Dogstar Rising

Chapter Twenty-One




It was almost eleven o’clock by the time Makana reached the uneven streets of the Mouski and stepped into the narrow gap beside the old silversmith’s shop. At this hour of the evening the metal shutters were down along the shopfronts and the streets were deserted. The odd naked lightbulb spilled watery pools of illumination over the shadows. Cats stepped daintily through the garbage left from the day’s market like queens from a forgotten age. The hiss of an oil lamp marked the progress of a man trundling his cart homeward, his back bowed with weariness. The cart was laden with heaps of peanuts and roasted melon seeds, wayward horns of paper cones curled skyward like model towers in a fantastical city.

The air felt muggy and humid, as if it might rain. The narrow cut looked dark and uninviting. Makana picked his way carefully. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he found the faint city glow filtering over the rooftops was enough for him to see by. Despite the late hour and the silence, as he cut across the square Makana had the impression he was being observed. When he tugged the bell there was again a long pause before the quiet slap of slippers could be heard approaching. The bolt was drawn and the door swung open to reveal the same small boy in his red tarboosh. Once again, as he crossed the threshold, Makana felt the modern world fall away and his mood lift as he climbed the spiral staircase, one hand on the bone-smooth stone. The hall of bird cages was dark and still, each cage now veiled by a sheet of white cloth. Makana recognised the sprightly figure of Yunis waiting for him at the far end. His silhouette stark against the glow on the other side of the open doorway.

‘Ah!’ He removed his dark glasses to get a better look at Makana. ‘You look tired. What’s the matter, you’re not sleeping well?’

‘I was up late.’

‘You need to get married again. You’re still young. Soon it won’t be that easy. You’ll get used to solitude, the sound of your own voice.’

‘I could always start collecting birds.’

‘A poor substitute for a wife. Take my word for it.’ His skin looked as pale and translucent as onionskin paper, an exotic species of bird about to be blown away.

‘I wondered if you had had any thoughts about printers.’

They sat in the protruding alcove, overlooking the garden. He allowed the solitude to transport him momentarily to another age, when caravans stopped for the night and the yard below would fill with the shuffle of camels and packhorses being watered and fed, having borne ice from distant mountains, or animal skins laden with salt across the desert.

‘Do you think he suspects you?’

‘Yousef?’ Makana reached for a cigarette. ‘I really don’t know. There’s more to him than I thought.’

He reached into the pocket of his gelabiya and handed over a list of some fifteen names.

‘These printers are the kind you are looking for. Simple establishments, old machines falling into disrepair.’ He produced a half-smoked cigarette from another pocket and lit it. The old man’s cheeks seemed to hollow impossibly as he drew smoke into his lungs. ‘The letters show a lack of attention to detail which means laziness. Which then cut the list further in my mind.’ He spoke over his shoulder as he led the way into the circular library to pluck a book from a shelf.

‘Statistics In Comparative Human Development: A Case Study.’ Makana looked up. ‘Sounds fascinating.’

‘Examine the first page. Look closely at the places I have marked.’ Yunis held up one of the letters Makana had given him. ‘Do you see it?’

‘They were printed on the same machine?’

Yunis took the book from Makana and turned it over so that he could read the printer’s name: Mereekh Academic Publishers Egypt. ‘They do a lot of work for Cairo University.’

‘Thank you,’ Makana said.

‘Don’t mention it.’ Yunis examined him. ‘Your mind is elsewhere this evening. What is bothering you?’

‘Ghosts. Things I thought I had put behind me for ever.’

‘We never put the past behind us, not really. We just put it aside for a while.’ Yunis led the way through to the next room and along a narrow passageway. The walls were bare and there was only a fragment of light to see by. A bend brought them to the top of a staircase that descended into darkness. ‘You can leave by the rear entrance. Mind how you go.’ Yunis paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’ Makana asked, but the old man had already gone. He turned his attention to getting down the staircase, trying not to break a leg. He felt cautiously with his feet, stepping down slowly, moving one foot at time. Then he was in a narrow alcove. Suffocating in the dust and with cobwebs clinging to his face, he felt with his hand to find a heavy old door. Light filtered through cracks in the wood. A rusty bolt finally gave with a snap and the door swung inwards. As he stepped out into the street a shadow rose over him. He tried to duck the blow, but managed only to deflect it as it struck him high on the cheekbone and sent him staggering and down on one knee. An arm closed around his neck and jerked him back up, until he felt his feet leave the ground. His air supply was cut off and he felt himself becoming light-headed. One arm was pinned to his side so he thrashed about with the other, his feet pedalling in the air, trying to find a purchase. Whoever was behind him was big and incredibly strong and smelt of aftershave. Was this to be the last thing he knew of this life: cheap cologne? The street was deserted at that hour. To take his mind off his problems, the second man stepped up and punched him heavily in the stomach, hard enough to expel whatever air was left inside his lungs. Then he was hanging limply from the tree branch that was wrapped across his windpipe. A glitter of light brought the hot glow of a blade closer. Behind it was a short, ugly man with a wispy coil of a beard framing his face. A thinning mat of hair rested across the top of his head. His beard and hair were dyed with henna.

‘You feel this?’ A low rasp as he pressed the blade to Makana’s throat.

There was an absurdity to the situation. The little man resembled something out of a fable. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves maybe. And the question ignored the fact that Makana could not have answered him with all the will in the world. He was immobilised and barely conscious. The ugly man leaned closer.

‘Keep your nose out of Zafrani business,’ he whispered, pressing the tip of the blade to Makana’s ear. He flicked the tip as he stepped back with a swift nod to his accomplice. Makana slid to the ground gasping for breath. His neck was wet and he put a hand to his ear to stem the bleeding. When he looked up again the two men had disappeared like smoke into the night air.