Dogstar Rising

Chapter Forty-Two




Aswani’s was strangely deserted at that hour. They had the place almost to themselves. Okasha arrived late, huffing and puffing, blinking at the odd assortment of strangers gathered around the table wondering who all these people were. In deference to the presence of a lady, Aswani had produced a plastic tablecloth from somewhere. It was red with cartoon drawings of yellow ducks and green puppy dogs. Where he had kept it hidden all these years, Makana could not imagine, let alone why. The cook himself was busy at work behind the counter yelling orders as his assistants ran back and forth to do his bidding.

‘At least they have television now,’ Talal said, nodding at the set up on the wall. Makana followed his gaze. A set had indeed been perched rather precariously on a lopsided shelf high on one of the pillars. It looked as though it might fall at any minute.

‘It won’t last,’ Makana said. Although it wasn’t much of an improvement, he wasn’t sure he was right. Talal made no attempt to reply. He seemed subdued. No doubt still mourning the loss of his love. In time, perhaps, he would see that he had been lucky to get out of Bunny’s clutches in one piece. Makana still hadn’t really said anything to him about Damazeen, but that loss too must clearly have been weighing on the young man’s mind. Before they sat down, Makana took him aside. He reached into his pocket and produced the diamond that Damazeen had been clutching in his hand when he died.

‘I can give you the name of someone reliable who will buy it off you at a fair price. That should cover a year in Vienna.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Don’t ask,’ Makana said. ‘Damazeen would want you to have it.’

After that they all sat down. Sami sent his regards. He was holding a pen this morning, Rania reported, and was busy working on their story. It would appear under joint names, and would no doubt create a small tidal wave of scandal, engulfing numerous people including Sheikh Waheed. Okasha was more than happy with the way things had turned out. He had closed the case of the murders in Imbaba, managing to show up the much more high-profile counter-terrorism unit. He seemed to think his chances of promotion were greatly improved, he said, as he gave them the closing details:

‘Eissa, the boy in the café, confessed once he was told Rocky was dead. He was the one who drove the motorcycle. He broke his arm when it crashed.’

‘They had tunnelled through the wall, where they kept their stolen goods,’ Makana explained. ‘That’s how he slipped out when the shooting started. But he was fond of Meera.’

‘And terrified of Rocky,’ Okasha agreed. ‘I had the feeling he was just waiting for someone to ask. He felt bad about what he had done.’

‘How sad,’ said Rania.

‘Ahh!’ sighed Sindbad, the last member of their curious little party, at the sight of Aswani’s assistants making their way across the room with large trays of food. Makana wondered at the wisdom of taking a man like this to a restaurant. He could probably eat the entire contents of the kitchen single-handedly. A silence fell over the table as everyone turned their attention to the business of eating. Plates kept coming. Ful mudames, fried kidneys, grilled sausages and eggs and tomatoes, with kebab and roasted lamb to come.

‘You’re spoiling us,’ Makana said to Aswani who oversaw the operation like a general surveying a battlefield.

‘Allah alone knows why I bother,’ he sighed, rolling his eyes skywards, forever convinced that people never fully appreciated the tenderness and love he put into his cooking.

Makana was almost too tired to eat. What he looked forward to most of all was sleep. The stench of kerosene seemed to have eaten its way through his clothes and the pores of his skin to his very soul. The heady fumes threatened to overwhelm him, flooding his mind with thoughts of Nasra. As he watched everyone begin to help themselves to the food, Makana knew he would not rest until he found out the truth. But perhaps that would have to wait for another day.

‘According to Sami,’ Rania was saying, ‘we are already living in a dreamland. A country that only exists in our imagination. We don’t know if we’re awake or sleeping. Lights, movies, music. It’s all a tune of enchantment, keeping the country asleep. Who is going to wake us up?’

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ said Okasha, chewing fiercely. ‘You have no idea what you might unleash once you let the djinn out of the bottle.’

‘That is so true,’ Talal replied absently. He wasn’t looking at them. Rania followed his gaze until both of them were staring upwards.

‘Isn’t that New York?’ she said.

They all turned to gaze up. A drama was being played out on the screen above their heads that would influence the next decade in ways none of them could yet imagine. Makana would look back on this moment time and again, sitting there in Aswani’s. The stunned expressions of confusion and bewilderment, and finally, fear.

‘That’s a really bad pilot,’ Talal said, only half-joking.

‘It’s not an accident,’ Rania said, as the scene was replayed, over and over again even though the tickertape along the bottom of the screen said ‘Live’.

In that moment a strange silence seemed to fall over the group, the restaurant, the city, the entire world. It was as if time was standing still. The image of the two dark towers rising into the clear blue sky seemed almost medieval, a throwback to a world of invincible fortresses and impregnable city portals. Out of one corner of the screen the arrowhead that was a jet airliner curved slowly, inevitably, towards its target. At the point of collision there was something incredibly graceful and tragic about its movement, as if this was part of a complex choreography, like the motion of the planets, an errant star that exploded into a ball of flame before their very eyes.

Makana found himself thinking about Ghalib Samsara. He wondered where he was at that moment. But it was Rania who spoke first, whispering the words that were on all of their lips, almost as if she were speaking their thoughts aloud:

‘Now there’s going to be trouble,’ she said.



A Note on the Author

Parker Bilal is the pseudonym of Jamal Mahjoub. Mahjoub has published seven critically acclaimed literary novels, which have been widely translated. Dogstar Rising is his second Makana Mystery. Born in London, Mahjoub has lived at various times in the UK, Sudan, Cairo and Denmark. He currently lives in Barcelona.