The Golden Scales (11 page)

‘Actually, I was thinking about calling you.’

Makana turned away from the window as Amir lit a cigarette and immediately disappeared in a cloud of smoke and began coughing. He fanned the air and thumped his chest. When he got his breath back, he pushed his spectacles back on top of his head and peered at Makana.

‘Has anyone tried to contact you?’

‘Like who?’

‘Someone from the old days?’ The lawyer gestured. ‘Anyone.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘It may be nothing.’

Which told Makana there definitely was something. Amir Medani was secretive to the point of paranoia. He wouldn’t tell you something unless he was pretty sure he needed to.

‘You heard about Sanhouri?’ Amir put down his cigarette and leaned back, hands folded behind his head, the chair creaking under the strain.

‘What about him?’

‘He fell from the balcony of his apartment. You didn’t know?’

‘I haven’t really been in touch with a lot of people recently.’ Makana idly turned the handle of the pencil sharpener on the desk. ‘You’re saying it wasn’t suicide?’

‘That’s just it, nobody knows. His family is distraught, as you can imagine.’

Makana recalled that he had never known Sanhouri well; that he belonged more to Amir Medani’s political circle. Its members spent all their time talking about returning home, about forcing the current regime to yield power, but nothing ever seemed to come of all their talk, and Makana preferred to stay away from it. He would go home when the time came. Until then, all he cared about was surviving here and now.

‘Didn’t he have police protection?’

‘That’s just the thing.’ Amir sat forward suddenly, the chair protesting so vigorously it threatened to disintegrate into matchwood. ‘The Egyptians cancelled his protection.’

‘They cancelled it? Why?’

‘You know how it is. Every time they have a crisis, the Egyptians blame us.’

When it was discovered that Sudanese Islamist radicals were behind an attempt on President Mubarak’s life in the Ethiopian capital three years before, he’d turned against them. The open border agreement between the two countries was ended and Sudanese were reduced to the status of any other foreigner.

‘Is it possible they let Sanhouri be killed?’

Amir Medani’s eyes swivelled towards the walls, as if expecting to see the answer to the question written there.

‘The thing I like about you, is your devious mind. It almost matches mine. Officially, the Egyptians are against the regime in Khartoum, especially since Addis, but there are elements within the SSI who are friendly to the Islamist cause.’

‘I take it there were no witnesses?’

‘No witnesses. Eight floors down.’ Amir gave a single nod of the head as if seeing it happen right in front of him. ‘He landed under a passing minibus. It was a terrible mess.’

‘So I should stay away from balconies?’

Amir sighed. ‘It is possible that you may be in danger.’

Makana had been fiddling with the paper clips that clung to a magnetic Eiffel Tower – a reminder that Amir had spent a number of years living in Europe after getting out of prison back home. There had been a woman involved, Makana recalled, even a couple of children.

‘But I’m not a politician like Sanhouri. I have nothing to do with any of that. You know I keep away from politics.’

‘You have enemies. People who might want to see you dead.’

‘You mean Mek Nimr?’

‘He’s a big man nowadays, or so I hear.’

Makana reached for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket. A memory from the street outside Lulu Hamra’s building came back to him. The man in the beige chequered shirt he had been convinced was following him. Had he been sent by Mek Nimr?

Outside in the hallway an argument was starting up between a woman with a strident voice and a meek-sounding fellow who was doing a bad job of defending himself.

‘You think the Egyptians allowed Sanhouri to be killed?’

‘All I am saying is, you should be careful.’ Amir studied the tip of his cigarette. ‘State Security were supposed to be protecting him. They didn’t do a very good job, did they?’

‘I’ll stay away from high places,’ said Makana as he turned to leave.

‘Just remember what I said, and be careful.’

Out in the hallway, Makana eased his way round the large woman still berating the timid man, who was obviously her husband. He threw Makana a pleading look as he went by. Her voice followed him down into the street. It was clogged with night-time traffic that bumped and hooted its way through the downtown snarl-ups. Couples walked along examining the bright displays of clothes and shiny shoes; the mannequins that displayed them were stick-thin and pale as milk. European models. Bizzare to try and imagine any of the passers-by in those outfits, and yet they took comfort from these boulevards of opulent dreams.

Nabil was waiting for him at Felfela’s. His contact at the largest state newspaper,
Al Ahram
, was a short man with a large paunch and a receding hairline. He stood at the counter with a stack of sandwiches in front of him, putting them away as if a law might be passed at any minute, forbidding the consumption of food by overweight men. Makana indicated a quieter spot in a corner and waited for Nabil to transfer his snack. He passed over a thick envelope between bites.

‘That’s basically a selection,’ Nabil said, managing to stop chewing for long enough to get the words out. ‘I could have brought you twice as much. The papers adore him.’

Makana pulled out the photocopies and began leafing through them. Most of it he already knew. Adil Romario had come out of nowhere. He had no former track record, had never played for another team before. There was a description of life at the Hanafi Sports Academy. They had selection days and anyone good enough to impress the scouts would be offered a place. It meant somewhere to live, an education and regular meals. If you worked hard enough you got into the DreemTeem. Adil apparently devoted a lot of time to charity work for the Academy, touring the city, the country, showing little boys what they could achieve if they set their minds to it.

‘This is the one that caused all the trouble,’ Nabil interrupted, leaving a greasy mark on the page he tapped.

‘The trouble?’

‘You know, all the rumours about the other players hating Adil.’

Makana cast an eye quickly over the copy in front of him. He realised that the shorter piece he had already seen was referring to this article. It was by a journalist named Sami Barakat who promised an exclusive insight into the conflict that was tearing the DreemTeem apart from within. Rivalry there had apparently reached unprecedented heights. His team mates were furious about Adil Romario’s poor performance. ‘The team is being sacrificed for the boss’s favourite boy,’ he summarised.

‘Who is this Sami Barakat?’

‘I don’t know him, but he obviously isn’t planning a long career in journalism,’ judged Nabil. ‘Hanafi will have him thrown out on his ear before too long, mark my words.’

Makana paused in his reading to look round the brightly lit snack bar. There was a constant stream of people coming and going. Groups of students,young and old. Solitary men stood and munched quickly, eyes fixed on their food. He realised that since his conversation with Amir Medani he was automatically being more cautious.

‘What’s this all about anyway?’

‘It’s about discretion.’

‘I’m just asking.’ Nabil wiped his mouth with a napkin and swallowed half a can of some kind of pink drink with a picture of Adil Romario on the label.

‘What is that stuff?’

Nabil frowned at the bottle. ‘Pineapple and watermelon.’ He held it out. ‘You want some?’

Makana ignored him. ‘I’ve seen most of this material before,’ he said. ‘Did you find anything about his interest in films?’

His mouth once again full, Nabil reached across and rifled through the heap of papers, managing to distribute oily crumbs and a slice of onion before he found what he was looking for. It was a brief, highlighted note, tacked on to the side of another in-depth article on the player. Most of it was unashamed speculation:

Egypt’s heartthrob Adil Romario is set for movie fame, our sources tell us. He has set up a production company of his own, Faraga Films, with veteran director and producer Salim Farag. Watch this space, movie lovers!

‘This is better,’ said Makana, tucking the sheets away. ‘But I need more, and I want you to find out about his family. Who they are and where they lived.’ He extracted a few notes from the envelope Gaber had given him. When Nabil pulled a face at the amount, he said sternly, ‘I don’t pay you to get me what I already know. Get me something I haven’t seen.’

On his way home, rattling along in yet another taxi that appeared to be on its last journey in this world, Makana decided he could no longer put off sharing some of his newly acquired wealth with Umm Ali. Benevolence was not his only motive. His landlady had applied her tried and tested technique of disconnecting the cable that delivered electricity to Makana’s sinking palace. The supply line looped down from the main road and dropped to a distribution box high on a pole set conveniently close to the plywood shack tacked on to the river bank. The youngest of her lovable little urchins could scramble on to the precarious roof and disconnect the cable. She only ever took this measure when the rent was too long overdue. Of course, Umm Ali would never admit to such retaliation. It was merely an unspoken understanding between them that when his finances were at a low ebb, the power might begin to fail. The first time it happened Makana had wasted a morning at the central exchange being told there was nothing wrong with the line. When he approached his landlady with the required money the power would be miraculously restored, sometimes within seconds.

Umm Ali was overjoyed to see him counting banknotes off into her hand, though she had no doubt been anticipating such an event since she had first set eyes on Hanafi’s big car pulling up outside. She could barely contain her joy.

‘I will bring you another bag of pickles this evening,’ she promised with a warm smile. Umm Ali was proud of her pickles. There were months when Makana felt as though he practically lived on her pickles.

‘Perhaps you might check the electricity again?’

‘Right away,
ya bash-muhandis
, you don’t even have to mention it.’

She turned and let out a blood-curdling shriek, and a boy who had been dozing on the ground outside the hut like a cat, leaped up and scuttled on to the roof.

‘An important man like yourself cannot afford to live without any light in his house. How are people supposed to find you?’ Chuckling to herself, she tucked the money into her bosom and went off a happy woman.

On the upper deck Makana sat in the watery restored glow of his reading lamp and went back through all his material, Gaber’s file and Nabil’s envelope, looking for something he had missed.

Adil Romario became star material early on. At the age of twenty-one he was declared the most eligible bachelor in the country. There were plenty of photographs of him in the company of the glamorous set: actors, movie directors and producers from Egypt’s thriving film world. Women in flashy gowns smiling like their life depended on it. Fat old men and handsome younger ones. The glitzy life of stardom. Adil Romario appeared to have had his picture taken with all of them.

One picture caught Makana’s eye. He studied it for a moment. Adil stood in the centre of a group of smiling people. In this case several older men who appeared to be overjoyed to be snapped next to the famous player. To one side stood Gaber, looking exactly the same as always. Next to him was a slight, unremarkable man in a navy blue suit. He looked uncomfortable. The kind of man who did not like having his photograph taken. Makana remembered him. A face from the past, though his name was unknown. Carefully, he folded the clipping and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

At some point, Makana must have dozed off. He remembered staring at the sky, trying to pick out the stars above the carnival blaze of the city, then his eyes must have closed. When he opened them again he felt the cold night breeze blowing in from the water. He remained where he was for a long time, listening to the world around him.

Makana sat up slowly. He knew something was wrong. Someone was moving around down below. As quietly as he could, he picked up the handy length of piping he kept by his chair. At the head of the stairs he looked out at the embankment. There were no lights showing from Umm Ali’s shack. Nothing was moving and at this hour there was little traffic up on the road. A solitary car went by, trailing a snatch of a popular song, before being swallowed by the silence.

Moving down the stairs, stepping cautiously, Makana reached the lower deck and paused to listen. A cool breeze blew in from the river. He heard the water lapping gently against the sides of the hull. He edged along the outside, feeling his way carefully with each foot. Then he froze. A ray of light had just brushed the slats of the window shutters in front of him. Someone was moving about inside with a flashlight. For a long time Makana stood waiting. Then the
awama
stretched itself in one of those long, weary movements that he had become used to. A creaking that started somewhere down inside the hull and transmitted itself through the entire frame with a shudder.