Authors: Parker Bilal
‘She’s been there for ages. It’s only a matter of time before they take her away. Here, look at this.’ He tapped the screen where a document headed
Egyptian Environmental Observer Agency
was displayed
.
‘It’s one of those NGOs that you’re never sure whether to trust or not. They produce reports that usually show what a wonderful and clean country this is. You get the picture.’
‘Do I?’
‘Well, that woman’s husband lost his sight. You remember what her sign said?’
‘“Where is Al-Baghdadi?”’
‘Which, as I am sure you are aware, refers to Abdel Latif al-Baghdadi, historian and physician of the twelfth century. It’s also a reference to a certain Al-Baghdadi Eye Clinic.’ Hot sauce dribbled over Makana’s fingers and he had to scrabble for a paper napkin. ‘The other day you mentioned Qasim Abdel Qasim, remember?’ Makana, his mouth full, bobbed his head. Sami looked despairingly at him. ‘You know what your problem is? You’re out of practice.’
‘Go on,’ Makana managed, trying not to make more of a mess than he had to.
‘Well, I’ve seen that woman for weeks now. I always pass her and it seems such a sad case, you know? Husband promised an operation and then goes blind because the clinic never materialised. I mean, these people waited for years hoping for a cure, and then nothing. So I started looking into the clinic and discovered it had been halted because of this report.’
‘The Egyptian Environmental Observer Agency?’ Makana managed to clear his throat.
Sami rolled his eyes. ‘Most of us eat every day. Let me order tea.’ Sami called out and somehow it was relayed elsewhere. ‘So, where was I?’
Makana swallowed. ‘The clinic was halted.’
‘Right. The report claimed that a scandal involving dumped chemical waste from a battery factory made the land uninhabitable. Obviously a clinic could not be built there.’
‘Where’s the catch?’
‘Sounds suspicious, right? I looked up the group that produced the report. Once upon a time the Egyptian Environmental Observer Agency used to receive funding from the European Union. One of those nice little organisations that makes them feel they are making the world a better place.’
‘Used to? You mean, they don’t any more?’
‘It happens, but with something like this, connected to the environment, you would have to do something pretty bad to make them cut back on their support.’
‘Something bad like . . . ?’
‘Like falsifying statistics or changing the outcome of a report.’
‘You have evidence of that?’
‘Evidence?’ Sami frowned. ‘They all want to keep it quiet. The Europeans for being duped and the rest of them for the usual reasons. Guess who’s on the board of this particular environmental agency?’
‘Qasim Abdel Qasim? Coincidence?’
‘There’s no such thing, remember? You taught me that,’ Sami smiled.
‘So what happened to the land where the clinic was due to be built?’
‘Now you’re getting somewhere.’ Sami nodded at the screen and Makana moved round again. ‘It was bought up for a fraction of what it’s worth by Miramara Holdings
.
They are busy building a luxury housing complex even as we speak. The Isis Greens Resort.’
‘Very nice, and who owns this little dreamland?’
‘The usual grey people. A consortium, shell companies and the like. People in politics.’
‘Including our friend?’ Makana lit a cigarette and began to feel normality returning.
‘Including Qasim Abdel Qasim, yes.’
Makana sat back. It occurred to him that there was nothing unusual about a figure like Qasim making money out of a deal that had been derailed for no apparent purpose other than making certain people rich. It was the opposite, in fact. It made you wonder if Zayed Zafrani didn’t have the right idea. How did you put a stop to this kind of exploitation of the system? The answer was you didn’t. You couldn’t. Nobody could. It had evolved into a national pastime. This was the way things were done. Women sitting on pavements were fossils, ancient relics with their prayers and miracles. Ignore them for long enough and the earth would swallow them up.
Tea arrived and Sami leaned back, hands behind his head, his mind elsewhere. Makana sipped his tea. It was so sweet it tasted like some kind of embalming fluid, capable of preserving the body for centuries.
‘Dalia Habashi has a friend called Na’il who seems to be in trouble. I think he deals drugs.’
‘There’s a whole circle of them,’ said Sami. ‘They live a charmed life, like characters in a soap opera of their own making. They dance the night away in exclusive clubs.’
‘What kind of drugs are we talking about?’
Sami held his hands wide. ‘The expensive kind. Uppers, downers, acid, Viagra, whatever. Nowadays I hear cocaine is in fashion. It seems the Colombians are using a new route. The fastest way across the ocean from South America to West Africa and then up by land, through Spain into Europe. Some of it finds its way in this direction.’
Makana was jerked from his thoughts by the sight of Sami getting to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I have to get out of here,’ said Sami. ‘Sorry.’ He picked up his cigarettes and lighter and disappeared without another word. Makana sat there for a time. After a while he walked over to where Rania was sitting, typing on her computer from a printout next to her.
‘What’s up with him, Rania?’
She passed her hands over her face. She looked drawn and tired.
‘I think he’s having doubts,’ she said.
‘Doubts about what?’
‘About our marriage, I suppose.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Rania shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He’s been like this ever since we started talking about children.’
‘You want to start a family?’
‘I don’t have for ever. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.’
‘And he doesn’t?’
‘He doesn’t know what he wants,’ she sighed.
It was getting on towards six o’clock as Makana arrived back at the awama. The day was almost done and he didn’t seem to have made any substantial progress. On the way home he stopped off at a little food stall off the KitKat roundabout to buy himself something for supper. The sanbusak seemed to have awoken his appetite. He picked up a pot of koshary – lentils, meat and pasta, all drowning in a rich tomato sauce. Then he walked back towards the big eucalyptus tree that overhung the riverbank and the path leading down to the awama. The sun was sinking. Makana tried to call Kasabian’s assistant. It was his third try. The first couple of times he thought perhaps he should give him a bit of time, considering that he was probably in shock. This time he hung on until someone finally answered.
‘Hello?’ said an old man’s voice. For a second Makana wondered if he had dialled the wrong number, then he remembered the gatekeeper with the crooked back.
‘I wanted to talk to Mr Jules,’ he said, aware of how absurd it sounded using the assistant’s Europeanised nickname.
‘Mr Jalal is not available,’ said the old gatekeeper drily, clearly not one for such frivolities.
‘I understand, but this is urgent. Can you tell him it’s Makana calling.’
There was a long pause and then, ‘Let me see what he says.’ Makana heard the heavy receiver being laid down on the table in the hallway and the slow slap of footsteps retreating. It took a while. He studied the elegant shape of the bark curling from the tree. He could see why an artist might find it interesting to try and reproduce the lines, but hadn’t that already been done? Wasn’t that why people began painting squares and faces shaped like guitars? There was a scraping in his ear as the old
bawab
came back on the line. He cleared his throat like a senator about to make a speech.
‘I’m sorry, but Mr Jalal is not taking any calls today.’
‘Did you tell him who was calling?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘I see. Well, thank you.’
‘At your service, effendi.’
As he descended the path Makana waved to Umm Ali, who was scattering seeds of some kind to a collection of chickens that wandered along the riverbank behind her. The treetops swept back and forth in the wind and the sky was that strange ochre colour that usually heralded a dust storm.
‘Looks like a
haboob
,’ he said to Umm Ali as he went by. She straightened up and studied the sky before shaking her head.
‘Not today,’ she said, ‘but soon.’
The chickens meant fresh eggs, which had improved Makana’s diet somewhat. It seemed like the time to share some of Kasabian’s money while he still had some.
‘Umm Ali, I apologise for the delay,’ he said, counting out most of the money Zafrani had given him in exchange for the dollars he had spent at the club. ‘I’ve added a little extra for the inconvenience.’
She clutched the notes to her bosom, her face lighting up. ‘I always tell people my tenant is as reliable as the sun. Even after a long night he always appears.’ She bounced away up the incline with remarkable speed and returned with a large bag of her homemade pickles. ‘These are made specially for you.’
Thanking her as graciously as he could, Makana climbed the steps to the upper deck with a veritable feast in his arms. He called Fathi at the airport. He still hadn’t found any record of Kadhim al-Samari entering the country.
‘Is it possible that someone might have deleted the record?’
‘Not completely. Even if by someone you mean State Security or a high-ranking officer, Samari’s name would still appear somewhere but the details would be blanked out. I went back over the last year and there is nothing.’
‘So, if we assume this man is in the country he didn’t come through regular channels?’
‘He wouldn’t be the first. There are plenty of other ways. Sea or land crossings. The desert. The military airports have their own system.’
Makana knew from his own experience that it was possible to cross the border illegally. The country’s frontiers were long and porous, hard to seal completely. He gave Fathi a couple more names, Charles Barkley and Frank Cassidy.
‘What are you looking for?’
Barkley was just Makana being cautious. Cassidy was a loose end. He didn’t like loose ends. As a rule they tended to unravel any thinking that had gone before. He wanted to tie that one off before it got away from him. He gave Fathi the date of entry from Cassidy’s airline ticket.
‘Coming from Amman. Any information you have on him. And for Barkley everything also. Date of entry, port of entry, and where he was coming from.’
After that Makana settled down in the big chair out on the open deck, with his feet up on the railings, and lit a cigarette as he gazed out at the coloured lights playing on the water. In his mind he went back over the details of his conversation with Charles Barkley. Right now finding Samari seemed like a lost cause. If it was true that he had murdered Kasabian, and he seemed the most likely candidate, then he would hardly be inclined to sell a painting to the man that Kasabian had been working for. If he was the culprit then he would be busy disappearing back to where he had been hiding. Makana made a mental note to call Amir Medani, the human rights lawyer. He would know how to handle Samari legally.
It was always possible that it wasn’t Samari who had tortured and killed Kasabian. That would mean there was another killer out there somewhere. But who? And what did they want out of Kasabian? The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Makana looked round to find Aziza standing there. She wandered over and surveyed the pot of food by his chair.
‘You’re not eating,’ she said, handing him the cup of coffee she had made.
‘I’d forgotten about it. Help yourself.’ Makana took the coffee gratefully and nodded at the bag lying on the table. He watched as she settled down on the deck with her back to the railings and began to eat. She was an odd girl in many ways. Curious and sharp-witted, she seemed at odds with Umm Ali’s family.
‘So,’ she began, tucking into the heap of pasta and lentils with a plastic spoon. It seemed remarkable that she was able to eat such vast quantities of food without putting on weight. She still had the thin bony frame of a teenager. ‘What are you working on?’
Aziza had appointed herself Makana’s private assistant. She took an interest in his work and would answer the big black telephone that perched like an ugly crow on the desk, a prehistoric ancestor of the folding plastic shell that he now carried in his pocket.
‘Do you know anything about art?’
‘Art?’ Aziza blinked and shook her head as another spoonful followed.
‘Paintings. Some of them are worth a lot of money.’
‘Sure, there’s a man over by the mosque who paints signs. He’s quite good. He did one of a man riding a horse. I can’t remember what it was for.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m looking for.’
‘A picture of a horse?’ Aziza chewed thoughtfully.
‘Something like that.’ Makana realised he hadn’t actually seen the picture in question. He wouldn’t recognise it if it was standing in front of him. ‘It’s rather a special picture. Somebody has flown a long way to get hold of it.’