by Parker Bilal
‘Perhaps in a way we are.’ The smile faded quickly. They had reached an open area behind the mosque where a row of tired-looking flowers had been recently planted. They looked grey and unhappy in this urban setting. Zafrani ordered one of his men to fetch some water. The guard looked unhappy at the prospect of getting his clothes dirty for the sake of a few flowers. Nevertheless, he wandered off and came back with a bucket.
‘Actually, I came here to find someone.’
Makana watched the guard clumsily trying to keep his trousers dry and water the plants at the same time. He made what might have seemed a simple task incredibly complicated. Zafrani made a gesture and the bodyguard handed over the bucket and lumbered off, still shaking his leg.
‘A man named Na’il? Rides a motorcycle. I believe he comes here sometimes.’
‘A lot of people come here.’ Zafrani’s eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. ‘Our doors are open to all, even those who do not yet know the meaning of belief.’
Makana left him there, trying to perform the miracle of bringing withered plants back to life.
Chapter Thirteen
That night Makana took a taxi back across town to Maadi and the house of the winged lion. The two doormen in shiny tuxedos looked him over and shook their heads as if he was wasting their time. Makana held out his telephone.
‘Let’s call Mr Zafrani and see what he says. Do you want to talk to him, or should I?’
The two men exchanged a long glance, then the fat one behind the desk nodded his consent and the shaven-headed one stepped aside.
‘It’s nothing personal, but we get paid to do our job.’
Upstairs, Gigi smiled as if greeting an old friend and he leaned on the bar and tried to behave as if he was. Just another lonely man in need of diversion. Having shown her the chips he still had from his last visit, he sipped the watery drink that was put before him and signed the chit. Ayad Zafrani was onto a good thing. A place like this encouraged people to be bad, reckless, and spend more money. For a time he wandered around the roulette table. Never having played before didn’t seem like a disadvantage. None of the other players appeared to have much idea of what they were doing. They were more concerned with trying to outdo their friends. There was a lot of male camaraderie going on: middle-aged men grateful for a chance to leave their wives at home and play at being boys again. That about summed it up. The younger ones were trying to impress their elders. There was a lot of drinking and loud talking. If they got too loud or too boisterous, one of the wooden faces in a cheap tuxedo would step up and ask them quietly to tone it down. Ayad Zafrani ran a stylish establishment and Makana wondered how many of his clients actually knew who the owner was and how he made a living. To some it would only add to the thrill, a touch of danger.
One of the tuxedos was watching Makana from across the room. He had that fixed, canine stare that suggested he disapproved of something. Makana waved his glass at the bartender for a refill. It was basically iced water with a delicate hint of whatever the Scots had intended it to be. Makana held his glass up to the light. He understood the business of the paper napkin now; it made it harder to see the colour of the liquid inside.
‘Where did you learn to pour a drink?’ Makana tried to look like he was enjoying it.
The bartender mentioned a couple of places Makana had never heard of. Either there was a whole underground world of drinking clubs and clandestine bars or he had a lively imagination.
‘Maybe you’ve seen a friend of mine in here. An American. Funny guy. Frankie. Wears a crumpled suit?’
‘Mr Frankie?’ The bartender had maintained a sour expression on his face ever since Makana had first set eyes on him. Now it lifted slightly. ‘He’s been here a couple of times. Jack Daniel’s. Straight up. Likes to pour it himself.’
‘I’ll bet he does. Was he here with a friend?’
The sour face returned. ‘I thought he was your friend?’
‘Well, you know how it is. He owes me money.’
‘I’ve never seen him with anyone. He comes in alone and he leaves alone.’ The eyes narrowed some more. ‘He’s like you, he asks a lot of questions.’
‘Give me another drink, and this time try to get some of that whisky into the glass.’
Makana turned his back on the counter. The place was quieter this evening. He decided to take a stroll around the card tables. Only three of them were occupied by solitary players, alone or in pairs. Some of Kasabian’s hard-earned cash was deposited in the form of plastic chips on the green baize table, and the spinning wheel whisked it away into thin air and a dark pocket somewhere out of sight. There wasn’t much excitement there. A drunken man who resembled the editor of a national newspaper was throwing his money away and pawing the girl next to him, who Makana recognised from the line-up on his previous visit. There was nobody in the place who answered to a description of Kadhim al-Samari. No Iraqis as far as he could hear.
Makana made a mental note of how much to add to his expenses and retired to the bar for another drink. He climbed onto a high stool, noting that the bartender’s expression hadn’t changed. He served Makana as if he’d never seen him before in his life. Perhaps he ought to be tipping the man more. He noticed that he did possess a smile, and that it came out with certain customers and not others, in particular a group of men at the far end who were deep in conversation. Makana recognised one of them as Qasim Abdel Qasim, which meant that Ayad Zafrani really was moving up in the world. Qasim wouldn’t set foot in a place like this without assurances from the owners that they could be discreet. Makana wondered just what the connection was between the Zafrani brothers and Qasim.
‘Hello.’
Makana turned to find Bilquis standing there.
‘You weren’t put off by your last visit?’
‘I was just summoning up the courage to come and see you again.’
‘Well, here I am.’ She had a radiant smile, which he supposed was part of her job. Her hair was pinned back and she wore an elegant long dress. This time when he looked at her he realised that she was becoming distinct from the memory of his wife and the vision he had had of his grown-up daughter. It still hurt in a peculiar way to look at her, as if her existence somehow excluded that of Muna and Nasra, but he told himself this was some kind of compensation of the mind and heart for his confused emotional state. No doubt there were schools of psychologists who could explain it better than that, but for the moment Makana was happy to just sit here and contemplate.
‘A drink for the lady?’ Even the bartender seemed to have cheered up. Makana nodded and watched as some more of Kasabian’s money was transformed into something that came out of a champagne bottle. Bilquis did a good job of pretending to sip it.
‘Did you get into trouble the other night?’
‘No,’ said Makana. ‘Just reacquainted with an old friend.’
‘And now you’re back.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘You must like the place.’
‘Isn’t that the idea?’ When Makana offered her a cigarette she produced an elegant ebony holder from somewhere. He leaned forward to light it for her.
‘Usually it is.’ She exhaled a long stream of smoke into the air. ‘But you’re not usual.’
‘The other day you said everyone comes here looking for something they already know. A person, a feeling. Something that reminds them of another time.’
‘Who did I remind you of?’ She blew smoke in the direction of the bartender, who got the message and shuffled away.
‘Someone I once knew, a long time ago.’
‘Who was she?’ Bilquis wet her lips on whatever was bubbling in her glass.
‘My wife, my daughter.’
She laughed. ‘Which one is it?’
‘When I saw you I imagined my daughter as a grown woman. The last time I saw her she was a small child.’
‘You left them behind when you came here.’ Her face grew still. ‘We can’t remember faces,’ she said, ‘not really
. They fade in the memory. I tell myself I would recognise them if they walked into the room.’ She gave a quick laugh. ‘Sometimes I try to imagine that and it makes me happy for a time.’
‘You came here alone?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, her face growing serious. ‘But I’m not alone anymore.’
‘That’s nice for you.’
‘There are some things you wish you could leave behind, but you can’t.’ She studied him for a moment. ‘There are faces I’d like to forget.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I know what you mean.’
‘Is that why you came here, to get away?’
‘I didn’t have a choice.’
‘That’s what we tell ourselves, but it’s not true. There’s always a choice.’ Her gaze had wandered away and now it returned, her eyes fixing on his. ‘Why did you really come here tonight?’
‘I was looking for somebody.’
‘A friend?’ She shook her head. ‘Not a friend. You know the man who owns this place. That makes you a powerful man. Maybe even dangerous.’
‘Or foolish.’
‘If you had come here just to see me, now that would be foolish.’ Her gaze moved beyond him and Makana looked over his shoulder to see Gigi standing in the archway tapping her watch. ‘I have to get to back to work.’
‘You have an appointment?’
‘Sometimes we have special clients. They ask for one of us exclusively.’
‘If you ever feel like talking about things.’ Makana scribbled his new number on the back of one of his business cards.
She took the card and read it. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, but thank you anyway.’
Makana watched her walk away. The waiter deposited a chit alongside him and asked for a signature.
Then he took himself home and tried to sleep. It was after midnight. The city was tucked up in bed dreaming its own dreams. He paced the deck, smoking until he had exhausted himself, then he dragged the big chair onto the open deck and sank into it. If he stared at the sky for long enough he imagined he could make out a few stars up there beyond the glow.
Something told him that Samari was here, in this city, very close. He had the feeling that he could almost reach out and touch him, as though he were slipping through the shadows under the trees on the embankment behind him. He would find him, Makana was sure of that. Eventually, he would find him. The question was what he would do with him once he did.
He must have fallen asleep for what felt like all of two minutes. He dreamed, but remembered nothing of it when his eyes snapped open, woken by an unearthly scream that turned out to be his new telephone. It was only when he was in the police car, racing over the bridge, that it came back to him.
He had been trapped inside a cage, falling through what felt like dense air which then turned out to be water. Sinking then, through water, but without fear. Not drowning. He knew he wasn’t in danger. Someone else was in danger. Someone who was above him. Somebody he could not reach. He knew who it was. Nasra. And he knew what he had to do. It was simple. All he had to do was catch her. But the more he struggled to reach her the further she slipped away. He was moving too slowly. He was never going to be able to catch her. Then he woke up.
Chapter Fourteen
Okasha was talking urgently into a handheld radio when Makana arrived. The night air was bright with blue and red flashes from police cars and ambulances. Okasha indicated for him to stay where he was until he had finished. Then he moved straight on past him, towards the open gates.
‘This way,’ he said.
There were a dozen or so policemen milling around kicking their heels, ringed by curious onlookers, passers-by, tourists, all eager to know what was happening. It was almost dawn now and the sky was beginning to lighten above the high buildings surrounding them. In the garden the majestic trees were bowed over and still, waiting for air and light to lift the clammy touch of the night. More police officers were backed up inside the gate. Most of them appeared to have nothing to do. The crime scene was the usual chaotic jumble of people wandering in and out, happily trampling all evidence into oblivion. Those who weren’t doing the trampling were yelling orders. That was the problem with orders. Everyone loved to give them but nobody liked to take them. Along with the police there was a crowd of civilians who had somehow managed to get through the cordon. Who they were and what they were doing here wasn’t clear. Doormen, porters, household staff from the neighbourhood villas, apartment buildings and embassies up and down the streets. Everyone with an opinion. If you managed to get any uncontaminated evidence out of there, it would be a miracle.
‘You’ll have a fine collection of boot prints by the end of it,’ Makana commented.
Okasha threw him a dirty look and snapped at a sergeant who was unlucky enough to be loitering nearby.
‘Clear the area of anyone who is not essential to the investigation. I mean, right now. Everyone outside the gate.’
There were murmurs and mutterings, but slowly the crowd thinned out. Most of them looked half asleep, and they reluctantly tore their attention away from the object hanging at the top of the garden steps. Makana followed their gaze.
In the thin trace of grey light seeping downwards from the sky he could make out a heavy figure dangling from a rope. It was suspended from the central spar over the steps leading onto the veranda, right underneath the huge copper lamp Makana had admired three nights ago. He moved closer, still not sure what he was seeing. An insistent buzzing announced that even at this early hour the flies were already feverishly at work. There was a lot of blood. It pooled in viscous streams that ran down the steps towards the garden, dripping down from one to the next, like creeping tendrils, forming strange patterns on the white stone, filling in the cracks, smoothing out the imperfections.
Kasabian was suspended upside down, his feet tied together by the same rope that held him in the air. The rope had been thrown over the wooden roofing timber and then secured to one of the pillars, wrapped around a couple of times and tied off. He was naked from the waist up.
‘Who found him?’
‘The old man who looks after the place.’ Makana followed Okasha’s nod and saw the hunchbacked gatekeeper. His ancient, skeletal frame was trembling all over.
‘Nobody else in the house at the time?’
Okasha shook his head. ‘He usually lets the staff off over the weekend. He has a place out of town where he goes for a couple of nights. Not bad for some, eh?’
‘But he didn’t go away this time.’
‘Unfortunately for him.’
‘Where is Kasabian’s personal assistant, Jalal, Jules?’
‘Away in Alexandria. He’s on his way back now.’
Makana examined the way the rope was made fast to the veranda pillar. It looked like it was tied by someone who knew their knots. Okasha indicated a woman dressed in white overalls who was examining the body.
‘Have you had the pleasure of meeting Doctora Siham?’
Makana knew of the forensic pathologist only by her formidable reputation. From what he had heard everyone who knew her was terrified of her. Even Okasha, drawing Makana behind him, seemed to treat her with great caution as he approached where she was kneeling before the body.
‘Oh, Doctora Siham, this is the man I was telling you about.’
Doctora Siham cast a beady look up at Makana. He put her age at about fifty. Underneath her white overalls she wore a polo-neck jumper that reached up to her chin, vanishing into the folds of the traditional black scarf that covered her head. Her nose was pronounced and her eyes narrow and frowning. She said nothing but turned back to the case in hand.
‘Any ideas yet?’
‘Ideas?’ She spat the word out like an unexpected fish bone. ‘I deal in facts, Inspector. Ideas are for the birds.’
As if summoned by magic a black kite flapped messily down from the trees and settled on the feet of the corpse, where it began pecking. Okasha waved at it to enforce respect for the
dead. One of his men came running to his assistance and managed to slip in the blood. Still, it achieved the desired effect and the crow took to the sky again. Doctora Siham was not impressed.
‘Control your men, Inspector, or I shall take no responsibility for this corpse.’
As the officer, clearly in pain, hobbled away, Makana edged cautiously closer, aware that Doctora Siham’s gaze was following his every move. Kasabian’s torso was painted with blood. There appeared to be streaks of blood running down from here and there.
‘Are those cuts?’
Doctora Siham carried on collecting samples from the floor of the veranda, sealing a glass phial and returning it to her case before getting to her feet to take a look.
‘They appear to be shallow incisions, made with a very sharp implement. I shall need to get him into the lab to say anything more.’
‘Is that what killed him?’
Doctora Siham considered the question.
‘Hardly likely to be the cause of death. They appear too shallow to have caused any damage to the vital organs. The loss of blood appears considerable, however. I refuse to speculate at this stage.’
‘Naturally.’
She gave Makana a wary look as if to decide if he was being sarcastic, and seemed to grant him the benefit of the doubt. Makana turned back to Okasha.
‘How did you know to call me?’
‘Ah, let me show you.’ Okasha looked relieved to have something to do. He led the way up the steps, careful to avoid stepping in the blood. Doctora Siham watched them both with a look of despair. A police officer saluted briskly as they entered the house and went up the staircase. Saluting was just about all they were good for. There were policemen at every turn. One stood guard at the entrance to the office where Makana had sat not two days earlier. The room looked unchanged. Okasha indicated the desk where a diary stood open. Using a pen, he pointed out the entry for the appointment.
‘That’s three nights ago,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me what this is about?’
Makana gazed about him. He recalled the calm with which Kasabian had moved about the study, pouring himself a drink. It was the kind of room that had taken a lifetime to construct. Everything was exactly as he would have wished it, and all in the right place. Now it served no purpose save as a memory of the man, and a reminder of mortality.
