Arabesk (24 page)

“And the Ifritah spiralled down from the star-studded firmament, alighting on the balcony of a marble palace in old Cairo and did as the Djinn bade. And, Glory to the True God, the child who slept in innocence in the golden bed was every bit as beautiful in loveliness as the tattered beggar boy asleep in the old graveyard by the grave of his father…”

Hani knew he was there, but she didn’t stop telling her story and she didn’t look round. To do so would be to admit that a man had entered the haremlek. And that was something that never happened. So, instead, she kept telling her story to Ali-Din and the puppy told it secretly to her screen, which wrote it down in flowing letters, with ornate calligraphy for the names of God and less ornate but still beautiful capitals for the names of humans, locations, ifrits and djinns. She’d chosen the lettering herself from a database at the Library. Accessing the script had been easy; she’d just pretended to be a professor of literature from Cairo University. Cairo was Hani’s favourite city. She’d never been there, but in
The Arabian Nights
that was where the most beautiful girl ever born was discovered, sleeping, by a djinn.

Lady Nafisa hadn’t liked Ali-Din and she hadn’t liked
The Arabian Nights.
But then, Lady Nafisa was dead. So that showed what
she
knew.

“Hani.”

Raf could have told her a story of his own. Maybe he would, one day. Maybe soon. On the red-tiled floor, beside the girl’s small chair, a robot dog sat in what looked like a puddle of spilt tea. The dog was silver, leather and tattered felt, with floppy plastic ears and a long tail that ended in a blue glass button. Instead of eyes the dog had a black plate stretched over the top third of its head like a motorbike visor, behind which were twin video cameras.

What the dog saw she saw, in a tiny window open on one corner of her screen.

“Ali-Din’s made another mess,” Raf said quietly.

Hani’s eyes slid to the rag dog and she nodded doubtfully.

“He’s not real.”

“I can see that,” said Raf. “But then, nor is my fox.”

The glance Hani flicked at her screen was to check she wasn’t dealing with a complete madman.
Been there,
thought Raf.
Felt that…
“We need to talk,” he said apologetically.

It took an effort, but Hani made herself turn round; made herself wait until she had Raf’s whole attention; made herself ask the question, even though she already knew the answer…“You’re going to send me away, aren’t you?” Her words were little more than a whisper.

“Hani, I can’t…”

“Knew it.” She almost stamped in frustration. “I can help here. I won’t get in the way.”

“It’s not about—”

The girl didn’t let him finish that sentence, either. She wasn’t interested in his reasons any more than Raf would have been if he’d been her: adults could excuse anything. Even things they didn’t really believe in. They both knew that.

“Why, then?”

“Because…” He didn’t have a
because.
Or, rather, he had dozens, from local tradition to his own convenience, all of which he could justify, in none of which he actually believed. But then, believing in things got you hurt. And if the thing you believed in was a person, that could hurt you worse.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said. Remembering that that was what adults had said to him.

Next morning was Friday and the city was shut. Gathered together in the early-morning cool of the kitchen, Khartoum, Raf, Donna and Hani ate breakfast, before Raf and Hani started work cleaning up the rubble that Hamzah’s builders had left behind. Hani insisted on cooking and gave Raf a plate piled high with flat bread and sticky chunks of comb honey. Her own she left empty except for a peach and a handful of grapes.

Only when Raf had finished did Hani pile up the dishes in the sink. After that, she made a second bodun of java, even though Khartoum and Donna drank only mint tea and Raf insisted he was wired enough already. Then she went to fetch a broom, the room echoing to her footsteps.

Outside the kitchen window Rue Sherif was almost empty, missing its usual heavy grind of traffic. And the few taxis that travelled moved unhindered along almost deserted roads that saw the trams stilled and most shops locked tight. Loudspeakers everywhere were calling the faithful to prayer, from minarets dotted like spindly rockets across the humid city. Raf ignored them.

“Isk wasn’t always this quiet,” said Hani. She spoke with the absolute certainty of someone aged nine. “But it all changed last year. Now you aren’t allowed to drive unless you’re going to the mosque.” She carefully swept a pile of crumbs from under the table into a plastic dustpan and, just as carefully, tipped the pan into a metal dustbin. Which was fine, except that blowback sent a swirl of dust and crumbs up into the girl’s face and started her sneezing. “Not funny,” she said fiercely.

All of the major rubble from the hall had already been removed by Hamzah’s men who’d left behind only dust, grit, fist-sized chunks of brick and the fine white bones of dead mice and an unlucky kitten. No treasure, but Hani was getting to grips with her disappointment.

The wooden double door on Rue Sherif now opened onto a newly revealed entrance area, tiled in black. To right and left, running round the edge of the hall, an elegant split staircase hugged the wall, alabaster balustrades rising around its edge, the ever-increasing gap between floor and stairs filled in with what looked like a smooth fall of ice that turned out to be white marble.

The actual walls were bare, stripped of whatever paintings, tapestries and hangings had originally cut the monochrome severity of the black floor and white staircase.

The style was Third Empire, which was undoubtedly one of the reasons why it had been bricked away. At a time when Iskandryia’s Nazrani contingent had been building ornate villas in the High Moorish style, Ottoman families were having their own ancient houses demolished to be replaced with buildings better suited to Faubourg St Germain. Two hundred years later both communities were still embarrassed by their earlier enthusiasm. The hall might be the only part of the Madersa al-Mansur to be reworked in Third Empire style, but its European influences would have been enough of an embarrassment to Lady Nafisa for her to have it bricked away. But then, this was a woman whose outward acceptance of
inshallah,
the surrender to God’s command had been such that she avoided using the future tense in public, because it presumed on the will of God…

At the top of the marble stairs, Hamzah’s builders had unbricked another archway, one that led to an alcove. Without being asked, they’d demolished a wall between that alcove and the
qaa.
Of Lady Nafisa’s smoked-glass office nothing remained but a bad memory.

Just how Hamzah’s team had done the work they had in the brief time they’d taken was beyond Raf. All the same he was grateful, and looking round at the new entrance, the rebuilt
qaa
and the replacement mashrabiya he felt more at home than he’d felt…

Forever
was the answer, if he was honest. And Raf kept on feeling right at home, even when someone rapped with a cane on his new front door and a tall, instantly recognizable man strode in. Or, at least, strode as much as anyone could with a damaged leg and a walking stick. The resurrected hall was swallowed in a single ironic glance.

“You’ve wasted no time.”

Behind General Saeed Koenig Pasha walked Lady Jalila, a scarf wrapped demurely round her hair. Then came two bodyguards from the General’s personal cadre who silently took up positions either side of the front door. The General’s face had that stony-eyed glare usually found only on statues. His skin was dark, not from the sun but from heritability and his cheeks were hollowed out with age and lack of sleep. Piercing eyes examined Raf from under heavy brows.

“You and I need to talk,” he told Raf, his gaze sweeping the hall until it reached Khartoum. “Leave us,” the General ordered. “And take the child with you.”

He pivoted round to face Raf, malacca cane thrust hard on the floor. “I take it this is the way up?” The tiles were crossed in a clicking of walking stick and boot-heels before Raf even had time to answer.

Lady Jalila followed, demurely.

Walking directly behind Lady Jalila, Raf got the full benefit of the sight of her buttocks as they flexed with each step she took, sliding beneath the shot silk of a sand-coloured suit. If she wore underwear it was only a thong: he knew that because the afternoon’s heat and humidity made her skirt fit tighter than any second skin.

The woman climbed the stairs slowly, one at a time, in a stride that almost let Raf catch a flash of inner thigh and waiting darkness. There was a sleekness to her legs and bottom that spoke of personal trainers and whole days spent working out in some exclusive gym of which he’d undoubtedly never even heard.

At the top, General Koenig Pasha walked through the spot where Lady Nafisa’s office had been and clattered his way to the balcony to stare at the darkening sky. A storm was coming in, but not fast enough for his satisfaction. It was left to a slyly smiling Lady Jalila to do the social chit chat.

“So,” she said, “how are you?” With a practised sweep, she pulled the scarf from her head and shook out her blonde hair, then casually smoothed the front of her jacket, full breasts briefly obvious beneath thin silk. She was watching Raf watching her and her smile faded the moment she realized it wasn’t being returned. The unspoken offer, if that was what it had been, came and went before Koenig Pasha even had time to turn round.

“I thought we should talk about your niece,” said the General.

“Hani?”

“You have others…?”

Not that he knew about.

“You see,” said the General. “There’s a problem. It seems Lady Jalila and your aunt had an agreement. If anything should happen to Lady Nafisa, then her cousin was to look after Hani. In fact, I gather the Minister and Lady Jalila had actually promised to adopt the child.”

“And Lady Jalila has this in writing…?” Raf’s voice was polite.

He could have spat in her face and her disgust would have been less. “No,” said Lady Jalila tightly. “I don’t have it in writing. Neither of us imagined a situation where that might be necessary. Of course, I didn’t know about you then…”

“Or I about you…” Raf said simply and watched her hesitate.

“Hani will be better off with Lady Jalila,” said the General. “A country estate, the best schools… And, of course, she’s known Hani all her life.”

Whereas Raf barely even knew himself. Okay, so only he knew that…but a country estate? “I thought Lady Jalila lived in the
Quartier Greque?”
Raf said contemptuously, naming an overpriced area of mercantile houses near Shallalat Gardens. Vast and ornate, the houses had gone from fashionable to slum tenements and back again in a century. Leave anything long enough in Isk and eventually its time would come round again—that seemed to be the rule, anyway.

“We’re selling the house,” Lady Jalila said crossly. “I’ve got an architect drawing up plans for a summer villa out beyond Aboukir. I’m sick of the city in this heat.”

“And the Minister?” Raf asked politely. “Is the Minister of Police for Iskandryia really planning to live in the suburbs?”

“He’s got his flat over the precinct. Next to your fat American friend. And I’ve already got my eye on a new winter house, though I’m not sure what business it is of yours…”

Raf stood up, just as Donna brought in a tea tray. One look at the old woman was enough to confirm how terrified she was to be in the presence of the General. Raf didn’t feel too special about making matters worse. “I’m sorry,” he told the old woman. “But you’d better take it back. Lady Jalila is just leaving.”

And the most feared man in North Africa who, as a young military commander, had shot his own brother for disobeying an order to retreat, raised one heavy eyebrow and padded silent as a leopard after the furious woman. He nodded once at Raf and then again to Donna, scaring the old Portuguese maid almost witless. The famed anger that Raf had expected to see break like thunder across his patrician face was entirely absent. If anything, Koenig Pasha seemed almost amused.

“Felix called,” said Hani, as soon as Lady Jalila had gone. “He wanted to talk to you so I told him you were with her…”

“What did he say?”

“Something very rude.” Hani grinned. “I don’t think he likes her. Mind you, I don’t think anyone likes her.”

“So you definitely don’t want to live with Lady Jalila?”

Raf regretted his suggestion the moment it was spoken. Hani’s answer was a rising babble of outrage that died only when he grabbed the child and scooped her up, ignoring the fists that tried to hammer at his head. When Raf looked round, Khartoum was standing in the doorway, glaring.

He had his answer.

“I had to ask,” Raf said gently.

“Never.” Hani’s voice was fierce, her chin held high. “I’d run away first.”

“But she was Aunt Nafisa’s best friend…?”

“That’s not my fault,” Hani said crossly.

Seattle

“Sorry to trouble you.” The voice was scrupulously polite,
the accent so floppy haired that Hu San knew immediately who was on the other end before the boy had even announced his name.

It was late and an ice-cold wind blew in off the Sound, throwing white spray against the harbour walls. Up in her penthouse, Hu San sat listening to Nyman’s Piano Concerto and drinking jasmine tea. The rain outside and the churning sea below didn’t bother her. Weather only made Hu San feel more real.

Though ZeeZee had never called her before, at home or at her office, which was how she still thought of her small waterfront shop, Hu San had been expecting this phone call. She’d been expecting it for three days, during which the English boy had gone calmly about his work, serving court orders and reporting back any information that he thought the Five Winds Brotherhood might find useful.

Now he would want to complain about Wild Boy. She knew her staff called Haruki “Wild Boy” behind her back. What they didn’t know was that it had been she who first came up with that name, back in the days when Wild Boy was a scruffy street kid who trawled the strip with a gravity knife in one back pocket and a tube of KY in the other. It had been an easy trade. She liked his looks and he liked her money. Besides, any scraps she could offer him from her life were better than the one Haruki already had.