Dogstar Rising

Chapter Nineteen




The night passed in turmoil with Makana tossing and turning restlessly, finally wrenching himself free by getting out of bed to lean on the rails. He watched the electric light toiling on the water as he smoked his way through every cigarette he could lay his hands on, including the remains of a packet that he discovered behind the old moth-eaten divan in the downstairs room. The tobacco was so dry he had to hold the cigarette at an angle to stop it falling out. It tasted like ashes.

As the river softened from gleaming obsidian to the warm embers of early morning, Makana had lost count of the number of times he had gone over the events of that night ten years ago in his head. Why had he made the decision to take them with him when he ran? Some protective instinct? He remembered running, though. Running down the long arc of the bridge. Running into darkness and the desert beyond where nothing but blackness awaited him.

Muna and Nasra had left him with an empty void where his heart was. How do you recover from that? He had never seen their bodies, never buried them, and never truly forgiven himself. Was this what Damazeen was offering? A chance to end it, after all these years? Exhausted, he finally fell back into the old wicker armchair and felt his eyes closing. A moment later, or so it seemed, the telephone rang.

‘Hello?’ The light hurt his eyes. The sun was already high in the sky and the daily racket of the traffic across the bridge in full swing. He must have slept for at least two hours.

At first he thought there was no one there. It took a while for him to hear the uneven breathing coming down the line.

‘Is that you again? Won’t you tell me who you are?’

‘There are things you need to know.’

‘I’m listening,’ Makana yawned. There was a long pause and he thought his caller had gone.

‘Not . . . on the telephone.’

‘Don’t you think I need to know who I’m talking to before we meet?’

‘The Fish Gardens in Zamalek, tomorrow night at sunset.’

The line clicked dead. Makana stared at the receiver for a long time. His mysterious caller had gained the courage to speak. Progress. From the way he spoke and his accent, Makana guessed he was an educated man. Not young, but not old either. It was a voice he did not know.

Umm Ali’s brother, Bassam, was lying in wait for him on the path up to the road. He opened his mouth as if to say something about the rent, but Makana cut him off with a breezy sabah al-kheir, which forced a response and by then he was past him and up on the road looking for Sindbad.

‘I swear you look more like a ghost every day.’

‘Thank you, and I trust the family is well?’

‘Alhamdoulilah! The children eat like horses. I swear we will have to move into a bigger flat soon. Though I have no idea how I shall ever be able to afford it, prices being what they are.’

‘Allah will provide.’

‘Inshallah.’

Having dealt with the formalities, they now contemplated the traffic, which by some miracle was good that morning. It took less than twenty minutes to get downtown. Their first port of call was the Blue Ibis offices which were closed and shuttered. Either Faragalla was supremely confident about his company’s prospects, or he did not care.

Downstairs in the arcade a sombre air hung over the place. The windows had been repaired and the mannequins replaced. They stood now with their lifeless gaze fixed on some distant point. A man in a striped gelabiyya was using a bucket and a long dirty rag to wash the floor, drawing it back and forth in slow, patient strokes. It seemed like an endless task and as Makana went by the man straightened up and put a hand to his back before wringing a dirty reddish-brown liquid into a plastic bucket. There was a loud wet slap as the rag was dropped back to the tiles, and silently the man bent once more to his work. The shutters on the café, tucked into the far corner, were half lifted. Makana ducked underneath to find the place deserted. He walked slowly round behind the counter and peered through into the little room at the back. A single naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling pushed back the gloom. Makana could feel a soft, cool breeze in his face and he wondered where it came from. On the far side of the room was a cupboard that had been pulled back to reveal a hole in the wall. It had been roughly broken with a hammer, and was barely large enough for an adult. Makana squatted down and stuck his head through and found a narrow passageway that seemed to extend in both directions, running along some kind of gap between this building and the next. He felt something cold and hard press against his throat. A carving knife that was long and sharp. An arm covered in plaster tightened around his neck.

‘What do you think you are doing?’

‘I came about the cigarettes we talked about.’

‘I haven’t got them,’ said Eissa. ‘Why are you sneaking about in here?’

‘Take the knife away before we have an accident.’

‘You’ll do what I say or end up bleeding like a headless chicken.’

‘I can’t talk like this. Let me up. I’m not going to hurt you.’

There was a moment’s hesitation and then Eissa stepped back. Makana got to his feet and rubbed his throat which stung faintly where the blade had cut the skin. The knife was a big one and it was pointed at Makana’s stomach.

‘You don’t need that.’

‘What are you doing in here?’ The boy’s eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

‘I told you. I came for my cigarettes. You weren’t out there so I looked in here.’

‘Are you police?’

‘No. I’m a friend of Meera’s, remember?’

‘You tried to help her. That was really stupid.’

‘I thought you liked her.’

Eissa shifted his grip on the knife, as if his hand was growing tired. He had just opened his mouth to say something when a shout came from the café.

‘Eissa! Eissa!’

The boy froze. His whole body tensed. He gestured with the blade for Makana to move to the side, while holding a finger to his lips.

‘If you say a word,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll kill you. I swear. Stay here and be quiet.’

Makana stood just behind the door, out of sight. The boy looked at him and then turned and went out into the café.

‘What were you doing back there?’ asked the voice.

‘Just tidying up.’

‘Well stop wasting your time. This place should be open already. Have you been crying?’

‘No.’

‘Well what’s that on your face? You look disgusting. Wipe it off before anyone sees you.’

There came the sound of running water. The tone of the other speaker softened. Makana thought it could be Rocky, but he wasn’t sure.

‘I’ll get him. I promise you. Didn’t I promise you? I’ll get the retard.’

Makana edged closer and peered through the crack between the half-open door and the frame. Rocky stood with his back to him. From this angle it was easy to see that he had been a boxer. The broad shoulders and neck. He saw Eissa shy away as Rocky lifted a hand to slowly caress the back of his neck.

‘You don’t have to cry, you know. I’m not going to hurt you. I told you that. You’re special. Not like the others. You’re my lieutenant, right?’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll get the retard who killed him. Don’t worry about that.’

‘But why? Why did he do it?’

‘Because he’s retarded. I just told you. Now get this place cleaned up, okay? Otherwise that old man out there will start asking questions.’

When Rocky was gone Makana stepped out of the storeroom. Eissa stared at him.

‘Is he the one who did that?’ Makana indicated the plaster cast. Eissa turned away.

‘He didn’t mean it.’ The boy stared down at the floor. ‘He gets carried away.’

‘Stay away from him, Eissa,’ said Makana. ‘He’s a dangerous man.’

‘What do you care?’ demanded Eissa, then his face brightened. ‘I can still get those cigarettes, if you’re interested?’

‘Sure,’ said Makana. ‘Then we can all smoke ourselves to death.’



Makana’s mind was still in turmoil. The thought of Nasra having been alive all of these years struck him as absurd. How could it be? He felt as if his whole world had been turned upside down. It was a short walk to Amir Medani’s office. The lawyer was buried, as usual, beneath a thick layer of stale tobacco smoke and a wall of yellowing paper heaped up around the desk; a maze of human rights abuses and war crimes that came to rest in this shabby little room like malevolent spirits. Amir Medani was a genial, slightly overweight man with a weary face. A deeply political animal who was incapable of keeping his mouth shut. It had landed him in prison when Makana was a police officer and Medani a simple criminal lawyer, and it had eventually landed him here, in this office in Cairo, fighting the good fight. He gave Makana the same advice Makana had just given Eissa.

‘Take my advice and stay away from Damazeen. He’s a dangerous man.’

‘But what if it’s true?’

‘Listen to me, don’t spend any time thinking about it. You’ll only torture yourself. Why would Mek Nimr bring her up as his own? It makes no sense.’

In a way it did make a strange kind of sense. Here was Mek Nimr’s ultimate revenge: taking over Makana’s life, or what was left of it. Nasra became his daughter. She probably had little or no recollection of her early life. The problem, Makana realised, was that a part of him wanted to believe Damazeen. He stared out through the window at the elevated overpass and the constant stream of traffic flying over it. Immediately across from him a cart piled high with huge bundles wrapped in burlap was holding up traffic. Between the shafts, in place of a horse or donkey, was a man trying to move it along. It was a superhuman task, a sight that defied belief as he struggled beneath the towering objects above him.

‘And why does he want you in on this arms deal?’ Amir Medani demanded. ‘He’s setting up a trap and if you are not careful you’ll fall right in the middle of it.’

‘But why would he be setting a trap? What does he want from me?’

‘Who knows. But I don’t trust him and neither should you. Stay away from him. Meanwhile, I’ll make some enquiries. We’ll find out soon enough if there’s any truth to this.’

Across the way, the man leaned all his weight forward, straining to place one foot in front of the other like a man trying to walk on the bottom of the sea. Behind him a bleating flock of vehicles scrabbled to try and get past him.

‘How easy is it to sell arms?’

‘Easy enough,’ shrugged Amir Medani. ‘It’s all quite legal. You can sell weapons to anyone you like. All you need is what they call an end-user’s certificate. And remember, we have had a civil war in our country for almost twenty years. Seventy per cent of the annual budget goes on arms. There are lots of guns. When was the last time you ate?’ Amir Medani looked at his watch. ‘Listen to me, you have to be very careful with this. You’re not thinking straight.’

‘I need to know if it’s true, if Nasra is really alive.’

‘Just leave it with me. Don’t think about it. Let me make some calls. If Damazeen is planning a weapons deal in this town you can bet that our friends in State Security know all about it. Nothing happens here without them getting their cut.’ Amir Medani rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. ‘I have a bad feeling about this. Promise me you won’t do anything until you hear from me? I’m sure this is a trap.’

Makana looked at him. He wondered what choice he had.