Dogstar Rising (17 page)

When he came out of the office Yousef was waiting for him. He nodded for Makana to follow him out. As they walked down the stairs, Yousef paused to flick his cigarette through a window with no glass.

‘What did the old man want?’

‘He’s worried. This whole thing has shaken everybody.’

‘You turned out quite the hero,’ smiled Yousef.

‘The papers exaggerate, it’s their business.’

‘No, I heard you really did go for the gunman. That takes guts, or was it something else?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I don’t know,’ Yousef said with a sly look. ‘I saw the way you watched her.’

‘You see what you want to see.’

‘Come on, I’m joking. You were in the army, weren’t you?’

‘So what if I was?’

‘Nothing. We have to look out for one another, that’s all.’ Yousef reached into his jacket and came up with an envelope which he handed over. ‘I need you to run an errand for me.’

‘What kind of errand?’ The envelope was full of cash.

‘The kind that makes you lots of money. Go back to the place we went to the other day.’ A map sketched on the back of the envelope showed the route to the House of Birds. ‘The old man will give you a package which you bring straight back to me. Think you can manage that? Tell him there won’t be more work for a while. We need to lay low until all this fuss blows over.’

Life in the arcade was slowly returning to normal. Broken windows had been covered with flattened cardboard boxes held together with adhesive tape on which Mickey Mouse and his friends gambolled jauntily along. Two police officers stood by the street entrance and a third sat on a chair picking his nose, a scarred AK
47
bridged across his knees.

Eissa was back behind the counter. His forearm was wrapped in plaster.

‘You’ve been in the wars. How’s the arm?’

‘Yeah,’ the boy grinned, holding it up. ‘It itches.’

‘How did you break it?’

‘A fight.’

‘At the gym?’

‘No.’ Eissa laughed revealing a set of remarkably dirty teeth.

‘You get into a lot of fights, do you?’

‘A few. People come looking for trouble . . .’

‘You heard about Meera?’

The boy dropped his head to stare into the sink in front of him. He busied himself with washing the dirty glasses.

‘You knew her quite well, didn’t you?’ Makana said. There was no reply. After a time he realised the boy was no longer stirring the dishes. He was just looking at them.

‘She was a good person,’ said the boy without lifting his head. ‘She didn’t deserve to die.’

‘No, she didn’t.’

After a time Eissa resumed his washing up.

‘About those cigarettes.’

Eissa sniffed and wiped his bare arm over his face. ‘You want me to get you some? How about a couple of cartons?’ He still had his back to Makana.

‘Can you get me that many? Or do you need to ask Rocky?’

‘I don’t need to ask Rocky anything.’

‘Okay, well, I’d still like to know where they come from.’

‘What difference does it make?’ he said, turning to face Makana. ‘They’re the same cigarettes you buy in the street, but half the price.’ Eissa picked up a rag and began drying his hands. ‘So, you want them or not?’

‘If you think you can get them by yourself.’

‘I just said I would,’ snapped the boy, turning away again. ‘Come back tomorrow.’

Half an hour later, Makana was retracing his steps from the day when he had followed Yousef. The square with arches around three sides looked much the same except the colonnades were now filled with deep shadows. A rat squeaked somewhere underfoot. In the centre of the square a stone pedestal housed a circular well that had long since been filled in. The square was so perfectly sealed it appeared as if the walls had closed in behind him, obscuring the way in and out. He reached the wooden door decorated with iron birds. An old Ottoman-style house that had once been a caravanserai, a resting place for merchants who had travelled for weeks at a time, carrying ivory and gold from the interior of the continent, incense and silk from Syria and Baghdad. In the Middle Ages, Cairo was larger than Venice, a vast city of legend, and anyone with an interest in trade had to come here. The door had a heavy iron grille in the middle. A handle was set into the stone wall beside it. On pulling this Makana was rewarded with the tinkle of a bell somewhere far off. After a time footsteps approached and the door creaked open to reveal a young boy of around fourteen wearing a blue gelabiya and a red tarboosh.

‘Is the master of the house in?’

Without a word, the boy stepped aside, bowing for him to enter. Makana felt as though he was stepping into another age. The narrow yard was well tended with flowers and grass, which gave it the aspect of a verdant oasis in the midst of the city. A path led to a small archway and a stone staircase. Beyond were buildings that once were stables, kitchens and stores.

The boy led the way up the stairs which wound about a stone pillar scarred by centuries, rubbed smooth by countless hands. A gallery led through the building, past a window alcove that jutted out over the garden and was decorated by an elaborate carved
mashrabiya.
Traditionally, these window screens allowed the women of the house to observe visitors discreetly, without being seen themselves. In the gallery dozens of birdcages were hanging on long chains from the rafters high above. They were a variety of shapes and sizes and were suspended at different heights. Large, small, round, square, some made of wood, others of iron. There were even some made of ornate silver and gold. The birds they contained displayed an astonishing array of colours and types. Makana was no ornithologist. He might claim to know the difference between a chicken and a pigeon if they were on a plate in front of him, but that was about the size of it. But even he recognised that these creatures were remarkable. The overall effect was like looking at a wall of living flame going from orange to green, to red and yellow, through every brilliant shade of the spectrum.

Another open doorway and three steps led into a circular room lined with books. A few small birds (or were they bats?) fluttered about high above, flitting from one side to the other. It was as Makana might have imagined the library of a wise king. Perched high on a ladder on one of the walls of paper was an old knot of a man wearing dark glasses.

‘Hello, Yunis.’

The two men had met some years ago. In those days, Yunis had run his forgery business from inside an old junk shop in the bazaar. Now the old man climbed carefully down and clucked his tongue when he looked at Makana. Without a word Old Yunis led the way back through the gallery of birds to the enclosed balcony where a cool breeze came in through the wooden lattice. He sat down on the carpet and crossed his legs. Makana followed suit.

‘You look well.’

‘The doctor says these help to keep the cataracts under control,’ Yunis removed the dark glasses. ‘But I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about. I can hardly see a thing.’ The beady eyes flickered with fury. The years had not dulled his edge. The hollow face had the texture of old wood. He reached into the pocket of his black gelabiya and produced a packet of cigarettes.

‘My other doctor tells me I should smoke because my blood pressure is too low.’ He struck a match and champed his lips around the filter. ‘He too is a fool, but his advice amuses me.’

‘I like the birds.’

‘Our Lord never misses an opportunity to teach us a lesson in humility. I dreamed all my life of having a collection of beautiful birds. And now that I have them I can barely see them. I can hear them, though, which is some consolation.’

‘Do you know why I am here?’

‘Your conscience tells you that you have ignored your old friends for far too long?’

Makana was secretly touched that he should qualify as a friend.

‘I was here the other day, or rather, I waited outside while Yousef came to pay you a visit.’

‘Ah, yes, the elusive Mr Yousef. Since when have you started working for such lowlife?’

‘Yousef thinks he can trust me and I’d like to keep it that way for a while.’ Makana passed him the envelope.

‘You never come to visit me and now you need my help.’ Yunis opened the envelope and flipped through the stack of banknotes before putting it to one side. Then he turned to an elaborate chest, made of polished mahogany with a mother of pearl inlay, set against the wall. Pressing a secret panel, he folded back two doors to reveal rows of compartments. From one of these Yunis produced an envelope. It contained a collection of European passports: three Spanish, one French, one Italian, two British. Makana turned the pages slowly. Stamps showed they had arrived at Cairo airport less than a week ago.

‘Good work, don’t you think?’

‘I’m no expert,’ said Makana, rubbing the paper. Which might have been true, but unlike ornithology, he had some experience in assessing the validity of documents. As fakes went these were very good. He wouldn’t have expected less from the old man.

‘Your work?’

‘Save your praise, my eyes aren’t good enough for this kind of detail, and besides, most of it is done by machines nowadays. But people come to me and since I have a reputation to maintain I became a middleman.’

‘I don’t understand, why go to the trouble of forging a tourist’s passport?’

‘Because that leaves us with one genuine passport. All we have to do then is change the name and the picture. You know how much a European passport will fetch nowadays?’

‘You mean, you sell them to Egyptians?’

‘Not just Egyptians. This city is full of people, including some of your compatriots I should add, who are desperate to find a way to the good life in the West.’

‘So Yousef takes these off his tourists and they travel back to Europe with false passports?’

‘Whoever heard of immigration suspecting a Frenchman arriving back with his family and a suntan? They wave them through with barely a glance. The Spanish are easier. As for the Italians . . .’

‘Somehow, I find it hard to credit Yousef with an idea like this.’

‘You’re right, he doesn’t have the brains.’

Makana had come to the last passport in the batch. Idly flipping it open he stared at the photograph. It took a moment to place the face: Ghalib Samsara. It seemed like an odd coincidence.

‘You know him?’

‘I did some work for his father a couple of years ago. And I met him again the other day. It probably doesn’t mean anything.’

‘There is no such thing as coincidence,’ said Yunis, rolling his lips over his toothless gums before inserting another cigarette and lighting it.

The boy appeared carrying a waterpipe which he set down beside his master. The next few minutes passed with Yunis sucking on the stem until the aromatic smoke was flowing smoothly.

‘Watch out with Yousef. He’s small time, but I hear he can be dangerous. He gained a bad reputation in the army.’

‘Who is he working for?’

‘He has his finger in a lot of bowls. He’s a hired thug who does favours for a lot of people including national security. He works both sides of the fence. Have you ever come across the Zafrani brothers on your travels?’

It was the second time that name had come up in a week.

‘What do you know of them?’ asked Makana.

‘Our paths have crossed in the past. I hear they are trying to become respectable.’

‘And you think Yousef might be working for them?’

‘It’s hard to say, but something like this,’ Yunis tapped the passports, ‘would take somebody with a lot of influence.’

‘The Zafrani brothers have that kind of influence?’

‘Oh, they certainly do. Some say they are building an empire within. There is even talk they might go into politics.’

‘Why would they be interested in false passports?’

‘Perhaps it is not the passports they are interested in, but in controlling who gets them.’

‘Still, it’s a risky business. A cautious tourist might notice something.’

‘They take only new passports. The owners are barely familiar with them. They might collect them days before they travel and throw them into a drawer as soon as they get home.’ Yunis had a contemplative expression on his gnarled face as he puffed away. ‘You’d be surprised how many holes there are in the system. Most of them due to human error. In time that factor will be removed.’

‘I have something to show you,’ said Makana, producing the letters from his pocket.

Yunis glanced swiftly through them. ‘They come from a printing press. The old-fashioned kind. There are a few of them dotted around. I can make you a list.’

‘What can you tell me about this star?’

‘
Kawkab al-Shiara
– the leading star.’

‘Have you ever heard of a group identifying with it?’

Yunis shook his head. ‘In the Jahiliyya, before the coming of Islam, the Arabs used to worship stones and stars. In the days of the pharaohs it was associated with Isis. Its disappearance from the sky was believed to coincide with the passage of Isis and Osiris through the Underworld. It reappears after seventy days and marks the start of the annual floods.’