by Parker Bilal
Makana watched him walk away.
Chapter Eleven
Makana knew about torture. He knew the helplessness that came over you after days of sustained suffering, about trying to hang onto your humanity. He recalled the humiliation, the loss of dignity, the desolation of the soul. For years he had told himself that he was over it, that the memory of that time had healed the way the physical scars had been absorbed into his body. He realised now that he was wrong. It never left you.
He was late for his meeting at Groppi’s. Dalia Habashi had given up on him and was standing on the kerb trying to hail a taxi. Makana walked faster and managed to make it across the street without being run down. He arrived at her side just as she put her hand on the door of the taxi that had pulled up.
‘Maalish.’ He leaned down to address the driver. ‘We won’t be needing you after all.’
‘Where did you spring from?’ the driver demanded.
‘Please, just move on.’
‘Listen to me, ya basha. Let the lady make up her own mind. We all need work.’ The driver hung on, hoping she would have a change of heart and climb into his cab anyway. ‘Yallah, ya madam, don’t let a man rule your life. A lady should decide for herself.’ It was a spirited try, but when she stepped back up onto the kerb he realised his chances of persuading her otherwise were non-existent. With a grumble the taxi crawled away, to a fanfare of horns from his fellow motorists.
Dalia Habashi pulled off her sunglasses and stared at him.
‘Why must you make this harder than it is?’
‘Perhaps we should just go inside.’
Groppi’s was deserted at this hour. An air of despondency held sway over the gloomy interior. A waiter was busy trying to chat up the girl behind the sweets counter. She looked as if she was about to die of boredom. If she was entertained by his attentions she was doing a good job of hiding it. Neither paid any attention to the two potential customers as they walked by.
Dalia stalked to the far end of the room and settled at a table by the window. She fumbled in her bag for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and lit one as he sat down.
‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea.’
‘I’m sorry, I was delayed.’
‘You could have called.’ She was staring out of the window but her hand was trembling. ‘I don’t feel safe, meeting you like this, in public.’
Makana realised she was scared. He tried to make light. ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t, and besides, we have the place to ourselves.’
The table was scarred and bruised from years of neglect. Once upon a time this had been a handsome place, famous for its confectionary. King Farouk used to dispatch lacquered boxes of chocolates bearing the royal seal as lavish gifts to the princesses of England and France. Difficult to imagine the same thing happening today, just as it was too hard to envisage orchestras playing symphonies, or couples twirling across the mosaic floor in each other’s arms. Another age, another dimension.
They smoked in silence. The waiters took no interest in them.
‘Why did you want to see me?’
Dalia stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I once did something very foolish.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’
‘It’s not easy for a woman, you know.’ Her eyes fixed on his. ‘In this town, I mean, in this business. Men rule everything between them. They see women as a game, a conquest. Not as partners, not as equals.’
‘Does this have something to do with the boy on the motorcycle?’
‘Not exactly a boy. He’s almost forty.’
‘Na’il. You and he are . . .’
‘Does it matter?’ Her eyes narrowed.
‘To me, no. But I think it matters to you a great deal.’
She looked at him for a moment and then reached for another cigarette. Makana leaned over to light it for her.
‘My husband left me for a woman half his age. He gave me some money, but not all that much. I realised that the business would have probably folded a lot sooner if he hadn’t been there to support me. I was naive, I suppose. Anyway, the point is that business hasn’t been all that good.’
‘You have financial problems.’
Her eyes flickered up. ‘People love to talk.’ She exhaled slowly.
‘What happened at Kasabian’s house the other night?’
‘There was an argument. Na’il got into a fight. Well, it wasn’t a fight really. But he said some things he shouldn’t have said to one of the guests.’
‘Qasim Abdel Qasim?’
Dalia nodded quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have told him, I suppose, but I did. When we first met everything seemed so perfect. I thought Na’il was the answer to my prayers. He had money. We lived a glamorous life. All over town, all the best places.’ She sighed. ‘By the time I found out he was as broke as I was, it was too late, I was in love.’ Dalia gave a cold laugh.
‘Where does Qasim come into this?’
Dalia Habashi took a deep breath. ‘Some years ago, when I was at a low point, I asked him for money. Just a short loan, to tide me over. He had been coming to the gallery, paying attention to me. I knew he was married. I knew it wouldn’t come to anything, but it was a distraction. He’s a powerful man.’
‘You had an affair.’
‘Is that the word?’ Dalia examined the tip of her cigarette. ‘I don’t know if that’s what I’d call it. I suppose I went along willingly. I’m a grown woman. I knew what I had to do.’
‘For the loan.’
‘He used me. He used me the way he uses everybody.’ Her face had darkened. She stared at the window and Makana saw her wipe away an angry tear.
A waiter lumbered up with all the enthusiasm of a man who had a date with his executioner.
‘Go away,’ snapped Dalia. ‘We’re talking, can’t you see?’
The waiter was wearing a well-worn waistcoat that was buttoned up unevenly. He tried to straighten his bow tie, which stayed stubbornly lopsided, and turned to Makana, appealing to his masculine sense of order. Makana shook his head. The waiter trudged off dragging his feet, his soles brushing along the floor.
‘You told Na’il about Qasim.’
‘It was foolish, I know. We had a fight and . . . I don’t know. I just said it.’
‘And he confronted Qasim at the party.’
Dalia nodded as she fished in her bag for a packet of tissues to wipe her nose.
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘I had to tell someone. I can’t cope with this on my own. You seemed, well, the kind of person who could help.’
‘Help in what way?’
‘Na’il is mixed up in something.’
‘Does this have anything to do with drugs?’
‘No, not like that. This is different.’ Somewhere a door that needed oiling squeaked open and shut again. ‘Na’il used to work for Kasabian. He did odd jobs for him. A little like you. He used to work with the police, you know.’
‘Really? Then why did he come to me instead of going to Na’il?’
Dalia looked away. ‘They had a falling out. Na’il is a little headstrong. He’s a dreamer, really. Still thinks that one day it will all come his way and he’ll never have to work again.’
Across the room, Makana could see the heavy-footed waiter talking to the manager, a nervous man with a moustache who draped one arm over the cash register as if it might just sprout legs and run off. There was some kind of discussion going on. The waiter pointed in their direction.
‘Is that why you’re worried?’
‘He’s always been the same but now he’s mixed up with a different crowd.’
‘What kind of crowd?’
‘I can’t explain. He’s changed.’
‘Changed in what way?’
‘I think he’s out of his depth.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know. It’s the small things.’ She cast around looking for an answer. ‘He started going to the m
osque.’
‘He wasn’t religious before?’
‘Not really. I mean, you know, he drinks and takes pills and smokes.’ Dalia shrugged. ‘No, he wasn’t religious.’
‘Effendim?’ The waiter had resurfaced. His eyebrows drooped on both sides. He looked like a drowning man who knew he didn’t have much longer. He glanced over his shoulder to where Makana could see the manager grinding his teeth. You had to order something to sit here.
‘Coffee,’ Makana said. ‘For two.’
The waiter wandered off in a happy trance.
‘Which mosque was this?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Probably not.’
‘The big one on the main road near the gallery.’
‘The Mustafa Mahmoud mosque?’ Makana frowned. It was the second time in as many days that name had come up. ‘You think Na’il is mixed up in something he can’t handle?’
‘I don’t know what he’s involved in, but I’m afraid.’
‘You must care about him a lot.’
‘I’m scared.’ Her eyes were filled with anguish. ‘I’m afraid of what might happen. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’
The rattle of porcelain announced the approach of the waiter. The cups hit the table with all the ceremony of a landslide. The coffee was lukewarm, served European style, a thin, grubby soup. The waiter retired to a chair a few tables away where, exhausted from the effort, he rested his head on his hand and closed his eyes.
‘Look, I can see you’re worried, but I’m not exactly sure what I can do.’
‘You could talk to him. You could go to this mosque and find out what he’s up to.’
‘I could.’
Dalia stared at him for a moment. Her eyes seemed hollow, devoid of life somehow. Then she began gathering up her things, snapping cigarettes back into her bag.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry for bothering you. This was a terrible mistake.’
She got up without touching her coffee. Makana sighed. He watched as she put on her dark glasses and headed for the door. Through the window he watched her hail a taxi. In a moment she was gone. He took a sip of his coffee and pushed it aside. It tasted worse than it looked. He was the only person in the place now. The waiter was asleep, his head resting on his hand. Makana lit another cigarette. He wondered what it was that ever gave people the idea he could help them.
Chapter Twelve
The Mustafa Mahmoud mosque was set within the relative calm of a green or almost green barrier that broke the flow of Dowal al-Arabiya Street. The six-lane carriageway swept by, cutting a swathe through the modern district of Mohandiseen. The patch of yellowed grass deserved a medal for survival. Or perhaps a monument. Something modest and unobtrusive. The white-painted mosque could make no claims to belonging to a classical age of great architecture or having been built by one of the legendary figures that cluttered this city’s history. The small building was dwarfed by the apartment buildings that surrounded it on all sides. It was a strange oasis in the midst of all that concrete and flying metal.
Back in the heady days of 1960s Nasserist socialism this had been open farmland allocated to young technocrats. It was named the mohandiseen after the engineers who were to bring the country into the modern era. As idealism faded and the city expanded, agriculture gave way to construction and yet more construction. By the 1970s comfortable villas had sprung up only to be crushed in turn by the flood tide of a population that refused to stop expanding. The fine houses were pummelled back into the ground to make way for rows of apartment blocks jammed one up against the next, twenty storeys high, to accommodate a growing middle class that demanded modern flats within striking distance of downtown.
To reach Zayed Zafrani, Makana first had to get past his henchmen, who sulked and stubbornly refused to let him by. Compared with his brother’s guard dogs, Didi and Bobo, these men had an oddly spiritual aspect to them, like warriors from another age. They carried themselves with a certain reverence. Their beards and fixed stares suggested paramilitary training, very possibly in Afghanistan or Chechnya. Fighting the good fight for Allah. Eventually, when word filtered back, Makana was allowed through to the inner sanctum. At the back of the mosque an adjoining compound housed a clinic and a storeroom for donated clothes, medical supplies, food.
Inside stood a slim figure, dressed in traditional clothes. The light from the high window fell over him like a shroud. He was busy dispensing packets of pasta and rice to families in need. A woman with a child in her arms and three more in tow thanked him over and over, imploring the Almighty to bless him. He resembled a performer of miracles rather than an emperor of organised crime. To be fair, Zayed had always had a softer touch than his rather more unpredictable brother Ayad. He motioned for his bodyguards to fall back and invited Makana to stroll along with him on what felt like a rehearsed tour. He pointed out the stockpiles of food. Sacks of rice, enormous tins of oil and beans.
‘For decades now the government has failed to help the weakest in society. There are millions in this city who are barely surviving. People are ignorant of this. They are blinded by newspapers and television that keep up a steady diet of new hospitals and factories being inaugurated by the Raïs and his heir apparent. Factories that close in a matter of weeks. Hospitals that remain empty because the contractor didn’t do his job properly and can’t be repaired because the money has vanished.’ Zayed Zafrani lifted his hands in resignation. ‘One day the people will wake up and realise that things should not be like this. In the meantime, we do what we can.’
‘I ran into your brother the other day.’
‘My brother and I have different interests. We are nine brothers and sisters and he took care of all of us. My father was useless. A weak man. He squandered his money on drink and other women. He abused his wife and children. In the end he got what he deserved.’
Makana was familiar with the rumour that the Zafrani brothers had driven their father out into the desert and buried him up to his neck in the burning sand. They left him like that for three days, and then ran over what was left of his head with a pickup. The brothers had been inducted into the life of crime by an uncle on their mother’s side of the family, an ageing patriarch who was rumoured to be still alive somewhere, like Osiris ready to return from the tomb.
‘Your brother says you’re trying to go legitimate.’
Zayed Zafrani produced a modest smile – not a quality he was over-endowed with. ‘Our retail businesses are successful. We give the people what they want at an affordable price. Modern appliances that free them up from daily chores. Women have an important role to play in society.’
‘You mean when they know their place?’
Zayed Zafrani shrugged the distinction off. ‘The people are the backbone of this country.’
‘It sounds like you’re thinking of going into politics.’
Zafrani laughed, ‘I’m sorry, I forget that I am speaking to a cynic. We are trying to create an alternative society. Unlike the president’s son and his coterie of bandits we do not seek to enrich a small elite of our friends. One day their heads will roll. I truly believe that. They represent the moral corruption of the West, the very thing that has placed us where we are now. They sell us out to big multinationals that come in and buy up this country for small change. A few men grow rich, the rest of us stay poor.’
‘You’re not doing too badly,’ observed Makana.
‘Yes, but at what price to the soul of this beautiful country?’
Makana refrained from comment. He was still having trouble believing this was not all part of an act.
‘It doesn’t sound as if you and your brother are reading from the same book. I visited his club and he seems to be making friends with a lot of those people you’re talking about.’
‘My brother has his own way and I have mine.’
‘Still,’ said Makana, looking around them. ‘Talk like that can land you in prison or worse.’
‘It would be a smal
l price to pay for a part in history.’
‘Now you do sound like a politician.’
Zayed Zafrani laughed lightly. ‘The people yearn for justice, for fairness, for a chance in life. This government is too busy looking after itself to care about the common man. This is what the message of our prophet is to us.’
‘That’s why you’re helping the poor?’
‘We do what we can, with our limited resources.’
Not so limited, thought Makana as he peered into the clinic and saw a room full of high-tech equipment. Heart scanners. The latest technology. Bright and shiny new, as if they had been unpacked last week.
‘Where does all of this come from?’
‘Thanks be to God there are enough good Muslims in the world who know that wealth is nothing compared with doing the will of Allah.’
‘Gulf Arabs? Oil sheikhs? And enough of them are friends of yours?’
‘We have medical facilities that are the envy of hospitals in the West. We have doctors willing to give of their time and skills freely.’ They had to step aside as a van was backed up to the door of the storeroom. ‘Gifts from our wealthy brothers in the Gulf,’ he smiled.
A chain of young men and women began relaying cartons inside with brisk efficiency. Makana read the logos printed on the sides of the boxes of medicines going by.
‘It all sounds very noble.’ Makana pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. Zafrani frowned.
‘My brother believes in the old ways, in violence and intimidation. I can no longer be a part of that. On the Day of Resurrection the book on every man’s soul will lie open. I saw the error of my ways. I hope one day Ayad will also. Perhaps even you.’
‘Don’t count on it.’
Zafrani smiled, a crinkling of the eyes. ‘I believe that the way to change the world is through the hearts and souls of the people, not through their pockets.’
It struck Makana that he was looking at the more dangerous of the two brothers. Zayed was smart and devious. For all his swagger and bluster, Ayad Zafrani was easier to read.
‘Between the two of you, you ought to be running this country.’
