Authors: Parker Bilal
Makana found his friend leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, talking on the telephone. You could never tell with Sami whether it was a social call or professional. There didn’t seem to be much distinction. They were talking about the war in Iraq. When he saw Makana, Sami cut short the call and invited him to sit, which was a nice gesture except that all the chairs appeared to be taken. Makana leaned on the windowsill.
‘Our brothers in Iraq are suffering terribly. This war is aimed not only at taking control of their wealth and natural resources, but destroying their past. The Ministry of Oil was the first place the US army secured. Big surprise, right? The last was the Baghdad National Library. The National Museum was looted. Thousands of antiquities vanished. Nobody cares. Apparently private collectors in the US are trying to persuade the Pentagon to relax legislation that prevents Iraqi heritage items being sold abroad. Can you believe that? They want less protection. Take my word, this is about erasing a people from history. Remove a nation’s literature and history and what have you got left? Nothing. A people you can control. Within a generation the memory is lost.’
Over the years Makana had grown used to the way Sami became passionate about particular subjects. Nothing would deflect him. The only thing to do was ride out the storm. He lit a cigarette and agreed to a cup of coffee that Sami managed to order without breaking off his running commentary.
‘The American soldiers built a camp on the site of the ancient city of Babylon. They actually filled their sandbags with fragments of priceless historical objects. Now it’s all mixed up with Coca-Cola tins. Beautiful, right? The palaces of Nebuchadnezzar turned into a helicopter base. Now, of course, there’s all this talk about recovery and prosecution of criminals, but we both know that’s not going to happen. Seventy per cent of the manuscripts in the National Library were burnt by looters. You know what they’ll do? They’ll use some of that oil money to build a fancy new museum, and you know what it’ll have in it? Nothing.’
As coffee arrived, Rania appeared, carrying breakfast: a handful of wrapped packages that turned out to be sandwiches. Her face broke into a broad smile.
‘Sit down, join us for breakfast.’
A space was made on the table and chairs were found. The promise of food brought some of the others wandering over to join in. They were all fairly young. A mixture of men and women who ranged from their twenties to their mid-thirties, all of them clearly sharp, well educated and talented. The talk while they sat around and ate was of stories they were working on. Most of the details went by Makana.
‘I saw you at Kasabian’s opening the other day,’ said one of the girls, a petite young woman with a mass of unruly black curls.
‘Kasabian?’ Sami frowned, his mouth full. ‘I didn’t know you’d taken an interest in art.’
‘I was doing a favour for a friend. Do you know much about him?’
‘Kasabian?’ The girl’s name was Nefissa. She wore a green canvas jacket, like the kind soldiers wore, and her fingernails were painted a matching colour. ‘Well, he’s pretty old school. Close to the big boys, ministers and so forth. A little out of touch. I mean, I wouldn’t go to him to find out what’s happening in the art world. Who’s your friend?’
‘Ali Shibaker. He had a couple of paintings exhibited there.’
‘Oh, yes. Kasabian’s very charitable in that way. Takes an interest in older struggling artists.’ Makana made a mental note not to mention this to Ali when he next saw him. ‘They’re old-fashioned, part of a dying breed.’
‘How so?’ Makana asked, helping himself to a
taamiya
sandwich.
Nefissa had a spiky, opinionated character and no hesitation about expressing herself. ‘They see themselves as some kind of elite and guard their space fiercely. Nobody new is allowed in.’
‘Cronyism, it’s called,’ Sami said. ‘It’s a national sport.’
‘Well, it’s going to become ancient history,’ Nefissa went on. ‘New art spaces are emerging. That’s why I was there. We’re distributing leaflets about an exhibition.’ Nefissa returned to her desk to fetch one. Sami took a look at it and handed it to Makana.
‘If you’re interested in art . . .’
‘Just a passing curiosity, I’m afraid,’ Makana smiled.
‘So you’re moving up in society,’ Rania grinned, teasingly.
‘I’m not sure they’ll let me play with them for too long. Have you heard of someone called Dalia Habashi?’
‘She’s in a lot of trouble, I heard,’ said Nefissa.
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘The financial kind. Basically, her gallery has been losing money for years. She can’t afford to run it. She survives on bank loans, and the story is they’re taking her to court. She’s notorious for not paying artists when their work is sold.’
‘Awful woman.’ Rania screwed up her nose. ‘Exploiting hard-working artists.’
‘You can’t say that,’ Sami objected, ‘just because you don’t like her.’
‘She’s a snob. She flirts with men when she thinks she can get something out of them.’
‘Don’t look at me.’ Sami held up his hands defensively.
‘I am looking at you.’
‘That was once.’ Sami sighed. ‘One time. Years ago. I’m amazed you still remember.’
‘You mean, you were hoping I’d forgotten.’
‘I’m not getting involved in this.’ Nefissa raised two protective hands and retreated across the room.
‘Nothing happened,’ Sami sighed, appealing to Makana for sympathy. ‘I was doing a piece on how cultural life in this country tends towards supporting the regime. We kid ourselves into thinking we’re this great cultural reference point in the region but we have no critical faculties. We’re world champions in the art of sycophancy. Kissing ass, as our American friends would say.’
‘She’s a manipulative bitch,’ Rania threw back as she disappeared behind her desk. She glared at Makana. ‘You notice how he changed the subject? She was born rich. Her father was some kind of businessman and politician. He was killed in Beirut. Some said it was political, others that he had fallen out with his criminal friends. In any case, she married a man twenty years older than her and set herself up here as a grande dame of the art world. Husband walked out on her naturally, when he finally realised what she was really like. Since then she preys on men, old and young, who she entices to buy her awful artworks. She’s rumoured to be having an affair with someone high up in the National Democratic Party.’
‘Qasim Abdel Qasim?’ asked Makana. What he had seen of the two of them together at Kasabian’s didn’t suggest an affair. Perhaps they were good at disguising their feelings, or maybe there was something else between them.
Rania held up her hands ‘You see?’ She looked at Sami. ‘Everybody knows.’
‘It’s unfair to malign the woman because she’s made a success of herself. You of all people.’
‘Actually, she’s not the reason I came here,’ said Makana, wondering what was going on between the couple.
‘Just when it was getting interesting,’ said Rania, then she sat down and started tapping away on her computer.
‘Everything all right?’ Makana asked quietly.
Sami shrugged apologetically. ‘The usual. So, what do you need from me?’
‘An Iraqi colonel by the name of Kadhim al-Samari. Ring any bells?’
Sami sat up and turned to the computer on a table beside him. ‘I think he made it onto the deck of Most Wanted playing cards.’ With a few clicks Sami had more information. ‘There’s a mention of him in a Human Rights Watch report. Looks nasty.’ He reached for a cigarette absently as he read. ‘Death squads. Torture. Not the kind of person you want to be on the wrong side of.’
Makana moved round the desk to take a look at the screen. Each playing card in the deck featured a member of the Iraqi high command, starting with Saddam and working down through his sons and advisers, politicians and military officers. All of them wanted. Most of them featured a photograph of the person in question, but in some cases the image was replaced by a black outline on a white background. The card featuring Colonel Kadhim al-Samari was one such.
‘There’s no picture?’
‘No. I can try and find one somewhere else, but the CIA are pretty thorough.’
Makana perched on the desk and lit a cigarette. ‘You haven’t heard any rumours that he might be in this country?’
Sami leaned back in his chair to eye Makana. ‘You’re not telling me that you are actually looking for this animal?’ Makana shrugged. Sami’s eyebrows rose. ‘You can’t find something better to do with your time?’
‘Do you think he could be here?’
‘If he was a lot of people would be upset,’ sighed Sami. ‘The Americans to begin with. I mean, we’re supposed to be on their side, right? Why would we be harbouring a wanted man?’
‘Can you look into it for me?’
‘Why not? My life is not worth living these days anyway.’ He glanced in Rania’s direction.
‘But Sami, we need to be discreet about this.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t want anyone to know I’m looking for this one.’ Sami waved a hand to someone on the other side of the room. ‘Ubay, want to earn a little money?’
The lanky figure strolling across the room had long, unruly hair and resembled a taller, slimmer, younger version of Sami, more like the Sami Makana had first met six years ago, before he had settled into the comforts of married life. At a distance Makana had taken him for a young man. He didn’t realise quite how young until he reached them. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen.
‘Ubay is our resident computer genius. He’s been doing this since before he could walk.’
‘What do you need?’ Ubay asked.
‘See what you can find about a man named Kadhim al-Samari. One of Saddam’s officers.’
‘How soon do you need it?’ asked Ubay, raising his eyebrows at Makana.
‘As soon as possible, is the answer to that,’ said Sami, ushering him away. ‘Go, do it and keep it to yourself.’
‘Isn’t he supposed to be in school?’
‘He finished school. He’s already at university. The youngest ever in the Faculty of Engineering. His father wants him to get a proper job. He thinks computers is just a hobby.’
‘It isn’t?’ asked Makana. Sami glanced sideways for a moment, not sure if Makana was trying to be funny. Something began to buzz in Makana’s pocket and he pulled out the offending object and stared at it.
‘I bought a telephone.’
‘Congratulations, welcome to the twenty-first century.’
‘I don’t know why people keep saying that.’ He was unsure what to do next. Sami took it from him and flipped it open before handing it back. Makana nodded his thanks.
‘Hello?’
‘We need to talk.’ It was Marwan.
‘Go ahead. I’m listening.’
‘Not on the phone.’ Marwan told him where and when and then the line clicked dead.
‘Amazing,’ said Makana, folding the telephone.
‘The start of a new life, mark my words,’ said Sami.
‘One last thing,’ Makana said. ‘The man who came up in connection with Dalia Habashi.’
‘Deputy Minister Qasim Abdel Qasim?’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
Sami rolled his eyes. ‘How long have you got?’
‘Just give me the short version.’
‘He’s the original success story of this government, or one of them at least. Comes from good stock. Family of landowners who lost everything under Nasser and then got some of it back under Sadat and even more under our current president. Studied business in America, I believe. Then he went into politics. He’s the perfect example of one hand feeding the other, or whatever the expression is. The state passes laws that benefit private enterprise which in turn takes control of public services. Everyone’s happy and they all make lots of money.’ Sami scratched his head. ‘He’s the sleazy end of the evolutionary chain. Word has it he’s fond of gambling and women. Why the interest?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Makana sighed and got to his feet. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Whenever you say that, I know you’re onto something.’
Ali Shibaker’s auto-repair business was not so much a workshop as a walk-in garage cluttered with machine parts and deconstructed vehicles. More cars were dotted along the narrow street, hoisted up on blocks, hydraulic jacks, wheels off, doors removed, engines stripped. The dust that skirted the road was stained black with caked engine oil.
Once upon a time, in the days when Ali had been a lecturer and Makana a police inspector, they had met through a mutual friend of his wife, Muna. It might have been centuries ago. Luckily Ali was not the type to reminisce. If he had been Makana doubted they would have remained friends for long. Despite the overalls, Ali was almost ten years older than Makana. On top of that he was an intellectual, a man of learning, a sensitive issue for a man who had dashed his schoolteacher father’s grand hopes for him the day he announced his plan to become a detective.
There were around a dozen boys, the youngest about eight. All of them had been street orphans when Ali took them in. He gave them work and let them sleep in or around the cars for as long as they wanted to. He trained them, fed them and paid them what he could. It was a kind of life. And they looked happy enough wandering about, one rolling a tyre along, another stripping the plastic insulation off a piece of wire with his teeth, or swilling out a carburetter in a hubcap of kerosene.