Dogstar Rising

Chapter Seven




The boy behind the counter was about twelve years old by Makana’s reckoning. He was wondering to himself how he had come to be running this café by himself and was about to ask when he saw Meera walking towards him up through the gloomy arcade. Now that he knew who she was, it occurred to him as strange that nobody had noticed how out of place she was in the Blue Ibis offices. She carried herself with poise and Makana was forced to remind himself that she was a married woman and that they were meeting for a purpose. She, too, seemed eager to stress the nature of their meeting and handed him a large brown envelope as she sat down.

‘I knew they were meant for me ever since I saw the first one. I don’t know why, I just stuffed them into my bag.’ Her eyes narrowed, then she sat back and regarded him for a moment. Her hair was different today, as if she had come out in a hurry and it hung loosely around her face. She didn’t look any the worse for it, in fact the opposite. Makana stirred his coffee. Outside in the arcade an old man was sweeping, moving along the cracked tiles with a broom over which a dirty rag had been draped. It slid back and forth like a strange undersea creature swimming through muddy water.

‘At first I thought it was some sort of cruel practical joke. I was ashamed, to tell the truth, and felt I should keep it secret. I didn’t tell anyone.’ Her fingernails tapped at the warped Formica at the edge of the table.

‘And now you’ve changed your mind?’

‘One letter might be a joke, but three? Somebody is trying to tell me something.’

‘And you haven’t talked about this to anyone?’

‘Not until now, no.’

Makana noticed the boy behind the counter lifting his head. The eyes widened enough to take a long look at Meera.

‘If someone does really mean you harm, perhaps you should consider varying your habits. How you travel, what time you come to work, that kind of thing.’

‘Ridwan and I have grown used to threats over the years. A few years ago someone tried to stab him in the street. The dangerous ones are the ones who give no warning. Now, have you thought about my invitation?’

‘Of course, I would be delighted to meet your husband.’

‘Then that’s settled. How about Sunday evening?’

‘Fine.’

As she was getting to her feet the boy came round from behind the counter. He was clutching a wet rag in his hands and stood there looking at her until she noticed.

‘Madame,’ he said. Meera turned and smiled.

‘Eissa? Is that you? What are you doing here?’

‘Oh, it’s just for a week or two, to help out for a friend.’

‘Eissa used to be one of my students, didn’t you? I used to teach him English.’

‘At the university?’ asked Makana.

‘No,’ laughed Meera. ‘And now you’ve found work here?’

The boy nodded his head, embarrassed in some way. Meera seemed to have a certain effect on men of any age, it seemed.

‘So I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the next few weeks.’

‘I’d like that,’ said the boy. He followed her to the door and watched her walk away. When he returned to the counter his head was bowed.

‘Can you get me some cigarettes?’ Makana called.

‘Sure,’ the boy nodded without looking up. ‘What kind?’

‘Cleopatra.’

As the boy disappeared through a back door, Makana noticed a pair of battered boxing gloves hanging from a nail hammered into the wall. He opened up the envelope Meera had given him. It was similar to the others. The typeset, the faint splatters of ink around some of the letters. An old-fashioned printing press. The paper was also the same cheap quality, roughly torn off at the ends, as if cut from a roll. Uneven and full of imperfections. The envelope was of the same poor quality, the edges coming unstuck. There was no address other than the words ‘Blue Ibis’. As for the text, Makana was fairly certain that it came from the same source:



Give no heed, then, to those who ignore Our warning and seek only the life of this world. This is the sum of their knowledge. You Lord best knows who have strayed from His path, and who are rightly guided.



‘Poetry for the lady?’

Makana looked up to see the boy leaning over his shoulder.

‘I couldn’t write poetry even if I wanted to.’ He took the cigarettes and tore open the packet. ‘So, tell me where you know her from. Where did you have these lessons?’

‘Oh, she used to come to the church school and teach us.’

‘You’re a Christian?’

‘Me? No way,’ said the boy quickly. ‘No, they have a gym and everything. They even give you food.’

‘Sounds wonderful. How much are the cigarettes?’

‘Half price. I can get you a whole carton if you like.’

‘Where do you get cigarettes that cheaply?’

Eissa shrugged. A shout came from the door. The bawab, Abu Salem, the building’s porter, stood there clutching the arm of a scrawny boy of about ten. ‘This one says he’s with you.’

‘And what of it?’ retorted Eissa, back to his usual self. ‘He helps in the kitchen.’

‘The kitchen? This one still has mother’s milk on his face!’

Eissa put his arm around the younger boy’s shoulder and led him through behind the counter.

‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ the old porter muttered to Makana. ‘They come and go as if they own the place and not a man between them.’ He raised his voice. ‘If this goes on I shall have to speak to Yousef.’

‘Yousef?’ echoed Makana.

‘He’s a friend of the owner, who has another place he runs across town. Yousef takes care of business for him.’

Yousef appeared to have a hand in everything. He certainly seemed to take an interest in Makana. No sooner had he sat down to work than Yousef turned up. Pushing heaps of folders to one side, he perched himself on the corner of the desk and stretched a rubber band between two fingers.

‘Tell me again why you went to prison.’

Makana glanced round, as if worried about being overheard. ‘I told you. It was a misunderstanding.’

This amused Yousef. He chuckled and slapped Makana on the shoulder.

‘Come on, let’s take a drive and do some real work.’

‘I am supposed to be trying to help the company.’

‘Believe me, that can wait.’

Twenty minutes later they were bumping along Sharia al-Muizz, in the area known as Bayn al-Qasrayn, which once lay between two Fatimid palaces. They passed the tomb of Saliq al-Ayubi, the man who created the Mamluks, a cadre of imported slaves. Slaves were considered reliable because as foreigners they would never aspire to rule the country. Al-Ayubi was wrong. By the time of his death the Mamluks were so powerful that his widow was forced to make a pact with them. Known by the alluring name of Tree of Pearls, Shagarat al-Durr, she tried to keep her husband’s death a secret. The deception didn’t last long and eventually she conceded permission for her son to be murdered so as to remain on the throne herself. Finally, she married the Mamluk leader and so the country passed into the hands of its former slaves, where it remained for three hundred years. Makana wondered if this was where the distrust of foreigners stemmed from.

They came to a halt near the tomb of al-Qalaun. A large pool of muddy water swirled from a burst drain.

‘What a stink,’ Yousef said, screwing up his face. ‘You wait here, I won’t be long.’

Makana watched him disappear into a narrow opening between two buildings. He let a couple of minutes pass before he got out. Nearby, a child squatted on a heap of pebbles.

‘Where did all this water come from?’

‘You didn’t hear?’ the boy replied. ‘The president decided to take a piss. Three days it’s been like this. We’re still waiting for him to finish.’

‘Watch your mouth!’ yelled an old man going by, leading an exhausted donkey.

‘You see that car?’ Makana handed the boy a banknote. ‘You keep an eye on it and you get another of those when I get back.’ The money vanished from sight in the blink of an eye.

Makana crossed the street and descended a few steps. The narrow passage, barely wide enough for two people to squeeze by one another, vanished into the shadows between the buildings. A few minutes later an archway to his right opened onto an irregular square enclosed on three sides by colonnades of stone pillars. In the far corner he glimpsed Yousef disappearing through a doorway. Makana crossed the square. The door carried no name or number, but the heavy wood was decorated by a distinctive pattern of birds fashioned from wrought iron. Makana stepped back and looked up at the big house behind the wall.

‘Looking for someone?’

A passer-by in a grubby gelabiya had stopped to peer at him.

‘I was just wondering who lived here.’

‘So why don’t you knock and ask?’ The man regarded Makana with a sceptical eye. Over his shoulder he carried a dirty white sack out of which pieces of charcoal poked like tiny charred limbs.

‘It’s all right, I’ll come back later.’

The man had obviously decided he didn’t trust Makana and stood his ground until he was sure he was on his way. Retracing his steps, Makana returned to the car and waited. Ten minutes later, Yousef appeared in the narrow cut. He looked left and right before stepping out of the alleyway and crossing the street. As he got in Makana made to start the engine.

‘Hold on a minute.’ Yousef opened the briefcase on his lap and reached inside for a thick manilla envelope. ‘I don’t know why, but I have a good feeling about you.’ Unwrapping a thick wad of dollars wrapped in newspaper he peeled off a handful and held them out.

‘What’s that for?’

‘Your share.’

‘My share of what? I haven’t done anything.’

Yousef winked. ‘You drive me here, you keep your mouth shut. That’s something. Call it an advance. Later, I might want you to do a bit more.’

‘I don’t take money for something I haven’t done.’

‘An honest man, eh? Well, fine, I’ll hold onto it for you until you are ready. Just don’t wait too long. I’m not known for being a patient man. Next time I’ll introduce you to the old man. Now let’s get out of here, this place stinks worse than my mother-in-law.’

There was a knock on the window. The boy who had been watching the car stood there rubbing his fingers together. Makana wound down the glass and handed out a note. When he turned back he saw a look of disgust on Yousef’s face.

‘Keep giving it away like that and you’ll need more money than I can give you.’