Dogstar Rising

Fallen Angels





Chapter Thirty-Two




The train back to Cairo was uneventful. As the old beast lumbered along, dragging its iron belly slowly north along the Nile valley, Makana felt as if he was returning from some forgotten well of ancient history, sliding up the evolutionary scale from the prehistoric era to the present. By the looks of things there wasn’t much to be said for progress, except that it was noisy and dirty and tended to block out the sky with high walls and twisted iron. He used the time to think about things and so stared out of the window with a blank gaze as trees and desert and houses passed before him, faces upturned to look at the passing juggernaut as it rolled by.

In Qena, he stepped down onto the platform and stood in the shade of a neem tree to sip a glass of sweet tea. A twelve-year-old with the weary gaze of a man five times his age wandered along the tracks weighed down by a thick armful of headlines. Out of pity for the boy more than anything else, Makana bought the state newspaper, Al Ahram. As always, it was a reminder that to read the news in this country was to enter into a fantasy world of fairy tales and deceit, where the rising and setting of the sun each day could not happen without the benevolent presence of the president, al-Raïs, whose glorious exploits were plastered across the front pages. In this parallel universe the country was booming and firmly on the road to progress. To understand what was really going on you had to read between the lines: when it said a new hospital had been opened, specialising in kidney transplants, you understood that someone in the president’s circle had made a small fortune selling expensive medical equipment to an institution that would function at 20 per cent of its capacity for about six months. After that the machines would mysteriously disappear one by one, to be sold on to an unnamed private facility in the Gulf somewhere. When you read in an editorial that the Americans had personally thanked the president for his role in maintaining stability in the region, it really meant that the annual donations of millions of dollars of free wheat and weapons would arrive unhindered, in exchange for maintaining the status quo and doing nothing to really bring Israel and the Palestinians any closer to lasting peace.

Evening was falling as he came out of the station in Giza to find the battered black-and-white Datsun which looked, as always, as though an elephant had sat on it. Perhaps there was some way of finding a replacement, Makana wondered, before it gave up the ghost. Sindbad was leaning against the side, arms crossed, looking pleased with himself. When he saw Makana emerge from the station building he rushed towards him to relieve him of his bag.

‘Marhaba, marhaba, welcome back to the city of lights. I trust your journey bore fruits.’

The car lurched violently as they left the kerb and sailed recklessly out into the stream of flowing traffic, oblivious to the horns of protest. Makana felt like a country bumpkin, no longer in tune with the city’s ways. He had forgotten the chaos, the urgent sense of encroaching madness. At an intersection a policeman waved his hands frantically in an effort to tame the traffic. You had to admire his tenacity. A supreme act of faith in the face of ridiculous odds. As if trying to hold back the tide, it was like witnessing a small miracle whenever the vehicles actually rolled to a halt obediently and then waited impatiently. Sindbad was eager to explain what he had been up to while Makana was away.

‘I did as you asked, ya basha,’ he said, leaning on the horn to produce a truncated sound from under the bonnet rather like a duck being strangled. ‘First, I stayed outside the hotel and waited. For the first two days he did nothing of interest. He went for a walk in the morning. He visited the bank in Kasr al-Nil Street and a number of clothes shops where he made extensive purchases, mostly of shoes and shirts. I have a list.’

Sindbad reached into his shirt pocket and produced a rough sheet of brown paper of the kind that might be used for wrapping fish or ball bearings. It contained a series of hieroglyphics in smudged pencil that Makana could make neither head nor tail of.

‘You’ll notice that he doesn’t settle for the cheap stuff. Some of these places sell shirts for hundreds of pounds.’ Sindbad’s face betrayed his horror.

‘Is that so?’

‘Oh yes, and the shoes . . .’ A whistle and a shake of the head was all he could summon to convey his shock. ‘How can anyone bring themselves to walk along our dirty streets in such shoes?’

Sindbad paused to lean on the horn again, this time startling a skinny waif riding a bicycle, sending him wobbling dangerously across the road, narrowly avoiding being crushed by a large lorry. On his head a long board laden with fresh bread was balanced. It remained steady, bobbing up and down like a diving board as the cyclist fought to regain his balance. It could have been a trick in a circus. They swept on along Sharia Sudan.

‘On the fourth day I almost missed him, I have to admit, as Allah is my witness.’

‘No more shopping?’

‘He stayed in most of the day. I was about to give up and go home.’ Sindbad sighed. ‘My wife really does not understand the importance of my new responsibilities.’

Makana nodded but said nothing as he suspected this was a ruse to ask for more money.

‘Well, anyway. I was about to give in, like I say, and then, around six o’clock, just as the sun was setting, he stepped outside and signals for me. He gets into the back and asks me to take him to the Ramses Hilton. I drive him up the ramp and he tries to short change me. I don’t argue because I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Between you and me, ya basha, for a man who spends on shirts what a family can live on for a month, he should be ashamed to stand before Allah.’

‘So, Damazeen went into the hotel. Any idea who he met?’

Sindbad clenched the wheel tensely, caught in the grip of his own tale. ‘Well, I had to be careful now because he knew my face. I followed Mr Damazeen into the hotel lobby and observed him from a distance. Naturally, the staff in such palaces regard an ordinary working man such as myself as an undesirable.’ Sindbad was smiling broadly, clearly pleased with himself. ‘I told them that I was waiting for a client, an eccentric but very wealthy English couple who were terrified of the traffic in the city. I was the only one they trusted, I had no idea why they had settled on me but so it was and I had been given strict instructions to wait for them when they went out to eat. I laid it on a bit thick, but you never know with these slick types. So then they asked me the name of the person I was waiting for and I knew I was a dead man. I saw my life flash before my eyes. Then it came to me, I swear by Allah, just like that.’

‘What came to you?’

‘Mr Siwan Vista.’

Makana stared at Sindbad. ‘And who is this Mr Vista?’

‘You don’t remember? English matches. Very good. Always light first time.’ Sindbad beamed at his own ingenuity.

‘And they believed you?’

‘I don’t mean to insult anyone but many of those people who work in fancy hotels, ya basha, they wear nice clothes but they can’t tell one end of a stick from another. Of course, I have certain skills in the acting department myself. Did I tell you about my cousin who works in the national theatre? Actually, he’s just a bawab, but it’s in our blood.’

Makana recalled something Adam had said about the stars, about the illusion of them moving, about seeing things from different angles. Was this the reason for the confusion he felt, that he was seeing things from another perspective?

Sindbad was still talking.

‘A black man. I mean, excuse me, an African. Perhaps forty years of age. Wearing a striped suit like an English businessman, and with a face like a butcher. I was happy to keep my distance. And your friend didn’t seem too happy to be sitting close by him.’

It was an intriguing thought, Damazeen and an African in a striped suit. Was this his middleman?

‘He was alone?’

‘No. There was a third man. A white man with red hair.’ Sindbad stamped on the brakes, skipping around a stalled minibus with only a whisker to spare, a finger still held aloft to emphasise a point. ‘This one looked like a military man. Casual clothes, heavy boots.’ The wheel was a flimsy ring in Sindbad’s paw as he steered. ‘Mr Henry Bruin of Cape Town, South Africa.’

Makana had to admit he was impressed. A South African? What was Damazeen doing with these men? All his experience told him that he ought to turn his back on the whole business. But what if Damazeen was telling the truth? What if he could bring Nasra back from the dead? Makana felt his blood swirl in his head, as if he could no longer trust his own judgement.

‘Come down with me,’ he said when they reached the awama, explaining what he needed Sindbad to do. The breeze rustled the dry leaves on the big eucalyptus tree. Umm Ali was pleased to see him. Her brother Bassam was not so happy, and tried to sidle off.

‘Hamdilay salama,’ he muttered nervously when Makana confronted him. ‘I trust your journey was a safe one.’

‘We need to talk,’ said Makana. When he offered his cigarettes, Bassam relaxed, thinking this was some kind of peace offering. Over his shoulder Makana could see Umm Ali watching with interest. He led the way down to the awama. Sindbad brought up the rear. On the upper deck Makana signalled and Bassam felt himself lifted off his feet, his arms pinned to his side.

‘Now wait a minute,’ he protested as Sindbad lifted him high enough to get his legs over the railings. Bassam put up some resistance, but having the air squeezed out of his lungs pacified him. When he was suspended over the side, legs scrabbling for purchase, Makana said:

‘If you fall from here it will not kill you, assuming you can swim and that you don’t break an arm or a leg, or your neck, Allah forbid, on the way down.’

‘They made me promise not to tell.’

‘What did you do with the money?’

‘I . . . I still have it. Most of it. Let me down. I can show you.’

Sindbad lifted him back over the side and sent him sprawling to the deck. Predictably, he tried to make a break for it. Sindbad put out an arm and Bassam’s feet flew into the air and he landed flat on his back.

‘All right,’ he gasped, when he got his breath back. ‘Here, look.’ He reached into his back pocket and produced a wad of crumpled notes. ‘Take it. Take it.’

Makana took the money and counted it. Less than he had hoped for, but still, not bad.

‘Okay, now tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out.’

Bassam nodded obediently, his eyes darting from one to the other.

‘Some men came here. I don’t know who they are. All I had to do was make a phone call to tell them you were at home and alone.’

‘Which you did, naturally.’

‘It was a lot of money.’ Bassam’s eyes were wide, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend how such a thing could be held against him.

‘So you heard Sami go down the path. You assumed it was me and you called them.’

‘That’s correct. That’s exactly how it happened.’ Bassam nodded eagerly. ‘I swear I didn’t know what they were planning to do.’

‘You left your sister and her children to the mercy of strange men?’ Sindbad was disgusted.

‘I didn’t have any choice. I owe some money to some men back home in the rif. This money would allow me to go back.’

‘And not a moment too soon,’ muttered Makana. ‘Could you recognise these men?’

‘No, ya basha. It was dark and my eyesight is not good since the accident.’

‘You understand that I am not planning to call the police.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Not at all. We shall deal with this ourselves. Can you swim?’ Makana waved the question aside. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not many people can swim with a broken neck.’

‘A broken . . . Look,’ Bassam tried to rise from the floor, but Sindbad shoved him back down.

‘The only way you are going to walk off this boat in one piece is if you help me find those men.’

Bassam licked his lips. His eyes darted round until it came to him. ‘I can call them. I still have the number.’ He fumbled in his pockets to produce a scrap torn from a cigarette packet with a number scrawled on it. Trembling, he held it out. Makana made no effort to take it.

‘You’re going to call them right now. Tell them you want more money. The police are asking more questions and you’re scared.’

‘They’re not going to believe that.’

‘You have to make them believe it. Tell them you need to meet them tonight, quickly, in one hour. You’ll come to them. Just ask them where, is that clear?’

Bassam’s eyes darted between the scrap of paper and Makana and Sindbad. He had the mournful look of a puppy. After a time he swore and went over to lift the telephone on the desk. He dialled the number and spoke for a while before replacing the receiver.

‘Okay, it’s done.’

‘Where are you supposed to go?’ asked Makana, relieving Bassam of the paper with the number on it.

‘A place in Imbaba called Al Madina. Can I go now? Only I—’

‘You’ll go when he says so,’ Sindbad cut him off. ‘You caused a man to be crucified. We ought to do the same to you.’

Bassam’s eyes widened. ‘I swear by Allah I never knew—’

‘Call Aziza up,’ Makana said. ‘You’re going to give this money to her and then you are going to say goodbye to your sister and lead us to this place. After that we’ll drop you off at the station and you can take the bus back to wherever you came from.’

‘Of course.’ Bassam struggled to his feet. ‘I will do exactly what you say.’

The money was handed to a rather astonished Aziza, who said nothing, simply took herself off quietly. They left Bassam to say his goodbyes and pack his things. As they waited in the Datsun Sindbad felt the need to speak his mind.

‘Pardon me, ya basha, but I swear you let that dog off too easily.’

‘Possibly, but if he manages to lead us to the ones who did this it will be worth it.’

The two of them watched as three black SUVs raced towards them out of the darkness, sirens wailing and blue lights flashing. They skidded to a halt around them. Sindbad raised his hands in surrender, the way they do in cowboy films.