Authors: Parker Bilal
‘This is no way to treat a car like this,
ya basha
.’
‘Just go after him.’
With Sindbad muttering to himself, they rolled out of the square in time to see the Yamaha turning at the far end of the street.
‘Stay with him, but don’t get too close.’
Sindbad put his foot down and smiled as the big car surged forwards.
‘
Wallahi
, this isn’t a car, it’s an F-16.’
The yellow motorcycle had reached an intersection and was already swinging round onto the opposite side of the dual carriageway. Sindbad spun the wheel and cut across three lanes of traffic. The lights were coming on in the shops on Ahmed Abdel Aziz Street. A plume of black smoke from the Yamaha’s tailpipe sailed over the cars ahead of them like a banner. It felt as though following its movement was more a matter of faith than observation. Makana wanted to know more about the rider and his relationship to Dalia Habashi. Her dilated eyes suggested she was taking drugs of some kind, which added to the picture of her difficulties. This man, with his rough manners and motorcycle, seemed at odds with the kind of high-class environment in which Dalia Habashi’s clientele moved.
The burr of the engine was audible as the Yamaha accelerated up the ramp.
‘He’s turning onto the bridge,’ Makana warned, but Sindbad was already turning, forcing a small scooter bearing a family of four to weave erratically out of their way. They thumped over a pothole and the Thunderbird rocked like a boat as they curved up the ramp and onto the 6th October Bridge. They were lucky. The traffic was light and it was easy to keep the target in sight. ‘Don’t get too close,’ Makana warned. In the distance green strip lights fluttered in the dusk, announcing mosques like flagships dotted on a sea of ochre. Towards the end of the bridge the vehicles began to coagulate, slowing to a halt. The rider flicked the Yamaha through the cars and veered right. He was taking the Gezira exit before they crossed to the east bank of the river.
‘He’s going towards the Qasr al-Nil Bridge,’ Sindbad said.
The light was almost gone as they dropped off the bridge onto the Corniche. The single rear light of the motorcycle led them into Maadi, where finally they lost him. For a time they drove in circles, turning left and right, widening the net in the hope they would catch a glimpse of him.
‘
Maalish, ya basha
, I’m sorry. It was my fault.’
‘Not at all. We’ll do one more circle.’
‘But we can hardly see anything in this darkness.’
‘Just once more round the block.’
They did one circuit and then another. Then Makana thought of something. He reached into his pocket and produced the piece of paper Marwan had given him.
‘See if you can find this address.’
They drove round some more and finally turned into a quiet street, only to find, leaning up against a high white wall that surrounded a large villa, the Yamaha.
‘Who said you can’t believe in coincidence?’
Sindbad snoozed contentedly behind the wheel while Makana observed the building on the opposite side of the road. Over the high walls that fenced off the grounds from the street the crowns of a row of palm trees rose majestically. The languorous fronds dipped gently in the night air, a cool breeze wafting from the river. Beyond the trees he could see lights and his ears caught the faint sound of music. There was something not quite right about the gateway, which was made of stone and did not match the rest of the perimeter wall or the modern building behind it.
Makana sat and watched as people came and went. As the evening progressed more cars arrived, most of them expensive and chauffeur-driven. They pulled up and unloaded their passengers before driving off. The vast majority of these arrivals were male. They tended to be of a certain age and clearly comfortably off, as proclaimed by their clothes and bulging waistlines. Makana recognised a couple of television hosts, the odd journalist and businessman.
Inside, the party continued. By now there were figures leaning against the railing of the roof, strings of coloured lights over their heads and the movement of what might have been people dancing behind them. Makana’s eye was drawn back down to ground level as a figure stepped into the street from the path leading up to the house. He paused to light a cigarette and Makana sat up. It took him a moment to remember where he had seen the man before. The Marriott Hotel, and wearing the same crumpled linen suit. This time the sunglasses were perched on the top of his head. He staggered on the uneven pavement. Makana nudged Sindbad awake. The big man yawned and rubbed his eyes like a baby.
‘
Aiwa, ya basha
.’
‘I need you to follow that man.’
‘Man, which man,
ya sidi
?’ Sindbad scrabbled about trying to right himself and straighten his clothes. Makana pointed to the figure retreating down the street. When he reached the end he would find a taxi and disappear. Makana opened the door and climbed out.
‘Get going, and don’t lose him. When you finish with that, go on home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Sindbad looked up at him. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ll find my own way.’
Makana watched the big car surge away from the kerb. A beautiful thing to observe, but probably swallowed a fortune in petrol as well as drawing a crowd like a conjuror with a trick monkey. Crossing the street, Makana examined the entrance set into the modern wall. While the heavy metal gate was new, the stone archway that supported it looked out of place, flanked as it was by stones that had been carved with a motif. The structure didn’t belong in this neighbourhood; it looked more like an architectural relic salvaged from the old part of Cairo.
The motifs on either side were identical: a lion with wings.
Before he had time to consider the significance of this fact the gate in front of him gave a slight lurch and began to swing inwards. An explanation was to be found in a security camera set high up to one side that angled down on whoever was standing outside.
A path led straight up from the gate to an open entrance at the front of the building where a small reception committee observed his progress. Three men. One enormously fat one sat behind the desk on the left watching a monitor. The second stood by the metal detector while the third man, who rivalled Sindbad in stature and had a shaven head, stood blocking Makana’s path. He wore a tuxedo that fitted him the way a wedding gown might fit a water buffalo, but he knew his place and stood with both hands clasped before him.
‘Good evening,
effendi
.’
‘I’m not sure if this is the right place.’ Makana struggled to light a cigarette, swaying on his feet for effect.
‘What place were you looking for?’
‘Well, it was recommended to me by a friend. Actually, I was supposed to meet him here, but I got delayed.’
‘What was the name of your friend?’ enquired the bouncer.
‘You can’t tell me he’s not here because his motorcycle is parked right outside.’ Makana swivelled and stabbed a belligerent finger in the direction of the gate. The bouncers exchanged a look. The fat one behind the desk grunted.
‘Na’il? You’re a friend of Na’il? Why didn’t you say so?’
As they waved him through Makana noted the man behind the desk reaching for a telephone. The staircase took him up to the first floor, where an open gallery led to a white door. There was no sign of anyone about. He peered back down the stairwell to see the man in the tuxedo looking up. Stepping away, Makana turned to his right and began to walk. Before he reached the door it swung open.
The interior was illuminated by low lighting set around the walls. Plastic plants bloomed from every corner. Behind a high reception counter stood a tall woman with dyed blonde hair, fingernails painted blood red, and wearing a black-sequinned dress that sparkled and shone in the strange blue and red glow. She smiled as he entered.
‘Good evening,’ she purred. ‘I am Gigi.’
‘Good evening, Gigi. This is my first visit.’
‘Welcome,
merhaba
. We ask guests who are not members to leave a deposit of a hundred dollars. No money is exchanged inside the club. An account is kept and all losses and wins are recorded. At the end of the evening we settle all accounts.’
Makana exchanged some of Kasabian’s dollars for a handful of plastic chips. Then Gigi held aside a red velvet drape and invited him to enter. To reach the main casino you had to pass through the bar area, which had a long counter down one side and a number of tables scattered around. There were also curtained booths along the other wall for people who wanted more intimacy. A spiral staircase in the middle of the room led up to the roof terrace where the thump of music could be heard and coloured lights could be glimpsed against the stars. Beyond another archway the room seemed to expand and Makana saw several gaming tables. Small groups of people, mostly men, clustered around a handful of high semicircular tables. Behind each one a dealer shuffled cards and took bets. Exactly what they were playing Makana couldn’t have said, but he saw plenty of money, both in chips and in cash, being exchanged for more chips. At the far end, along the bottom wall, a roulette table appeared to be the most popular attraction, perhaps because it required less experience to play. A stooped man wearing white gloves raked in chips from the green baize. Losing didn’t seem to bother most people. Almost as if it was some sort of rite of passage: to be able to afford this place meant you had enough money to lose.
As she finished her tour, Gigi turned to him and beamed.
‘Now, all our guests are invited to a free drink at the bar. Have you thought how you would like to spend the evening. Are you interested in gambling, Mr . . . ?’
‘Makana.’ There didn’t seem to be much point in lying. ‘A drink sounds good.’
He followed her over to the bar, where he asked for whisky, the only thing he could think of. The bartender, whose bow tie was askew, filled a glass with ice and trickled Scotch from a bottle with a worn label over it before wrapping it thoughtfully in a paper napkin. Makana circled the room, drink in hand, and studied the faces. The clientele were mostly businessmen of the self-made variety, aged between thirty-five and sixty. They wore flashy clothes and a lot of rings. They appeared to understand gambling as if roulette was a competition to see who could throw the most money away in the shortest time. There were some familiar faces, too – politicians, men with eager smiles and evasive eyes. He didn’t see Na’il, the man on the motorcycle, nor did he see anyone who struck him as being a match for Kadhim al-Samari, although he hardly expected to find him that easily. Gigi’s sparkling white teeth reappeared at his side. She leaned discreetly into him, engulfing him in heady perfume.
‘If this is not to your liking, perhaps you would prefer to relax upstairs with one of our hostesses?’
‘Perhaps.’
Gigi led him back towards the reception desk and the door alongside it. It was black, with a bronze replica of the winged lion on it that matched the one on the front gateway. She produced a key, and pausing only to look around her once, she opened the door and ushered him inside. A narrow set of stairs led to the floor below, where Makana found himself in another reception area, this time considerably darker and outfitted with a low sofa against one pink wall. The sofa was satin green.
‘Itfaddal
.’ Gigi gestured for him to sit before vanishing through a set of lacy curtains.
Makana sat and decided the time had come for a cigarette. He took a moment to examine the décor more closely – not easy in the low lighting. On the walls were framed prints, mostly the work of European artists, depicting orientalist idylls. Naked women lying within their private chambers, frolicking beneath a waterfall or lounging in states of undress in a steam bath. Swarthy men in headdresses eyed them furtively, strummed lutes or counted prayer beads between their fingers.
The curtains opened and Makana came back to the present. Gigi reappeared, ushering in six women of various sizes and proportions. All of them were young and attractive. They wore variations on the kind of evening gown Gigi wore, though considerably less substantial. She paraded in front of them like a confident lion-tamer. To Makana things looked rather different. It had been a long time since he had been involved with a woman, and the sudden availability before him was somewhat daunting.
‘Please take your pick,’ said Gigi in her softest voice.
Makana, stalling for time, reached for his drink and was about to take a sip when he noticed something that caused his heart to stop.
‘Number six,’ he said, aware that his voice was no longer steady.
‘A wise choice,’ beamed Gigi. She clapped her hands and the other girls filed silently out of the room, leaving only one behind. ‘Bilquis is one of our most popular girls. I leave you in safe hands.’
She was a tall girl with a slim, angular body and face. Her hair was pinned up to display an elegant neck. Her eyes were dark and quick. She spun on her heels and led the way down a corridor without a word. Makana followed along, his mind suddenly a blank. The corridor was so dimly lit he could barely see the person in front of him, which made the effect even more disconcerting. The long dress seemed to float along the floor, which made the figure striding away through the gloom feel all the more ethereal, as if he were following a ghost.