Authors: Parker Bilal
‘When was he last here?’
‘You ask questions like a policeman. Is that what you are?’ Vronsky’s muscle-bound neck lolled against the chair back as he peered along the bumpy ridge of his nose at Makana.
‘I told you, I am just helping Mr Hanafi.’
‘I am always happy to be of service to a man like Hanafi.’
‘I understand that you know Gaber, his lawyer?’
‘Our friend has been talking too much.’
‘I wouldn’t blame Farag. He didn’t feel he had much choice.’
‘People always have a choice.’
Makana turned his attention to some sketches hanging on the wall. One showed a figure on a balcony overlooking the streets of Cairo; in the distance the Citadel rose up out of the hillside.
‘Is that Napoleon?’
‘During his Egyptian expedition. Did you know that he rewrote the Quran?’
‘No,’ Makana said over his shoulder. ‘It’s true that he tried to persuade the Egyptians to rise up against their Mamluk rulers by claiming that the French were the “true Muslims”, and he also enlisted the learned
ulema
to support his cause, but I don’t think there is any evidence that he actually went so far as to rewrite the sacred book.’
Vronsky got to his feet and came over to join him as Makana moved on. The next print showed French troops in
1798
in front of the pyramids.
‘Quite a collection you have here.’
‘It’s a hobby of mine. I have been fascinated by Egypt since I was a child.’
‘I thought your interest was in the building of empires?’
‘Perhaps I have misjudged you.’ Vronsky smiled. ‘You are an observant man. I like that.’ It was the satisfied smile of a predator peering down on his helpless prey. He leaned forward to examine the print. ‘It is true that there are certain parallels. When Bonaparte arrived in this country it was ripe for the picking. The Mamluks were in a state of decay. It was a brilliant move.’
‘I’ve always thought the history of the French occupation greatly exaggerated.’
‘Oh, how so?’ Vronsky frowned.
‘Well, it was really no more than a sideshow for Napoleon; a diversion from the war with the English. It lasted a mere three years. The Mamluks, it is true, were over-confident. According to the historian al-Jabarti, who described visiting the French
savants
to see their scientific studies, the country’s rulers had overestimated their own abilities and thought they could defeat any number of the
Franj.
’
‘There are few men with the vision and courage of Napoleon.’
‘Hanafi’s empire is your Egypt?’
‘Perhaps.’ Vronsky smiled, liking the idea. To people like him the French expedition was symbolic, it seemed to Makana. It was a way of saying that the Egyptians didn’t really appreciate everything they had; only a European could do that.
‘Have you ever come across a man named Daud Bulatt?’
The change in Vronsky’s mood was unmistakable.
‘Why do I get the feeling you are just shooting in the dark?’ he snorted impatiently and turned away, waving a hand in the direction of the sea. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
They went out across the lawn towards the beach. A cool breeze whipped in from the sea where the choppy water was dashed with white caps. The sea was such a brillant colour that to Makana’s eyes, used to the browns and greys of desert and city, it looked slightly unreal. They reached the water’s edge and paused in the shade of a tall palm that swayed majestically in the breeze.
‘You know what I like about the sea?’ Vronsky asked. ‘I like its clarity. It gives away nothing. It is transparent, and yet beneath it all manner of horrors take place. Nature draws a veil of water over its own cruelty.’
‘What can you tell me about Adil Romario?’
‘When he first came to me, I thought he was interested in doing something spectacular. Football is a way into the hearts of the people. For an outsider like me it is important to have a profile. To be seen to be doing something good for the country.’ Vronsky glanced over at Makana as if wondering if he might understand this. ‘Great men are born, not made. Napoleon had it in him from the start, that urge to achieve something. I was wrong about Adil. I thought he was special, but he is a small man. You know why? Because he lacks vision. He has had a fairy godfather holding a hand over him all his life, protecting him. When Alexander was his age he had conquered most of the Levant, Egypt, Persia and a good piece of Asia. Adil Romario wants to sit smiling on television every night. Where are the men of vision in this country?’
‘That’s a good question,’ said Makana.
Vronsky drew back his arm to reveal the foreign script there. ‘When I was seventeen years old I was sent to fight in Afghanistan. The place to me is synonymous with death. I saw a lot of it there. Many men died. Brave men. They died in terrible ways, in great pain, crying like children for their mothers. I was lucky to survive in one piece. It was not our country. We tried to fight the Mujahideen on our terms, but they knew the terrain in a way we could never hope to do. All the dips and hollows where a man with an RPG could hide.’ Vronsky turned away from the sea to face Makana. ‘And they had a weapon more powerful than any in our sophisticated armoury: faith. They truly believed that they would prevail, and we did not.’
He produced a pair of sunglasses and turned back to the sea, the lenses reflecting the line of blue water. He spoke without turning his head.
‘I have nothing against you, Mr Makana. I survived the war because I knew how to learn. I think you are also a man who learns, which is why I am letting you go. You came a long way for very little, I’m afraid, but don’t make the mistake of coming back here again unless you are invited.’
‘What about Farag?’
Vronsky lifted his chin fractionally. It was impossible to tell for sure, but he seemed to be smiling. ‘You don’t need to worry about him. You delivered him to me. His fate is now in my hands.’
As Vronsky moved away, Makana reached into his pocket for his Cleopatras and lit one, heaving the smoke into his lungs gratefully. A shadow fell over the ground in front of him and Makana turned to find one of the bodyguards standing next to him. Tall, broad-shouldered and silent. Without a word he gestured over his shoulder with a thumb.
Back on the road Makana found himself glancing at the empty seat next to him in the Mercedes. It seemed he had played straight into Vronsky’s hands. Despite everything, he felt bad about leaving Farag behind with the Russian.
Vronsky had great ambitions. That much was plain. What he wanted out of Hanafi was anybody’s guess, but money and power would probably not be far off the mark. Why did he need Adil, then? And what did Adil gain from helping the Russian? It wasn’t much, but Makana was pretty sure he was getting closer. And there was something else. Vronsky had reacted when Makana had brought up the subject of Daud Bulatt. The name wasn’t unknown to him. Bulatt was the key, the piece that connected them all together: Hanafi, Liz Markham, Vronsky. And Adil? Was there a link between him and Daud Bulatt?
Makana hadn’t been driving for more than about two minutes when his anxiety and frustration got the better of him. He swung the wheel and pulled off the road, to be greeted by the blast of a powerful horn and a rush of hot air as he was buffeted by the slipstream of a huge articulated lorry, rushing by so close it might have taken off the wing mirror had there still been one on that side of the car. Farag’s Mercedes shuddered like a frightened animal.
Below him, Makana could see the sea, the calm rhythm of the breakers beating against a flat bay. He recognised the little cluster of houses he had spied from Vronsky’s office, their brown mud walls almost invisible against the earth. It was not difficult to imagine that not so long ago, when the road was not so busy, this would have been an idyllic place. Getting back in the car, Makana engaged gear and carried on along the rough edge of the hard shoulder until he reached the unsurfaced track that led down to the village. Stones crunched under the wheels as he swung in a long arc that brought him bouncing towards the little hamlet about two hundred metres away. As he rolled down through the narrow streets towards the water he saw not a single soul. The houses were simple and rundown. Many appeared to be abandoned. Roofs had fallen in, window shutters hung off like broken wings.
The road came to an abrupt end in an open bay cluttered with rubbish, smashed bricks, battered fishing boats and heaps of nets. A black donkey tethered to a solitary telephone pole stood twitching its ears. The sea rolled into the small arc of the bay in long graceful furls, like silk being thrown out in reams. Makana parked the car in front of what looked like a restaurant of some kind, a house with a low terrace shaded by a trellis thatched with palm fronds. There was a meagre collection of stacked plastic chairs and tables. The place looked abandoned. An open doorway led to the interior. A man stood bent over in the far corner, sweeping away sand with a frond brush.
‘
Salaam aleikum.
’
The man straightened up slowly, broom in hand. He seemed to be in his forties and had an unkempt, distracted air about him. Beyond the house was a compound of some kind. A stray dog was sniffing at the ground. A small green fishing boat lay there. It was overturned and covered with nets and buoys and didn’t look like it had been used for weeks. The scruffy yellow dog had a hole where one eye should have been. It came closer and began barking at Makana.
‘No fishing today?’
‘It’s too rough.’
Makana reached for his cigarettes as the man bent down to pick up a stone. He threw it and the dog loped off, pausing to look back with its one mournful red eye from a safe distance.
‘I think I’ll just take a little walk around, stretch my legs.’
‘Suit yourself.’
The man went back to his sweeping as Makana wandered along the beach. At close hand it was a mess, cluttered with the tide’s harvest of cans and rusty wheels, broken crates, scraps of nylon fishing line like long blue and orange worms, driftwood. Away in the distance he could make out the elegant crowns of the tall palm trees around The Big Blue. It was like looking at the frontline in a battlefield, only in this case there seemed little doubt which side would prevail. The fishing community already appeared to have hoisted the white flag. Many of the houses looked to be unoccupied but he saw a handful still had rags flapping at the windows and nets hanging out to dry or for repair. By the water’s edge two men were unloading straw baskets from a boat that looked as if it had just come in. Makana strolled over to them.
‘A good catch?’
‘No, there’s nothing left for us out there,’ the older man said, heaving his basket into the back of a rusty pick-up. The basket contained a meagre assortment of fish, none of which looked particularly appetising. He was white-haired, wearing a pair of baggy trousers and a vest that was more holes than cloth. His hair tilted in the wind like a miniature sail.
‘The big trawlers take up everything. Most of it they throw out, but that’s too late for us.’
‘It looks too windy to fish.’
‘Windy?’ The man laughed, looking over at his companion, a younger fellow who might have been his grandson. ‘This is nothing, just a light breeze.’
When Makana turned to walk back up to the car he noticed that the one-eyed dog was trailing behind him. The fight had gone out of it, just as it seemed to have gone out of everything around here. When he got back to the terrace, he saw the broom propped against the wall and the man was no longer to be seen. Makana had been hoping for a cup of coffee before he set off for Cairo. He walked across the terrace and leaned through the doorway.
‘Hello?’
No answer. There was a counter and some shelves, a couple of battered wooden tables and chairs but nothing else. A door led further inside to what looked like a kitchen, but that too was deserted. On the terrace the wind ruffled the palm fronds overhead, making them hiss angrily. Makana reached the end and peered round the side of the building. He went past the heap of abandoned fishing tackle: nets threaded with cork floats, buoys with flags, cans that once contained lubricating grease or kerosene, and had a closer look at the boat. It lay underneath a mountain of green and blue webbing like a dead turtle. A cracked oar was tossed on top of the heap for good measure. It all looked forlorn and forgotten. On the far side of the compound was a simple building, like a warehouse. Makana went up and peered through the gap between the two corrugated-iron doors. Holes in the roof allowed narrow shafts of light to illuminate something that gleamed faintly.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’
Makana turned to see the man from the terrace.
‘Ah, good, I was just looking for you.’
‘Are you from the government?’ His look of suspicion deepened.
‘No,’ said Makana.‘Nothing like that. I was just hoping for a cup of coffee.’
The man’s expression seemed to say that if Makana had just crawled though the desert and offered him a million pounds, he still wouldn’t have a glass of water for him. He stared back morosely.
‘No gas. I forgot to change the cylinder.’
The light was already fading as Makana thanked him for his time and got back in the car. The coast road was clogged with slow vans and ancient trucks that lumbered along at a snail’s pace, gushing thick clouds of black fumes. Heavy juggernauts rumbled towards him, making the solid German car tremble as if made of cardboard. Three hours later, when the road finally turned inland towards Cairo, it was pitch dark and Makana decided he needed a break to calm his nerves. Up ahead the lights of a café loomed out of the darkness. A simple breeze-block construction pitched in the dust by the side of the road. The neon lights were cold and unattractive but Makana was too tired to be fussy. He drew up alongside and killed the engine.