Dogstar Rising

Chapter Two




The two of them went out to face the office. As agreed, Makana was introduced as an assessor whose job was to come up with new ways of improving efficiency. If anyone had difficulty believing the story they made no outward sign of it. There was scepticism on some faces, apart from Wael, the young man with the eager-to-please smile on his face, who actually stood up and applauded rather self-consciously, as if hoping this would improve his chances of surviving any imminent cull of existing staff. With a quick, dismissive wave, Faragalla disappeared back inside his own office and closed the door, leaving Makana to face the stares.

‘And there was me thinking we were in trouble,’ muttered Arwa, the woman in the leopard-skin headscarf, just loud enough for everyone to hear. The others went back to work one by one. Makana became aware of Yousef watching him closely from across the room, but he said nothing and after a time reached for his telephone and began speaking again.

‘Well, I suppose you’re eager to get to work.’

Makana turned to find Meera, who now seemed unsure exactly what note to strike with him now. She led him along a narrow, gloomy corridor past a bathroom to a small room. They leaned in through the doorway. A row of old metal filing cabinets stood guard along one wall, suggesting that once upon a time some semblance of order had existed here. Now it was almost impossible to even get over the threshold due to a mound of folders and files stacked on the floor, climbing perilously in tottering heaps that looked dusty, forgotten and just about ready to keel over the moment anyone touched them.

‘This is our archive room,’ Meera explained. ‘There are files here dating back to the days of Ramses II. Just kidding. I mean, Mr Faragalla’s grandfather – Mustapha Bey.’ She pointed to a black-and-white picture of a man wearing a fez that hung at a lopsided angle on the far wall. ‘In those days it was rather a grand operation,’ she sighed, gazing at a poster on another wall which displayed the elegant old train carriages that used to transport travellers up the Nile. ‘People used to travel in style. Not any more, I’m afraid.’

‘But there are more tourists than ever.’

‘Everyone wants to see the world,’ she nodded, ‘but there’s only so much world to go round.’

Opposite the archive room was a small kitchen. A picture of the company employees was stuck to the front of one of the cupboards with yellowed Sellotape. It showed a group of about twenty people, all lined up alongside a boat on the Nile. It looked like Upper Egypt.

‘Where was this taken?’

‘Oh, that’s Luxor. We have part of our operation there.’

Makana leaned closer to the picture. ‘You’re not here.’

‘No,’ said Meera. ‘Before my time.’

Makana peered at the photograph. He picked out Yousef and Arwa. Standing next to Faragalla was a young man in his twenties.

‘That’s Ramy. Mr Faragalla’s nephew. He is running our Luxor office.’

‘You seem to know your way about this place. How long have you been working here?’

‘About a year.’

‘What did you do before this?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ she brushed a hand through her hair. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Somehow you don’t strike me as someone who belongs in the tourist business.’

She met his gaze evenly. ‘And you don’t strike me as a management consultant.’

‘Fair enough. How does anyone ever manage to make sense of all this?’ he asked, gesturing at the archive room and the heaps of paper.

‘They don’t. This is the age of mass travel. The name of the game is speed. Get as many people into and out of the country as fast as possible. You have to push the prices down as far as they can go. The big foreign agencies demand huge discounts. So the only way to keep going is to increase the volume. People come to Egypt for the trip of a lifetime, but they don’t want to pay more than is absolutely necessary.’

‘You sound like you know a lot about it.’

‘I’m a fast learner, as I hope are you.’ Meera picked up a ledger and began to explain how their accounting system worked. There was a series of categories and codes. Hotels and resorts each had their own sub-headings, as did locations – Sinai, Aswan, Luxor, Valley of the Kings. Then there were packages – Nile cruises, adventure sports, diving, etc. Another set of codes applied to the tourists’ country of origin. Makana had never imagined how complex this business was. They needed interpreters who had fluent Korean, Japanese, Chinese and Russian, as well as English, French, German and Spanish.

‘You’ll excuse me if I say that this doesn’t look like the most efficient way of counting money in the world. How do you square all the accounts?’

‘Well, I’ll be honest with you, since you are here to help the company,’ Meera said, looking him in the eye. ‘That worried me at first, then I realised they just make it up.’

‘So that all the pieces fit?’

‘Exactly.’

Back in the main office the woman in the hijab, Arwa, muttered loudly: ‘This place is like a prison sentence.’ It wasn’t clear who the comment was aimed at exactly. She rummaged in an enormous handbag that took up most of her desk and produced a bottle of perfume which she proceeded to spray in a halo around her head, as if warding off evil spirits. ‘Did I tell you they took my nephew away? Nothing. No charges, no idea where he was or why. He just vanished.’

‘You’ll have to excuse her,’ Wael addressed Makana. ‘Arwa has her own special way of expressing herself.’ He ended with a chirpy giggle.

‘You can laugh, you don’t have responsibilities. They beat that boy so badly he still doesn’t walk properly. And for what? For wearing a beard? For declaring his love for Allah?’

Wael was still laughing, although it wasn’t clear why. Arwa made a dismissive gesture.

‘If you had a family you might understand. Or maybe you’re not interested in marriage?’ A sneer twisted her features. ‘Is that it?’ Wael suddenly took a great interest in rooting through a heap of paperwork in front of him. Arwa chuckled, her fat fingers crunching the stapler as they might an insect.

‘Why don’t you give your overworked tongue a rest,’ snarled Yousef. His face had a rodent-like quality to it and he carried himself with the assurance of a man who is not afraid of much. He certainly commanded authority in that office. The others were silenced. When he smiled, a thin-lipped leer crossed the pockmarked face. ‘Mr Makana is here to help us. Isn’t that right?’

‘I’m certainly going to try.’

‘He’s going to try.’ The idea seemed to amuse Yousef. ‘You hear that? He’s going to show us the error of our ways. So why don’t you all stop complaining and get to work before he decides the solution lies in throwing you to the dogs.’

Suddenly everyone had something else to do. The chatter of conversation died as if cut off by a knife. Yousef gave Makana one last look before turning away.



By the time Talal turned up late that afternoon, Makana had already concluded that his love for Faragalla’s youngest daughter was a hopeless quest. He was also convinced that nothing but divine intervention could improve the fortunes of Blue Ibis Tours. What Faragalla really needed was a decent accountant with a sharp pencil. The company records were in a chaotic state. They were in such a hurry to take on new business they tossed aside old files the minute the tourists were on their plane home. He was willing to bet there was a small fortune buried there in outstanding debts and duplicate bills.

Talal’s tall, bony frame was topped by a wild bush that he probably imagined made him look like a mad conductor. To most people, of course, he just looked mad. Cheerful by nature, he was greeted by the others with surprising warmth. Everyone seemed not only to know him but to be glad to see him. Makana watched from his corner of the room as Talal drifted round, perching himself on a desk here, sharing a joke there. He seemed capable of lifting everyone’s mood, even Arwa appeared to lighten.

‘Have you met our latest recruit?’ Wael asked, waving a hand in Makana’s direction. ‘He’s going to save us all from ruin.’

‘Of course he knows him,’ snapped Arwa. ‘They are compatriots, after all.’

‘Not all Sudanese are born knowing one another,’ Wael countered bravely.

‘We do actually know each other,’ Talal smiled. ‘In fact, I recommended him to Sayyid Faragalla.’ For a moment Makana wondered if he was going to get carried away and tell all.

‘You see?’ Arwa shook her head and Wael rolled his eyes.

‘In fact, I was hoping he was going to show his gratitude by buying me a cup of coffee.’

Which was music to Makana’s ears. He was already on his feet reaching for his jacket.

On the ground floor a sad trail of lifeless shops lined a passage leading into the building from the street. The crumbling stucco around the entrance arch had been covered over by tacky sheets of chromed plastic adorned with gaudy kaleidoscopic tassels that fluttered in the occasional gust of wind. Somewhere an architect was turning over slowly in his grave. The dim arcade was lifted from the gloom by the white neon strip lighting covered in cobwebs that illuminated the shop displays. Cracks in the floor stood out like veins on the worn marble. Hijabbed mannequins stared glassily at Makana and Talal as they passed down to a narrow café set so far back that daylight barely reached it from the street. The distorted screech of excited music greeted them and the door appeared to be permanently jammed halfway open. Inside there was barely room for a grubby counter and a couple of tables that might once have been bright orange in colour but were now a shade of mud. Talal’s arrival was met by a brief nod of recognition from a heavy-set man whose right eye drooped severely to one side. He leered at them from behind the counter.

‘Look,’ Talal said as they sat down, ‘I know you are doing this as a favour to me, or to my father really, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Makana, idly watching the man behind the bar fishing a couple of cups out of a sink of dirty water. ‘Your father was a good friend.’

‘If you could only meet her, you would understand how much she means to me.’ Talal grinned like a schoolboy.

‘I’d love to meet her.’ Makana didn’t have the heart to tell Talal that to judge from the look on Faragalla’s face when his name came up, Talal had as much chance of impressing the girl’s father as the sphinx had of flying.

‘You would? When?’

‘I don’t know, anytime.’

Makana had never had a son himself. He had hoped, of course, but when Muna delivered a girl he contented himself with that and Nasra was as dear to him as any son could ever have been, more so even. Muna used to tease him about it. Men always talk about sons, she used to say, but what they dream about is a daughter who will take care of them and admire them more than any son could ever do. But they were both gone now. Talal had lost his father and seemed to have turned to Makana to fill that absence in some way.

‘That would be great. I mean, I don’t have any family here, really, apart from my mother. I want her to know where I come from. You understand?’

Makana looked into the earnest young man’s face and nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

A boy of about thirteen came in through the door carrying a heavy bag. As he went behind the counter the man grabbed hold of him by the neck and dragged him out through a back door where he began to shout at him. Having finished shouting at the boy, the man came out and walked straight towards the door.

‘Hey, what about our coffee?’

‘The boy will see to it,’ muttered the man, who paused then and took his time to look Talal over as he lit a cigarette. ‘Muhammed,’ he called, raising his voice, his eyes still on Talal, ‘hurry up, people are waiting.’ Smiling, he then turned and walked out.

‘I understand you had more important things to talk about,’ the afro bobbed up and down energetically. ‘So now you’re on the case, right? You’re working?’

‘Actually, I’m not sure how much I can do here.’

Talal looked pained. ‘I told him you were the best.’

‘It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.’ Makana had already decided he would give the Blue Ibis four days, a week at the most, and if nothing came up he would quietly break it off. That would give him enough money to get to the end of the month, if he was careful. As for Talal’s chances of marriage, he didn’t want to even think about how he was going to break the news to the young man.

‘You have to solve this one, really. My life depends on it.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind. Tell me about the company. How long have you worked for them?’

‘Oh, a couple of years now. On and off. It’s all temporary. In my position I have to move around from company to company, taking any work I can find.’

‘Go on.’

‘I suppose I charge less than most interpreters. Well, I know I do. I have to. It’s the only way to have an edge. Nine times out of ten they would rather not hire a foreigner.’

‘You’re not a foreigner, your mother is from here.’

‘They take one look at your skin.’ Talal shook his head. ‘You know how it is.’

‘I get the impression business is not going too well upstairs.’ Makana lit a cigarette as the boy came out from the narrow space behind the counter to place two small glasses of coffee down on the table. As he straightened up he felt Makana’s gaze on him and his eyes darted away. Talal was still talking.

‘They live on their name, which is not bad. It still has some leverage. But you know, loyalty to hotels that had a good reputation twenty years ago doesn’t make much sense nowadays . . .’

‘Faragalla is slow to change. Who takes over when he goes? Your young lady?’

‘Bunny?’ Talal winced. ‘No, I don’t see her taking over. She hates the business.’

‘Who else is there, any sons?’

‘No sons. There is a nephew, Ramy.’

‘The one who is running the office in Luxor.’

‘Ah, you heard.’ Talal stopped stirring his coffee. ‘He’s a strange one. He didn’t tell anyone he was going, just disappeared from one day to the next. There was a story he was mixed up with some of the clients. Women. You know . . .’ The eyebrows bounced up to meet the afro. ‘I’d better be going. I have a piano lesson.’

‘Really, you’re learning to play the piano?’ It was lame, but it raised a laugh.

‘Very funny. No, I give lessons.’ The wiry young man turned his attention to the device in his shirt pocket. The wires on the earplugs had become tangled and he suddenly became interested in unravelling them, as if this was the most important task in the world. ‘Have you ever heard of the Conservatory in Vienna?’ Talal looked up to see the blank look on Makana’s face before going on. ‘Well, it’s simply the best school of its kind in the world.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘They invited me to audition. If they like my work I’ll get a scholarship to attend for a year.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

Vienna seemed as far away as Mars. Why he should want to go there was beyond Makana.

‘There’s only one problem. To get a visa I need to prove I have enough money to live there for a year. Can you imagine how much that is?’ Tilal waited for Makana’s response. ‘I would need to rob a bank to get that kind of money.’

‘Things work themselves out.’ Which was another way of saying that Makana had no spare cash to lend. He had barely enough to live on himself. Talal nodded solemnly, as if he never expected anything different. After a time he said:

‘Do you ever, you know, think about going back?’

‘Back?’

‘Back home I mean.’

‘There’s nothing for me to go back to,’ Makana said. He peered into his glass. The coffee had tasted faintly of detergent, which he found oddly reassuring.

‘And if there was a reason, would you do it?’

‘You’re full of questions today.’

‘Maalish,’ said Talal, bouncing to his feet again. ‘I probably shouldn’t have asked.’

Makana watched him go, the long, slim figure loping along in a loose-limbed way through the arcades towards the opening and the tangle of hooting, nervous traffic beyond. In a way he envied him. The boy moved in a different world to him. He was doing all right. If it didn’t work out with Bunny, or whatever her name was, that would be all right too. He was still young. He had ambitions and he clearly had talent of some kind.

With a glance towards the counter Makana got to his feet. The boy, who was barely visible, was busy furiously scrubbing something out of sight. In a gesture of sympathy, Makana dropped an extra note on the table.