitter pill life had cast him. He drowned it with more beer for a time before finally coming up for air. ‘You were involved in that business out in the desert, weren’t you? Well, there was a lot of finger pointing after that. The operation went bad. Heads had to roll. They put a nice twist on it as usual, some stories in the papers about catching a few terrorists. You know how it goes. But a few of us found ourselves locked in a corner. Someone had to take the blame, right?’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Hey, it’s not a problem. Actually, I’m glad. I’ve gone back to what I always was, a plain, honest policeman.’ It had an odd ring to it, the concept of a plain, honest policeman, but Makana said nothing. ‘I started out in the force and now I’m back there. Did you know my father was a policeman? Sure. Things were different back then. There was . . .’ Marwan’s glistening lower lip trembled as he searched for the word he was looking for. ‘Dignity. That’s it.’ He thumped a meaty fist on the table that made the glasses jump. The men at the next table nudged one another and grinned.
‘So where are you now?’
‘Amn al-Merkazi. They even promoted me.’
‘Mabrouk,’ said Makana. Marwan brushed the compliment off with a shrug, as if it was nothing more than he deserved.
The Amn al-Merkazi, or Central Security Force, CSF, was a paramilitary arm of the police, halfway between riot police and the army. They were armed and violent, the heavy brigade. Generally feared, they were a law unto themselves. Not so much a promotion as a sideways shift, then. Somebody thought Marwan was a liability and so they had farmed him out to a spot where he could do as much damage as he wanted and it wouldn’t matter.
‘Sure, I’m a first lieutenant now. How about that?’
‘Not bad. So something good did come out of all that.’
‘It certainly did.’ Marwan leaned his elbows on the table, almost tipping it over. ‘So, tell me, what are you up to?’
‘The usual things.’ Makana sat back and lit a cigarette. The noise had abated somewhat. ‘Actually, you might be able to help me – unofficially, of course.’
‘Naturally. You know me, I’m always there for a friend in need.’
He didn’t add the words ‘for a price’, but it was understood that nothing came for free.
‘Have you ever heard of a man called Kadhim al-Samari?’
Marwan drew back his big head and his nostrils flared rather like a horse encountering a snake in its path. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.
‘Why are you interested in him?’
‘It’s nothing big. The name came up and I was curious. He’s Iraqi, isn’t he?’
Marwan might have been drinking, but the look he gave Makana was as sharp as a pin. ‘You’re moving in murky waters, my friend. That much I can tell you.’ He raised a hand. This time a bottle of Arak Haddad arrived on the table along with two glasses filled with ice. He poured a glass for both of them. Makana knew there was no point in protesting. He understood that this was a kind of initiation ritual. In a society governed by religious piety, breaking the rules invariably involved being tested on how far you would step over the line of respectability. A kind of pact of mutual culpability. Makana watched the clear arak turn milky in the glass.
‘You do know him then?’
‘Not personally.’ Marwan lowered his voice and his eyes fixed on Makana as he leaned in to him. ‘By all accounts a very nasty piece of work.’ The big man swallowed and reached for his glass, which he drained in one. ‘He was a senior officer in Iraqi military intelligence. If I remember correctly he was based in Falluja – where the fighting is going on right now. He disappeared, of course, right after the American invasion. So what’s this all about?’
‘Well, I was just curious.’
‘No, no.’ Marwan refilled both of their glasses to the rim. ‘You’re no
t getting away with that. This man is way out of your class. No offence, but he was one of the most high-ranking members of the Baath Party under Saddam.’
‘You’ve seen reports on him?’
The big man gave a clumsy shrug. ‘It’s what I used to do, read intelligence reports. And I have a good memory for names.’ He tapped a finger to his forehead.
‘Do you have any idea if he might be in this country?’
‘Here?’ Marwan laughed out loud before his face grew serious. ‘Even if I did know, I wouldn’t be telling you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it would be classified.’ He pushed his glass aside and leaned his elbows on the table. His eyes were rimmed with red. ‘We’re supposed to be helping the Americans, our friends, remember? We couldn’t possibly be giving shelter to a man who is a fugitive. You never know who might be listening.’ He raised his voice. ‘Isn’t that right, Amm Ahmed?’
‘Isn’t what right?’ A bald man at the next table leaned out.
‘That you never know who might be listening? The Americans have ears everywhere.’
‘And the Jews. Don’t forget the Jews,’ cackled the other man. Marwan was enjoying the moment, playing the big man. He raised his glass in salute.
‘Here’s to the victory of the just and the triumph of the brave.’
‘Sounds like you’ve had your fill for tonight,’ said Makana, getting to his feet. ‘I have anyway.’ He paused. ‘What we just talked about . . .’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Marwan squinted up with bloodshot eyes. ‘It’s between us.’
After giving him his new number Makana headed for the street. As he edged through the crowd, he wondered about the wisdom of involving Marwan, but to find Samari he needed someone on the inside of the system. He wasn’t exactly the kind of person he liked to put his faith in, but when it came to making a little money on the side Makana knew there was nobody more trustworthy and dependable than Marwan.
Chapter Four
The next morning the sun was bright and Makana felt a slight throbbing between his temples. He had slept badly. The combination of alcohol and the matter of Nasra having resurfaced during his conversation with Ali had left him in a sleepless daze. He had passed half the night in the big chair on the upper deck of the awama, to which the overflow of cigarette butts in the ashtray and the soreness in his throat testified. He stepped over to the railings and looked down to see Umm Ali and Aziza tending the little vegetable patch they kept on the riverbank. Aziza was the only one of the children left at home. The boy, still a teenager, was rarely to be seen. He hung around with some disreputable types his own age who lived in the neighbourhood and was busy charting a course for himself towards a life of delinquency.
