The Burning Gates

by Parker Bilal

  It was a beautiful morning, despite the grumble of traffic and the raucous discord of car horns. A small family of ducks quacked in reply as they wandered in single file along the river’s edge. By the time Makana had washed, shaved and dressed there was still no sign of Sindbad. He reached for his new acquisition and was about to press the button to make his first call when he heard the strangled squeak of the Datsun’s horn from up on the road. He waved to Aziza as he walked up the path under the big eucalyptus tree. When he reached the road he found an apologetic Sindbad.

  ‘Maalish, ya basha, she was tired this morning.’ Sindbad had his own way of explaining the car’s mechanical problems.

  ‘Maybe we really should consider Ali’s offer of assistance ser­­iously?’ It was only a suggestion. Sindbad grunted.

  ‘My brother-in-law knows all about cars.’

  ‘He’s the one who usually repairs it, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a real expert.’ Makana fixed him with a look that made Sindbad crunch his eyes tightly shut. ‘Really, he can fix anything.’

  ‘Except he never does, not really. Think of it like going to the doctor.’

  ‘The doctor?’

  ‘If you went to a doctor and he gave you some bad news, you would ask for a second opinion, right? I mean, you would perhaps consult another expert before preparing for your funeral.’

  Sindbad muttered a soft invocation to Allah under his breath before turning the key. He beamed with delight as it came to life. Happily he struggled with the gearstick which stubbornly refused to go where it was told. At last he accepted the inevitable. ‘Yes, a second opinion.’ Then, as if by divine intervention, the gearstick slid smoothly into place.

  On the way into town, Makana tried out his new telephone. He called two people. First, a contact in a real estate agency in Maadi. He asked him to enquire whether anyone by the name of Kadhim al-Samari had bought or rented any property in the last few months. He didn’t think there was much chance of this yielding worthy results, but it was worth a try. Then he called Fathi on the immigration desk at the international airport, who had access to the entry visas processed at the airport.

  ‘How far do you want me to go back?’ Fathi asked, his tone already implying futility.

  ‘Start with the American invasion of Iraq and work your way up to the present.’

  ‘Have you any idea how many entries that is?’

  ‘I know how fast you work when you have the right amount of motivation,’ said Makana.

  The flow of traffic slowed to a halt as they approached Midan Tahrir, the sun glinting off the cars like molten iron, that locked solid in a matter of minutes. Makana climbed out of the Datsun as the horns began their unorchestrated keening and set off on foot. Skirting the side of the fenced-off area in front of the Nile Hilton, he found himself forced to walk in the road by the uneven pavement and the sheer weight of numbers. In the mid-nineteenth century this was the site of the Khedive’s army barracks. The hotel was constructed in the Fifties, ushering in a new era of modernity with the promise of American luxury available right there on your doorstep. The gardens in front of the hotel, once popular for family gatherings, had since been fenced off – nobody really knew what for, which led most people to the obvious conclusion, which was that large spaces were unpopular with a government concerned about crowd control.

  It took him ten minutes to reach Bab al-Luq and the building on Midan al-Falaki. The entrance was on a corner, and although the elegant staircase had seen better days it was kept neat and clean. On the third floor the door, as always, stood open. Makana wandered in through an unmanned reception area into the main office, which was illuminated by windows made grimy by the traffic. The space was divided by tables and desks that had been pushed into place to use the maximum floor space. They were all covered in heaps of paper and computers, although few people were in evidence. They seemed to keep irregular hours, coming and going according to their own schedules. Makana had no idea what they all did, or how it all fitted together. The sign on the door informed visitors that the office was occupied by something called the Masry Info Media Collective, MIMIC for short. As Makana understood it, a collective meant nobody was in charge. Sami Barakat had explained it to him. They gathered the news and fed it out to agencies around the world. ‘In the old days every agency would have its own corres­pondent in every part of the world. Nowadays they can’t afford it, so they depend on local sources, which is good for us.’ Sami grinned. ‘And gives us an outlet abroad, which means we can get around the state controls in this country.’

  ‘Except that nobody here reads Japanese or whatever language your stories are published in.’

  ‘It’s true we have little influence locally, but that will come. Give it time.’

  Sami and his wife Rania shared an area on the left-hand side of the L-shaped room. They had more space to themselves, which reflected a certain seniority. Over the years, Sami had become known as a voice of dissent. He was clever enough to be able to avoid trouble with the authorities most of the time, although a couple of short spells in prison were unavoidable for anybody in the sector. In recent years he had become something of a focal point for the younger generation.

  Makana found his friend leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, talking on the telephone. You could never tell with Sami whether it was a social call or professional. There didn’t seem to be much distinction. They were talking about the war in Iraq. When he saw Makana, Sami cut short the call and invited him to sit, which was a nice gesture except that all the chairs appeared to be taken. Makana leaned on the windowsill.

  ‘Our brothers in Iraq are suffering terribly. This war is aimed not only at taking control of their wealth and natural resources, but destroying their past. The Ministry of Oil was the first place the US army secured. Big surprise, right? The last was the Baghdad National Library. The National Museum was looted. Thousands of antiquities vanished. Nobody cares. Apparently private collect­ors in the US are trying to persuade the Pentagon to relax legislation that prevents Iraqi heritage items being sold abroad. Can you believe that? They want less protection. Take my word, this is about erasing a people from history. Remove a nation’s literature and history and what have you got left? Nothing. A people you can control. Within a generation the memory is lost.’

  Over the years Makana had grown used to the way Sami became passionate about particular subjects. Nothing would deflect him. The only thing to do was ride out the storm. He lit a cigarette and agreed to a cup of coffee that Sami managed to order without breaking off his running commentary.

  ‘The American soldiers built a camp on the site of the ancient city of Babylon. They actually filled their sandbags with fragments of priceless historical objects. Now it’s all mixed up with Coca-Cola tins. Beautiful, right? The palaces of Nebuchadnezzar turned into a helicopter base. Now, of course, there’s all this talk about recovery and prosecution of criminals, but we both know that’s not going to happen. Seventy per cent of the manuscripts in the National Library were burnt by looters. You know what they’ll do? They’ll use some of that oil money to build a fancy new museum, and you know what it’ll have in it? Nothing.’

  As coffee arrived, Rania appeared, carrying breakfast: a handful of wrapped packages that turned out to be sandwiches. Her face broke into a broad smile.

  ‘Sit down, join us for breakfast.’

  A space was made on the table and chairs were found. The promise of food brought some of the others wandering over to join in. They were all fairly young. A mixture of men and women who ranged from their twenties to their mid-thirties, all of them clearly sharp, well educated and talented. The talk while they sat around and ate was of stories they were working on. Most of the details went by Makana.

  ‘I saw you at Kasabian’s opening the other day,’ said one of the girls, a petite young woman with a mass of unruly black curls.

  ‘Kasabian?’ Sami frowned, his mouth full. ‘I didn’t know you’d taken an int
erest in art.’

  ‘I was doing a favour for a friend. Do you know much about him?’

  ‘Kasabian?’ The girl’s name was Nefissa. She wore a green canvas jacket, like the kind soldiers wore, and her fingernails were painted a matching colour. ‘Well, he’s pretty old school. Close to the big boys, ministers and so forth. A little out of touch. I mean, I wouldn’t go to him to find out what’s happening in the art world. Who’s your friend?’

  ‘Ali Shibaker. He had a couple of paintings exhibited there.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Kasabian’s very charitable in that way. Takes an interest in older struggling artists.’ Makana made a mental note not to mention this to Ali when he next saw him. ‘They’re old-fashioned, part of a dying breed.’

  ‘How so?’ Makana asked, helping himself to a taamiya sandwich.

  Nefissa had a spiky, opinionated character and no hesitation about expressing herself. ‘They see themselves as some kind of elite and guard their space fiercely. Nobody new is allowed in.’

  ‘Cronyism, it’s called,’ Sami said. ‘It’s a national sport.’

  ‘Well, it’s going to become ancient history,’ Nefissa went on. ‘New art spaces are emerging. That’s why I was there. We’re distributing leaflets about an exhibition.’ Nefissa returned to her desk to fetch one. Sami took a look at it and handed it to Makana.

  ‘If you’re interested in art . . .’

  ‘Just a passing curiosity, I’m afraid,’ Makana smiled.

  ‘So you’re moving up in society,’ Rania grinned, teasingly.

  ‘I’m not sure they’ll let me play with them for too long. Have you heard of someone called Dalia Habashi?’

  ‘She’s in a lot of trouble, I heard,’ said Nefissa.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘The financial kind. Basically, her gallery has been losing money for years. She can’t afford to run it. She survives on bank loans, and the story is they’re taking her to court. She’s notorious for not paying artists when their work is sold.’

  ‘Awful woman.’ Rania screwed up her nose. ‘Exploiting hard-working artists.’

  ‘You can’t say that,’ Sami objected, ‘just because you don’t like her.’

  ‘She’s a snob. She flirts with men when she thinks she can get something out of them.’

  ‘Don’t look at me.’ Sami held up his hands defensively.

  ‘I am looking at you.’

  ‘That was once.’ Sami sighed. ‘One time. Years ago. I’m amazed you still remember.’

  ‘You mean, you were hoping I’d forgotten.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved in this.’ Nefissa raised two protective hands and retreated across the room.

  ‘Nothing happened,’ Sami sighed, appealing to Makana for sympathy. ‘I was doing a piece on how cultural life in this country tends towards supporting the regime. We kid ourselves into thinking we’re this great cultural reference point in the region but we have no critical faculties. We’re world cham­pions in the art of sycophancy. Kissing ass, as our American friends would say.’

  ‘She’s a manipulative bitch,’ Rania threw back as she disappeared behind her desk. She glared at Makana. ‘You notice how he changed the subject? She was born rich. Her father was some kind of businessman and politician. He was killed in Beirut. Some said it was political, others that he had fallen out with his criminal friends. In any case, she married a man twenty years older than her and set herself up here as a grande dame of the art world. Husband walked out on her naturally, when he finally realised what she was really like. Since then she preys on men, old and young, who she entices to buy her awful artworks. She’s rumoured to be having an affair with someone high up in the National Democratic Party.’

  ‘Qasim Abdel Qasim?’ asked Makana. What he had seen of the two of them together at Kasabian’s didn’t suggest an affair. Perhaps they were good at disguising their feelings, or maybe there was something else between them.

  Rania held up her hands ‘You see?’ She looked at Sami. ‘Everybody knows.’

  ‘It’s unfair to malign the woman because she’s made a success of herself. You of all people.’

  ‘Actually, she’s not the reason I came here,’ said Makana, wondering what was going on between the couple.

  ‘Just when it was getting interesting,’ said Rania, then she sat down and started tapping away on her computer.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Makana asked quietly.

  Sami shrugged apologetically. ‘The usual. So, what do you need from me?’

  ‘An Iraqi colonel by the name of Kadhim al-Samari. Ring any bells?’

  Sami sat up and turned to the computer on a table beside him. ‘I think he made it onto the deck of Most Wanted playing cards.’ With a few clicks Sami had more information. ‘There’s a mention of him in a Human Rights Watch report. Looks nasty.’ He reached for a cigarette absently as he read. ‘Death squads. Torture. Not the kind of person you want to be on the wrong side of.’

  Makana moved round the desk to take a look at the screen. Each playing card in the deck featured a member of the Iraqi high command, starting with Saddam and working down through his sons and advisers, politicians and military officers. All of them wanted. Most of them featured a photograph of the person in question, but in some cases the image was replaced by a black outline on a white background. The card featuring Colonel Kadhim al-Samari was one such.

  ‘There’s no picture?’

  ‘No. I can try and find one somewhere else, but the CIA are pretty thorough.’

  Makana perched on the desk and lit a cigarette. ‘You haven’t heard any rumours that he might be in this country?’

  Sami leaned back in his chair to eye Makana. ‘You’re not telling me that you are actually looking for this animal?’ Makana shrugged. Sami’s eyebrows rose. ‘You can’t find something better to do with your time?’

  ‘Do you think he could be here?’

  ‘If he was a lot of people would be upset,’ sighed Sami. ‘The Americans to begin with. I mean, we’re supposed to be on their side, right? Why would we be harbouring a wanted man?’

  ‘Can you look into it for me?’

  ‘Why not? My life is not worth living these days anyway.’ He glanced in Rania’s direction.

  ‘But Sami, we need to be discreet about this.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t want anyone to know I’m looking for this one.’ Sami waved a hand to someone on the other side of the room. ‘Ubay, want to earn a little money?’

  The lanky figure strolling across the room had long, unruly hair and resembled a taller, slimmer, younger version of Sami, more like the Sami Makana had first met six years ago, before he had settled into the comforts of married life. At a distance Makana had taken him for a young man. He didn’t realise quite how young until he reached them. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

  ‘Ubay is our resident computer genius. He’s been doing this since before he could walk.’

  ‘What do you need?’ Ubay asked.

  ‘See what you can find about a man named Kadhim al-Samari. One of Saddam’s officers.’

  ‘How soon do you need it?’ asked Ubay, raising his eyebrows at Makana.

  ‘As soon as possible, is the answer to that,’ said Sami, ushering him away. ‘Go, do it and keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Isn’t he supposed to be in school?’

  ‘He finished school. He’s already at university. The youngest ever in the Faculty of Engineering. His father wants him to get a proper job. He thinks computers is just a hobby.’

  ‘It isn’t?’ asked Makana. Sami glanced sideways for a moment, not sure if Makana was trying to be funny. Something began to buzz in Makana’s pocket and he pulled out the offending object and stared at it.

  ‘I bought a telephone.’

  ‘Congratulations, welcome to the twenty-first century.’

  ‘I don’t know why people keep saying that.’ He was unsure what to do next. Sami took it from him and flipped it open befor
e handing it back. Makana nodded his thanks.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘We need to talk.’ It was Marwan.

  ‘Go ahead. I’m listening.’

  ‘Not on the phone.’ Marwan told him where and when and then the line clicked dead.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Makana, folding the telephone.

  ‘The start of a new life, mark my words,’ said Sami.

  ‘One last thing,’ Makana said. ‘The man who came up in connection with Dalia Habashi.’

  ‘Deputy Minister Qasim Abdel Qasim?’

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  Sami rolled his eyes. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Just give me the short version.’

  ‘He’s the original success story of this government, or one of them at least. Comes from good stock. Family of landowners who lost everything under Nasser and then got some of it back under Sadat and even more under our current president. Studied business in America, I believe. Then he went into politics. He’s the perfect example of one hand feeding the other, or whatever the expression is. The state passes laws that benefit private enterprise which in turn takes control of public services. Everyone’s happy and they all make lots of money.’ Sami scratched his head. ‘He’s the sleazy end of the evolutionary chain. Word has it he’s fond of gambling and women. Why the interest?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Makana sighed and got to his feet. ‘It’s prob­ably nothing.’