The Golden Scales (6 page)

After that he felt hungry and decided that the sudden improvement in his financial situation, along with the comforting bundle of ready cash tucked into his pocket, ought to be celebrated in style. He had a few debts to settle, but his first priority was to treat himself to a decent meal. It took him ten minutes to walk to Aswani’s restaurant.

As usual, an air of weary desolation hung over the place. A fan turned lazily over the deserted metal tables, and the buzz of white strip lighting competed with the urgent frenzy of flies trying to get into or out of the cooling cabinets where all manner of raw meat rested on steel trays. A small fat man waddled across the floor towards him. Ali Aswani bore a distinct resemblance to an oversized duck, apart from his big Turkish moustache whose bushy handlebars stood out stiffly to left and right like rabbit’s ears. Makana chose a table in a corner at the back, where he could be undisturbed and keep an eye on the door at the same time.

As he went he swept up a well-creased copy of the day’s newspaper. Ignoring the usual front-page stories glorifying the actions of various government ministers, the President’s wife, etcetera, he turned to the sports pages. There he read that the DreemTeem was currently slipping down the league table. A columnist speculated on the reasons behind this; were the rumours of discontent within the team true? And where was their most famous player in this hour of need? After that Makana settled down to read carefully through the folder Gaber had given him. It contained photographs of Adil taken in a studio. They were the kind of official pictures you might see on a club wall. Makana had looked for missing people before, but never one as well known as this. Usually you were given a blurred snapshot, or an out-of-date passport picture, but here he had dozens of promotional shots. There was also a thick stack of newspaper clippings charting Adil Romario’s rise to fame, from skinny teenager to muscular athlete. The early articles praised his skills, calling him a natural genius. Alongside many such articles were sheafs of adverts featuring endorsements by Adil Romario. It made Makana wonder just how much Hanafi Enterprises depended on him.

Soon Aswani began arriving bearing plates of sliced flat bread and
tahini
dip, along with a salad of fat green
girgir
leaves. Skewers of kofta were already sizzling on the grill. It was a while since Makana had allowed himself the luxury of coming here. Over the last few months he had simply been unable to afford it; though he knew Aswani was always happy to put it on his tab, Makana was wary of running up debts. Today was different and even Aswani noticed that, holding back as he approached, plates in hand, and cocking his head to scrutinise his customer.

‘Are you working again?’

‘I might even be able to pay you some of what I owe you.’

‘I’ll call the radio and television stations,’ said Aswani with a weary sigh, setting down the dishes. ‘They might be interested in the news.’

‘You know I always settle up when I have money.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ said the other man, leaning back with his hands on his broad hips and staring up at the ceiling for a moment before shaking his head. ‘No. It’s been so long, I can’t remember.’

‘Just fetch your accounts book and we’ll take care of it.’

‘I swear I’ll say the Mahgrib prayer twice today in your honour,’ muttered Aswani as he turned to waddle away. Makana continued reading as he ate. The food here was simple but good. The place didn’t look like much but the cook claimed he never served anything that he wouldn’t be happy to eat himself. His broad girth was his best advertisement. ‘I only eat here to keep up appearances,’ he would say, whenever he was caught with his mouth full, which was often. ‘Who would trust a cook as thin as a stick anyway?’

Makana turned back to the matter of Hanafi. A number of things had struck him as odd about this morning’s meeting. First, there was the question of how they had managed to find him. Makana was under no illusions that his reputation was so good that he had been the obvious choice. Gaber had mentioned that Makana had been recommended. He hadn’t said by whom. Then there was the fear he had seen in Hanafi’s eyes. Did that have more to do with protecting himself than any concern about Adil, no matter how much he professed to care for him? Hanafi had hinted that he could trust no one in his inner circle. This implied that he suspected there was more to Adil’s disappearance than a young man simply wanting to get away from it all. Had Adil become involved with someone, or rather the wife of someone? A business rival, say, or the wife of a diplomat or politician? Then there was the matter of their argument. Hanafi said that Adil had wanted him to take a holiday. Was that significant?

Makana looked up as Aswani returned, dismayed to see that he wasn’t carrying any delicious skewers of kebab, and no sign either of the grubby piece of string threaded through countless strips of paper which he called his accounts book.

‘Do you mind if I sit for a moment?’ Aswani asked, gesturing at the chair opposite and then sitting down before waiting for an answer. Makana sat back and waited. Ali pushed the little round skullcap back on his head. ‘This is something that has been troubling me.’ His fat fingers twirled the ends of his moustache. He resembled a Turkish general mulling over which strategy to apply on the battlefield. ‘You see the
afranji
woman who is sitting over there in the corner?’

Almost the only other customer in the place was a European woman who was sitting alone on the far side, virtually invisible against the brown-tiled wall. Thin and bony, in her forties, her appearance suggested someone who was down on her luck. Personal hygiene appeared not to be high on her list of priorities. Her hair was unkempt and her clothes dirty. She was chewing her nails and smoking a cigarette, all at the same time.

‘What about her?’ Makana dipped some bread into the sauce and chewed.

‘Well, you know, it’s a strange thing . . . I’ve seen her before. This is not the first time.’

‘Maybe she likes your cooking. Is she always alone?’

‘Always.’

Makana took another look. The woman appeared to be talking to herself. She stared into the air above her head, muttering, and then began scribbling in a notebook on the table in front of her. As he watched she suddenly began scratching out whatever was written there with furious slashes of her pen, grinding it back and forth across the page.

‘A writer,’ Makana concluded, ‘she’s including your establishment in a guide. You will be inundated with foreign customers in no time.’

‘
Ya salam
, some detective you are!’ Aswani leaned his elbows on the table. ‘We get all sorts in here. Believe me, I’ve seen some of the craziest ones, but none ever disturbed me like this one does. I swear on my mother’s grave.’ He clutched Makana’s arm. ‘I’m afraid she’s going to do something.’

‘Something like what?’ He widened his eyes dramatically.

‘I can’t say. It’s just a feeling I have. She looks . . . lost. You know what will happen if a European woman gets herself into trouble? It will be bad for all of us.’

‘I see.’ Makana extricated his arm and reached for another piece of bread. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

Aswani tilted his head. ‘Perhaps you could just have a word with her.’

Makana chewed in silence as Aswani went on, ‘Since you speak English and everything, you could just ask her what she is doing. If she’s all right, then fine, no harm done. But if something happens to her it will be on my soul until Judgement Day.’

‘Tell me, Ali, do you worry about all your customers like this?’

‘You know I do,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Now let me go and see about your kofta, and eat what you want today. It’s not going on the account.’

Makana sighed and pushed back his chair. It wasn’t as if he needed a free meal at this point, or further distraction, but Ali had seen him through some dark times and if it would make him feel happier then Makana was obliged to make the effort.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, feeling rather foolish. The table was littered with tobacco and broken cigarettes. Ash was scattered over everything. There were several notebooks and sheafs of paper. The woman was lighting another cigarette as he spoke. She stiffened perceptibly. He smiled amiably. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you seem worried about something . . .’ Makana felt like a complete fool, realising as he spoke that this approach could easily be misconstrued. ‘Is there some way I could help?’

The woman blew smoke away from her face. Her eyes fixed on him coldly. ‘You speak very good English.’

‘Well, thank you . . .’ Makana gave a small bow.

‘And so you will understand perfectly when I tell you to get lost, you creep?’

Makana’s face was an awkward mask by now. Still, he managed to step back and dip his head gracefully. ‘I understand perfectly. Sorry to bother you.’ Then he spun on his heel and went back to his food. The woman could go to hell. At least he had done right by Ali . . . although, having seen her close up, he was convinced the cook had not been wrong. There was something the matter with that woman; she was clearly insane. Aswani arrived hotfoot from the grill, bearing Makana’s reward, a huge mound of freshly grilled skewers of lamb.

‘How did you get on?’ He kept his voice low.

‘You don’t need to worry about her,’ said Makana, reaching for the kofta which was always best when it came straight off the heat. ‘I think she can take care of herself.’

The cook stood there fretting, completely forgetting what he was supposed to be doing. He started to wander back towards the kitchen.

‘Ali?’ Makana called him back and pointed.

‘Sorry.’ He set down the plate and disappeared, the fretful expression still fixed to his face. Makana returned to the folder as he continued to eat, only to have his concentration broken again a few minutes later.

‘I’m sorry . . . about earlier.’

Without hesitation, the Englishwoman slid into the chair opposite Makana’s.

‘My behaviour was quite inexcusable. I’m sorry. I just don’t . . .’

Her head was bowed. Makana shut the folder, silently cursing his luck.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I just ate.’

‘Would you like something to drink? Tea or coffee?’ He pushed some plates aside and reached for his cigarettes.

‘Tea would be fine.’

Makana signalled to Aswani. The woman sat with her hands clamped to the seat of her chair, staring down at the table. Makana had been convinced she was suffering from some form of mental illness, possibly depression of some kind. Now he saw that she was simply very unhappy.

‘Are you writing a book?’

‘A book?’ She frowned deeply. ‘Oh, that. No, I just keep a record of everything.’

Makana took a moment to study her more closely. She looked older than he had at first thought, although this might have been the result of her obvious distress. Skinny as a bird, with eyes that were red and swollen. Stress lines crimped the corners of her mouth. She smoked in quick nervous puffs. Makana imagined she was the type of hardy traveller who came to Egypt in search of authenticity. The kind who would never be satisfied with guided tours and pyramids, trips on a felucca and an evening of belly dancing. They came in pursuit of Flaubert, or some other romantic figure, in the spirit of the nineteenth-century European fascination with this part of the world. They wanted to see the real Egypt, to meet the people, to travel and eat among them. They wanted to maintain the illusion that the world was a state of mind, ruled by fluid borders, where everyone lived happily in freedom and equality. They neatly omitted to consider the privilege of free passage they carried in their back pocket like a magic charm, and the travellers’ cheques and credit cards that went along with the passport. A real experience, hence the need to ‘record’ everything. She struck him as disillusioned and terribly sad at the same time.

The tea arrived. Aswani caught Makana’s eye and gave him a brief nod of gratitude before moving away discreetly. Makana sighed. His entire life could be expended performing favours for friends and acquaintances. He would wind up a curiosity in a corner of the bazaar. Children would point him out and laugh. After what felt like a very long time, the woman began to speak. Her head was angled to one side so that she appeared to be addressing one corner of the table.

‘Years ago, I came here with my little girl, Alice.’

She spoke in fits and starts. A shudder ran through her and one bony hand came up to her face as she sucked in another lungful of smoke. ‘We were staying right across there, in a hotel overlooking the square.’ She nodded over her shoulder. Makana sipped his tea. The woman’s eyes looked up and met his. ‘And then one day she disappeared.’

Makana set down his glass. ‘How did it happen?’

‘She was in the bedroom.’ The woman was shaking her head repeatedly, as if the gesture might be enough to change the outcome of the story she was trying to tell. ‘I don’t know. One minute she was there, lying asleep, and the next . . .’ The effort of speaking seemed to overcome her. She was silent for a long moment, staring at her hands clasped together on the table. ‘They never found her.’

‘How old was she?’

As she struggled to regain her composure, the woman’s chin bobbed up and down.

‘She was four at the time.’