Dogstar Rising

Chapter Twenty




On the way to Ridwan Hilal’s place Makana noticed that a small motorcycle seemed to be following them. It hung back, always three or four cars behind. A couple of times it actually passed them. The bike was an old Java, in good condition, running smoothly and producing little exhaust. The rider was a man in his forties, slightly overweight, with thinning hair, unshaven, chin flecked with grey, wearing a brown flannel shirt and a pair of soft shoes with split seams. A television set was strapped to the baggage rack. It seemed like an unlikely amount of trouble to take to make him look convincing. He didn’t turn his head and after a time Makana decided he must have been wrong.

There were other distractions. A long and turbulent stream of rustic philosophy churned its way from Sindbad’s mind and out into the world.

‘It’s not as if I have anything against them, ya bey,’ he laboured, trying to explain himself. ‘I am a simple man and if Our Lord says they are ahl-al-kitab, well, that’s good enough for me.’

The People of the Book. The notion that all three monotheistic religions derived from the same written source, drank from the same well as it were, and therefore were deserving of mutual respect. It was a nice idea in theory.

The mourning area had gone, leaving the narrow street quieter and devoid of drapes and chairs, though it was still occupied by Ishaq and his boys. There was a discipline about them that was reminiscent of a trained military unit. They nodded and exchanged whispered commands as he approached. Ishaq stared at him sullenly and nodded for him to be waved through.

Inside nothing appeared to have moved since his last visit. The door was answered by the same sister although dressed more informally in a black gelabiya with gold embroidery, her hand on her plump hip as she peered at him. Maysoun. Her name came to him as she led the way down the hall.

Ridwan Hilal was sitting in exactly the same position as Makana had left him, as though he had taken up living behind his desk in his study. He wore blue pyjamas that he appeared to have been wearing for days. The top buttons were undone, exposing a large expanse of white undervest covering an expansive midriff. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label that had almost been drained of its contents stood on the desk in front of him. Maysoun rolled her eyes as she left them alone. ‘As you can see,’ Hilal wheezed, ‘I find solace in the evils of man. Can I offer you a drink?’

‘No, thank you,’ Makana produced his cigarettes and placed one in his mouth to light.

‘Now you see, there is one of the great contradictions of our age. The Holy Quran.’ Hilal bowed forward until his head was almost touching the desktop. He remained like that as if he had lost his train of thought. Then he sat up and fished about in the plastic bowl for ice that wasn’t there.

‘Maysoun! Maysoun!’

Makana wondered how long he had been in this state. A strand of hair had come free and hung lankly down the doctor’s forehead. He brushed at it absently.

‘Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Sura 4, Verse 43 of the Holy Quran tells us: Believers, do not approach your prayers when you are drunk, but wait until you can grasp the meaning of your words.’ He chuckled and sipped his warm whisky before going on. ‘How reasonable that sounds. To ask that you are sincere in your worship. What does it mean? I shall tell you. It means that alcohol and faith are not mutually exclusive. It demands only sincerity in the act of devotion. Isn’t that beautiful?’ He thumped a hand on the desk which made pens and papers jump. ‘Now, my point is this.’ His eyes were glazed buttons behind the thick lenses. ‘Why can these men who try to bore us to death with their Islam not show the same reason and tolerance as their own sacred text? Are you a religious man, Mr Makana?’

‘That depends on who’s doing the asking.’

‘Of course. Of course. Now take that cigarette you so casually lit. Naturally, you are aware of the hazards to which you expose yourself, yet as a grown man you take responsibility for your actions. Had cigarettes been around in the sixth century, you realise, there is little doubt they would have been banned. We happily pontificate about alcohol while placing between our lips something which Doctor Freud would call a substitute for our mother’s nipple. Do you imagine I could stand up in public in Attaba Square and explain that without being lynched?’

Makana was examining his cigarette in this new light as Maysoun entered the room carrying a bowl of ice cubes. She placed it quietly down and left the room.

‘I accepted her offer to stay on and help,’ Hilal sighed, reaching for the bottle. ‘And with every clumsy gesture she reminds me of how unique my beloved Meera was. Now let me continue my lecture on the abuses of religion. You are familiar, of course, with the famous Sheikh Waheed. Infamous, I should perhaps say.’

‘I witnessed him speaking the other day.’

‘Good for you. My question is this: why is Sheikh Waheed spreading rumours that these children are being sacrificed in some kind of Christian ritual? You’re familiar with these murders in Imbaba of course.’

‘A little.’

‘How easily people are swayed by rumour. The papers are talking about the Angel of Imbaba, a strange apparition that some believe is evil and others benevolent. Anyway, clearly there is a maniac at large who should be apprehended. Sheikh Waheed is well aware that he is talking nonsense.’ Hilal drank thirstily and refilled the glass, ice cubes skittering across the table. ‘I heard him myself on the television telling the world that these children are being sacrificed in rituals conducted by Christians. Blood libel was an accusation raised for centuries against the Jews, not the Christians. The Protocols of Zion. You are familiar with them?’

‘I’ve heard of them,’ Makana muttered, trying to hold on to the man’s logic.

‘That is where you will find such fairy tales. Sheikh Waheed is not a fool, he is much more dangerous than that. He is a knowledgeable fool. And while we are at it, let us ask, why is the government supporting him?’ Ridwan Hilal sat back like an elder statesman, hands folded across his paunch, his eyes closing for a moment. ‘I don’t have to tell you the answer to that.’

‘I understand Meera used to teach the boys English at Father Macarius’ church.’

The eyes opened and Hilal poured the remaining dregs into his glass, setting down the empty bottle with a sigh.

‘It was one of Meera’s little obsessions. She always said that if she ever had the chance, and the money, she would start a charity. Well, she never did, but she did help Father Macarius with his little youth club. She volunteered there. She taught the boys to read. She wanted to do good.’

‘Have you had any further thoughts on what appears in those letters?’

Hilal sat up and straightened his glasses, suddenly alert. ‘You understand that the verses of the Quran can be divided into those which are precise in meaning and those which are ambiguous, yes? The ayat muhkamat and the ayat mutashabihaat. There is some implication that those whose hearts are troubled by doubt follow the ambiguous parts. In other words, these encourage dissent.’

‘And the Sura of The Star is one of the ambiguous ones?’

‘Precisely, which supports the theory that they were not meant as a threat at all.’

‘You mean, it was some kind of warning? For whom?’

‘For me, of course.’ Hilal’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Why didn’t she show it to me?’

‘Meera knew you would think she was trying to persuade you to leave the country. She knew you wouldn’t leave, because of your work.’

‘She told you that?’ Hilal pondered for a moment. ‘What do you know about the nature of my work? The history of Islam?’ Hilal brushed his own question aside impatiently. ‘Have you at least heard of the Mu’tazilites?’

‘The group of medieval philosophers?’

‘Very good. The Mu’tazili school of rationalism believed that God is perfect and complete. Man has to be free to make mistakes. To find solutions that will answer the challenges of society, we must apply reason to what is written in the Quran. This type of rational discourse is of course known simply as kalam – to talk or debate.’

Ridwan Hilal was transported by the mere act of explaining. This, Makana decided, was the man Meera had fallen in love with.

‘Another school of thought emerged around the same time which naturally believed the exact opposite. The Hanbalis. To them adherence to doctrine was everything. But see’ – Hilal stretched his big paws across on the table – ‘how close we are to Western civilisation in this. The roots of Greek democracy lie in the Athenian agora where citizens gathered to stroll freely and to talk – kalam. For Islam to endure, it has to grow, to become, as Ibn Arabi put it so beautifully in the thirteenth century, a religion of comprehensive love.’ Ridwan Hilal was like a lost man seeking solace in his mind. ‘Ibn Arabi sought to make Islam contemporary, to reconcile it with other faiths. Ideas are the most dangerous thing we have. You can kill a man but his ideas live on.’

Makana stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and stood up. Through the window the view of the street was obscured by a large carob tree. The long, hanging pods dangled like strange worms between the branches. Below, he glimpsed the young seraphs huddled together in conference, perhaps planning to get him when he left the building.

‘You’re saying you would rather die than give up your ideas. Meera believed in you.’

‘I believe she was trying to persuade me to go abroad, if only for a short time.’

‘She told me she had the feeling things were about to change.’

‘What things?’

‘Things,’ repeated Makana. ‘That’s what she said.’

Hilal shook his head. ‘That makes no sense to me.’

‘Meera was spending a lot of time at the office.’

‘She worked hard, yes.’ Hilal shrugged. ‘There is nothing unusual about that.’

‘She stayed late and arrived early, which suggests that she wanted to be alone.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe she was working on something. Did she ever talk about the Blue Ibis?’

‘It was work, nothing more. It kept us alive.’ Short of breath, the plump man gave a long sigh and reached for his cigarettes. Placing one between his lips, he flicked the lighter. The flame warmed the pallid face, slick with a thin film of perspiration. ‘I wish you would leave this alone. For the dignity of her memory.’

‘Other lives may be at stake.’

‘What others?’

‘We still do not know why she was shot. Until we do know we can’t rule anything out.’

‘Fine. Fine,’ Hilal muttered impatiently. ‘If that’s what it takes.’

‘Tell me about the scandal that lost you your job, and Meera hers.’

‘Our lives stopped from one minute to the next, thanks to that charlatan.’

‘You mean, Sheikh Waheed?’

Hilal nodded. ‘Even you must have noticed the level of education to which our beloved president has managed to lower this country. Graduates who are barely able to spell their own names. Writers who are awarded honours for praising his Highness. Sheikhs are the court jesters.’

‘It was a difference of opinion that started it?’

‘It was corruption. These new Islamic banks look for figures to endorse them. Sheikh Waheed has a high profile, a lot of followers. If he appears on television to recommend a certain bank they will go with him. It made him a rich man.’

‘What about Professor Serhan, was that professional rivalry?’

‘Serhan?’ Behind the glasses the twin buttons seemed to glow with fury. ‘The man is an idiot. His vanity eclipses his stupidity. He steals most of his ideas.’ Hilal was working himself into a frenzy. He wheezed and puffed on his cigarette as if determined to choke himself to death on the spot. ‘Intellectually, that door you came through is superior to him. He has the brains of a small child and that’s being unkind to children.’

‘He was instrumental in opposing your professorship. Yet, you were friends when you were students, I understand.’

‘When one is young, the putty is still unformed. It is easy to form acquaintances which, in the course of time, prove themselves to be errors.’

‘Would it be possible for me to look through Meera’s things?’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘I think it might help at this stage.’

‘Very well. Maysoun will show you.’ He raised his voice and the sister appeared in the doorway clutching her hands together. After another long moment’s hesitation she turned and led the way to a narrow doorway off the hall. She opened it with an air of cautious ceremony as if half expecting to find her sister still sitting there, working away. It was a simple study. Half the size of her husband’s room at the other end of the apartment. It contained bookshelves along one wall and a desk over which hung an old Metro Cinema poster of Laurence Olivier in Hamlet.

‘Did she ever mention that she was planning to leave the country?’

‘Leave?’ Tugging a white handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and burying her nose in it, she said, ‘Never. I mean, she talked about it. Who can live in this country?’

‘In her place you would have left already?’ Makana brought his eyes away from the books to the woman in the doorway.

‘If I had the chance I would leave tomorrow.’ She sounded a resentful note.

He went back to the shelves in front of him, asking casually, ‘How did the family take to her marrying him, I mean, Doctor Hilal being a Muslim?’

‘Of course, it’s not the same, but it’s what happens. Anyway, she always did as she pleased, and expected the world to arrange itself around her.’

‘It can’t have been easy for you.’

‘It wasn’t. Many people refused to have anything to do with her, but what can you do? We are a family.’

‘Of course.’

Maysoun sniffed. ‘His faith was not the problem. It was politics. For years we begged her to get him to moderate his views. You cannot reason with fanatics. What’s the point of antagonising them? He lost his job. Her career was ruined.’ She buried her nose in the handkerchief and blew hard. ‘I asked her to tell him to apologise. He refused. Too proud. And now look.’

‘You blame him for her death, but Meera believed in him. She supported his ideas.’

‘Ideas!’ Maysoun clutched her handkerchief fiercely. ‘What do ideas matter? They are nothing but the fruit of man’s vanity.’

With that she spun on her heels and disappeared down the hall. Makana turned his thoughts on the person who used to inhabit this room. It was the study of a dedicated academic. Meera had obviously read widely, in English, Arabic and French. There were shelves weighed down with theory and others crammed with dog-eared novels. They were used up like old rags that had been through the ringer too many times, corners bent and pages yellowed, spines cracked open to reveal the wonders they contained. The mystery that was Meera threaded its way through all of this. He flipped through some of the books on the shelf finding her name in journals and anthologies, the author of papers on Thomas Hardy and George Eliot. A wave of sudden familiarity washed over him as he recalled Muna’s study at home, and that in turn brought back Damazeen. Could he be telling the truth? Could Nasra still be alive?

His concentration broken, Makana returned the book he was holding to its place and turned his attention to the desk. An antique writing bureau with a carved back. It had a number of small drawers and cubbyholes. It wasn’t in mint condition. Was anything in this tired city? Everything seemed exhausted and on its last legs. The varnish was scratched and in a couple of places the elegance of an arch was curtailed abruptly where a mishap of some kind had chipped off a corner. Scars in the base showed that the tabletop, now fixed roughly in place with a couple of hasty screws, had once been a folding leaf. Its faded style hinted at the elegance of another age and he wondered if it had once belonged to the grandfather she had spoken of.

The chair creaked comfortably as he settled himself into it. For a long moment he remained motionless, taking in everything in sight. He was aware that he had barely glimpsed the surface of who or what Meera had been, and that the key to her death lay in somehow managing to see through her eyes. A tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl contained pens and pencils. Objects she chose with care. On the right side a series of shelves contained sheets of paper and envelopes of various sizes, shapes and colours, all stacked in order. He went through these slowly and meticulously, opening old bills and leafing through receipts. The drawers were cluttered with things she did not much care for but could not bring herself to throw out. A tangle of ribbons, Sellotape, thumbtacks, a bottle of Chinese ink for an old-fashioned fountain pen. The pen itself was a bulky German thing. A man’s pen. The name Graf von Faber-Castell engraved on the side. The left-hand side of the desk was taken up by a stack of three little drawers. Each with a heart-shaped piece of ivory inset around a tiny keyhole. One of them was missing its little ebony handle. None of them was locked. The first was stuffed with more outdated receipts: a watch-repair shop, Madbouli’s bookshop, a stationer’s in Sharia al-Kasr, a pharmacy in Zamalek. He sifted through and replaced them. The second contained bits of jewellery, odd earrings, a pair of spectacles with a cracked lens, old coins and notes from Syria, Greece, French Francs, Italian Lira, Spanish Pesetas. The watch and the glasses belonged to a man, mementoes perhaps of her father. As he was stuffing them all back the drawer snagged and refused to close fully. Pulling it all the way out he peered into the cavity and saw that something had been caught at the back. It must have slipped down or been stuffed there. Scrabbling about with his fingers he eventually managed to free it: a photograph of three men in military uniforms. It appeared to have been taken in a desert somewhere. He studied the barrenness behind them and wondered where it could be. Then he turned his attention to the faces. He immediately recognised two of them: Rocky was at the back, his left eye drooping. Second from the left was Ramy, Faragalla’s nephew. Makana remembered him from the picture of the excursion at the Blue Ibis offices. The third man he hadn’t seen before. Makana turned the picture over, but nothing was written on the back. After a moment he tucked it into his pocket. As he turned to leave, Makana paused in the doorway and wondered what he wasn’t seeing. Maysoun was standing by the front door, her head bowed.

‘Thank you,’ he said, as she opened the door for him. She said nothing. It looked as though she had been crying.