The Golden Scales

by Parker Bilal

  Mimi Maliki was still young enough to look good without making any effort, but that wouldn’t be the case for much longer if she carried on the way she was now. He watched her lean forward to reach for an inlaid mahogany box and start rolling a joint. She moved as if in a kind of trance. After a moment she stopped and looked up as if she had just noticed him. He shook his head when she asked if he minded, but she had carried on anyway without waiting for an answer.

  ‘You do look like a cop, you know.’

  Makana turned back to the window. In the distance, the curious pinnacle of the Cambodian temple the Baron had built for himself was still visible. Once surrounded by grassy terraces and sensual statues, it was now a barren wasteland. At night it was a dark shell haunted by bats, a gloomy reminder of the days when the Europeans would dance there beneath mirrored ceilings and gilded fixtures. Long before that, of course, this was the site of the Temple of the Sun, said to be the place where the god Thoth had invented writing, an act so controversial that he was accused of undermining learning since writing would allow people to appear to know things of which they had no real understanding. Makana’s thoughts reverted to the present.

  ‘Tell me about Adil Romario.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘How . . . ?’ Mimi shrugged and stared blankly at the wall in front of her as if expecting the answer to appear there by some feat of magic. ‘Wallahi, I don’t know. I must have met him somewhere. One of those parties, you know? Film people.’ She spat the word ‘film’ as if it was an insult, as if it disgusted her in some way.

  ‘You mix a lot with film people?’

  ‘It’s the only way to get by in this business. It’s all about who you know and how much they like you. Talent has nothing to do with it.’ Her voice sounded wistful, as if remembering a game she had once cared for but could no longer quite recall.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Ages ago . . . maybe a year.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was star-struck, I suppose. Imagine that. By a dumb football player.’ Her voice trembled, as though she might laugh, or cry.

  ‘Is that how you met Salim Farag?’

  ‘Salim the Creep. Salim the Cockroach.’ She giggled to herself for a time.

  ‘The film director.’

  ‘That’s a joke. It’s something he tells people, but he hasn’t actually directed a real movie. He’s one of those people . . . you know. His father left him some money, I think. Anyway, he lost it all in one hopeless project after another.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Ages ago.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘Maybe even before I was born.’

  ‘He must have had some success.’

  ‘Oh, he worked with a few good people, but even then he had a bad reputation. He bribed his way in with the government. You know how it is. They put him on one committee or another. He made a couple of documentaries about ministers and army generals. I think that’s what kept him out of prison.’

  As she talked, Makana realised that Mimi Maliki was probably a good deal smarter than most people gave her credit for. She picked up details and stored them away.

  ‘How did he and Adil manage to get together?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a whole other story.’ Mimi fell silent for a moment, watching the smoke trickle up through her fingers. ‘Everyone thinks Adil is so tough. They see him up there, larger than life, the nation’s hero. But he’s not really like that.’

  ‘What made him interested in becoming a movie star?’

  ‘Maybe he got tired of running up and down kicking a ball.’ She stared at him as if it was obvious, and maybe it was.

  ‘Was he any good at it?’

  ‘Acting? There’s a lot worse out there doing fine.’

  ‘True.’

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Why aren’t you writing any of this down?’

  ‘I have a good memory. I write it down later.’ Makana examined the knick-knacks on the white shelves over the television set. ‘When is your uncle coming back?’

  ‘Oh.’ Mimi shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Why did you agree to shoot the screen test?’

  ‘You saw that?’ she groaned.

  ‘You were the best part of it,’ Makana assured her.

  ‘Like I said, they had no real idea what they were doing.’ She sighed heavily and picked at the seams of her jeans with fingernails the colour of pomegranates. ‘I was really disappointed. I thought it was going to be my big break.’

  ‘Nothing came of it?’

  ‘Adil got strange. He stopped answering my calls. Just dropped out of sight. I didn’t want to call Farag because you never know with a creep like that.’

  ‘Where did they shoot the screen test?’

  ‘One of those resorts. You know, by the sea.’

  Makana put his hand into his pocket and touched the shell he had taken from Adil Romario’s desk. ‘What resort? Do you remember its name?’

  Mimi paused to relight the joint. For a moment or two there was silence as the herbal aroma suffused the air. The tension visibly left her. She began to relax, slumping back in the sofa and propping one foot up on the low table.

  ‘The Big Blue. It’s owned by this Russian . . . Vronsky. You know the kind of thing: terrace by the beach, full of fat Italian women and ugly Germans, waving their arms and legs in the pool. Stuffing their faces with food all day.’

  ‘Is Farag the connection between this man Vronsky and Adil?’

  ‘No, it’s the other way round.’

  ‘How did Adil come to know Vronsky?’

  ‘Do you always ask so many questions?’

  ‘I’m trying to find Adil. He might be in trouble.’

  Her eyes closed and she seemed to float off into a dream for a moment or two. After a time, Makana bent down and plucked the joint carefully from her hand before she burned herself or set the place on fire. Mimi sat up and rubbed her nose, blinking and looking around the room as if she had no idea where she was, until she found him.

  ‘Are you really a journalist?’

  ‘No,’ said Makana. ‘Saad Hanafi hired me. He’s worried about Adil.’

  ‘I knew it!’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘The moment I saw you, I knew it.’

  ‘Tell me about Adil. You said he’s not like people think.’

  ‘We’re very similar, you know? I mean, neither of us really fits in anywhere. It’s like we don’t really belong.’

  ‘But Hanafi took him in as a child. Treated him like his own son.’

  ‘The family never accepted him, not really. They thought he was acting above his station. Especially that bitch . . .’

  ‘Soraya?’

  ‘She would like nothing better than for him to disappear for ever.’

  Makana wondered if this explained Soraya Hanafi’s outburst. If she wanted Adil to disappear, did that mean she’d already known he was Hanafi’s son?

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘About three weeks ago. He just stopped calling . . . wouldn’t answer my calls.’

  ‘Was this before or after you went to the family asking for money?’

  Mimi Maliki pulled a sour face. ‘That was that kalba’s fault. Always trying to push me out of the way. She wanted me out of Adil’s life, and when I refused she started offering me money. In the end I thought I might as well take it. It didn’t mean I had to stop seeing him.’

  ‘Adil knew about all this?’

  A quick nod. Mimi’s restlessness had returned, as if she knew she had crossed a line by taking the money, and Makana wondered if that was the cause of the rift between her and Adil. Her fingers found the bag of hashish and she busied herself with rolling another joint, the first one forgotten. As she was lifting the lighter to her lips she stopped, the flame suspended in mid-air.

  ‘You don’t think he was kidnapped or something?’

  ‘All we
know is that he seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she was behind it.’

  ‘Soraya Hanafi?’

  ‘She pretends to care for him, but it’s all an act. The truth is, she can’t stand him.’

  ‘Did Adil ever mention receiving any threats?’

  Mimi stared at Makana for a while and then laughed. ‘Are you joking? He got threats all the time. There are some strange people out there. They hate you just for being successful, better off than them, better-looking, richer. Anything at all really.’ She inhaled a lungful of smoke. The air in the room was thick with the sweet, organic smell. ‘But he was never bothered by all that. Most people didn’t have the courage to do anything but yell the odd insult or send him an obscene letter. Until that time he came back from Khartoum . . .’

  Makana felt his heart lurch at the mention of his old home.

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘I don’t know, really. The details, I mean. It was some kind of exhibition match.’

  Makana recalled the list from Gaber’s file of matches the DreemTeem had played. They were mostly held to drum up sponsorship. Khartoum seemed an unlikely place to go for that.

  ‘When he came back, that was it. He was afraid. He tried not to show it, but he behaved oddly. I asked him what it was about and he brushed it off. But he couldn’t fool me. He would watch the mirror carefully when he was driving, always looking over his shoulder. He was . . . changed.’

  Putting down the joint, Mimi held out her hand for a cigarette, fluttering her fingers in the air in the manner of a film diva. Makana shook out a Cleopatra and lit it for her. She exhaled into the air above her head.

  ‘I think you’d better go now.’

  ‘I thought you wanted the money,’ said Makana, producing the envelope from his pocket.

  Mimi chewed her fingernails. ‘I’ve already told you plenty.’

  Makana considered this for a moment and then dropped the envelope stuffed with notes on the table between them.

  ‘There’s more where that came from,’ he said. ‘Anything else you can tell me, it doesn’t matter how insignificant it might seem, let me know.’ He handed her one of his business cards. She took it from him, then stood up and went over to the dining table.

  ‘You know, you’re not bad-looking, for a cop.’

  ‘I’m serious about the money.’

  ‘I know. I just don’t have anything more to say to you.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll think of something.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She sighed and began rolling herself another joint, the cigarette smouldering in the ashtray forgotten. She lit up and drew the smoke deep into her lungs, then slumped back on the sofa, her head back and her arms hanging limply by her sides. Makana watched her for a moment. She seemed at peace with herself. He hardly recognised her. Then he told himself he was a sentimental old fool, and turned and walked quietly out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Possibly the last person on earth Guido Clemenza might have expected to see as he came out of the changing room at the club that afternoon was Makana. He was leaning against the wall, waiting.

  Clemenza did a good job of pretending not to be annoyed. He snorted audibly and carried on walking. When Makana fell in beside him, he said with a sly smile,‘I take it you suffered no injuries the other night.’

  ‘They seem to take your custom very seriously.’

  ‘I am a regular client,’ Clemenza sneered. ‘It is only natural.’

  ‘And I suppose, since you’ve started paying your debts, you are even more welcome than ever now.’

  Clemenza flashed him a sideways glance but chose not to respond. He put his head down and began walking towards the row of cars parked against the side of the building, heading for a silver Alfa Romeo.

  ‘Oh,’ said Makana. ‘It looks like you have a problem.’

  The Italian looked at the flat tyre in dismay as Makana walked around the car.

  ‘How could that happen?’

  Makana ran his hand over the gleaming paintwork. ‘They don’t make them like they used to.’

  ‘I’m calling Security.’

  ‘Yes, that’s probably a good idea, and I’ll go and fetch Hanafi and you can tell him about your business with Vronsky.’

  Clemenza pulled a face. ‘What is it you want from me?’

  ‘You can begin by telling me about your dealings with this Russian.’

  The Italian scowled. He dumped his sports bag on the boot of the car.

  ‘You don’t want to get mixed up in this, believe me.’

  Makana smiled. ‘It almost sounds as if you are afraid of this man, Guido.’

  He had meant it half in jest, but now he saw that he had struck home. Clemenza was scared of the Russian.

  ‘Let me give you some advice, my friend. Vronsky’s the kind of man it’s worth being afraid of.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘He’s ex-Russian military. A black beret. Special services. He was in Afghanistan and Chechnya.’

  ‘Sounds like you have some strange friends.’ Makana was thinking about the rumours of Clemenza’s involvement with the Italian Mafia over the match-fixing scandal. Was he now working with the Russian branch instead?

  ‘And just what is your connection to him?’

  ‘What do you think?’ The Italian smirked. ‘He throws great parties. The most beautiful women you can imagine, and they are willing to do anything.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you for a minute. And Adil introduced you to him. Why is that?’

  ‘Business. Adil was looking for business opportunities. A footballer has to think ahead.’

  ‘Forgive me, but you make a highly unlikely pair of business partners. You yourself made it plain there is no love lost between the two of you.’

  Clemenza was looking round desperately for someone to change his tyre. ‘Why is there never one of those clowns around when you need one?’ Finally, as if summoned by his words, a uniformed security guard holding a teapot appeared on the far side of the compound. The team manager waved and shouted. The man disappeared around a corner, still clutching his precious teapot.

  ‘This country will never achieve anything. Its greatness is behind it.’ Clemenza gestured in the direction of the pyramids, far away in the distance, on the other side of the river.

  While he was talking Makana kept silent. It had just come to him that he was looking at this the wrong way round.

  ‘There’s another over here,’ he said, pointing at a second flat tyre on the far side of the car. ‘Must have been kids or something.’ Clemenza gave a cry of disbelief as he rushed round and began swearing loudly and profusely in Italian. He turned suddenly on Makana and pushed him against the car. There was a lot more muscle to his bulk than might have been expected. Clemenza hadn’t gone completely to seed. ‘You will pay for this! I don’t care what Hanafi says.’

  Makana held his gaze evenly. ‘It wasn’t Adil who introduced you to Vronsky, was it? It was the other way round.’

  Clemenza’s grip on his jacket loosened. Makana waited for him to step back.

  ‘Why did you do that? You couldn’t stand Adil, thought him a jumped-up prima donna, but you took him to see your friend Vronsky? What for?’

  ‘You can’t let personal feelings get in the way of business.’ Clemenza brushed down his sleeves and straightened his shirt. He was sweating now. Damp patches had appeared under his armpits despite the cool weather.

  ‘What did Vronsky want from him?’

  ‘Take my advice,’ Clemenza lifted his bag off the back of the car. He took one long look at Makana before turning away. ‘You really don’t want to get involved in this.’

  Makana watched him walk away. What would a Russian businessman want with a football player and a second-rate film maker?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  There was something Makana had been putting off, something that he had been avoiding in his mind but which he now felt he had to f
ace. From the stadium he took a taxi to Dokki. It dropped him outside the ash-grey building in the narrow side street crowded with cars that looked as though they had been fashioned out of mud. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and leaned on the buzzer, not sure what to expect. A whirling chirp sounded from within, but for a long time there was no indication that anyone was home. Just as he was about to turn away he heard something approaching – a soft shuffling sound. A bolt was pulled back and a lock turned. The door cracked open and a puffy round ball bearing a faint resemblance to a rotten melon appeared. It was streaked with purple and yellow. A large bandage covered the right temple. The eyes were familiar, ringed with black, like a panda, only this time it wasn’t kohl that had run. They widened as she saw who it was. She fell back, letting the door swing open.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her voice trembled. She pressed a hand to her throat as if expecting Makana to throttle her. Speaking clearly caused her pain. Her left arm was in a sling and several fingers appeared to be bandaged and in splints.

  Makana stared at her. ‘Farag did this?’

  She was having trouble breathing. Staggering back, chest heaving, she slumped down on to a narrow chair that gave an ominous crack but managed to bear her considerable weight. She gasped for breath, refusing to look up at him.

  ‘What did you come for this time?’

  Whatever Makana might have been about to say was cut off by an exclamation from further down the hall.

  ‘Ya Allah! Ya Allah! What is this?’

  A man in his fifties appeared, dressed in a pair of pyjama trousers and a vest. He brought a strong reek of hair oil with him. The husband.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Aziz,’ the woman pleaded, her voice no more than a strained sigh. She reared back as his hand lifted.

  ‘Be quiet, woman! You!’ He jabbed a finger at Makana. ‘What is going on here? Somebody explain to me. Is this the one? Is it?’