Dogstar Rising (11 page)

‘They were Christians?’

‘Does that make a difference?’ The square jaw tilted like a rocky crag as a dark look clouded the priest’s face. ‘We must help one another in difficult times. If not . . .’ He left the sentence hanging.

Makana and Sami stepped in through the doorway to find themselves in a long, gloomy hangar. The only light entered through opaque sheets of corrugated plastic which alternated in places with the rusty tin of the roof. At the centre was a boxing ring, the ropes hanging slackly. The canvas stretched across its surface was scarred by zigzag sutures where rips had been sewn up by a clumsy surgeon. At the far end of the room were a couple of punchbags that sagged like paunchy old men; beyond that rows of shelves and benches were arranged along the walls. The whole place reeked of decades of sweat. It oozed from the walls and might have been painted on the floor in thick layers. A sign proudly read: Seraph Sporting Club. Below this an angel with flames for wings flew across the wall. Makana recognised the figure from the painting inside the church. The image was pockmarked in places where the plaster had fallen away, and the intensity of the colours had also faded with time to dull browns and reds. The face floated like a pale moon over a speckled desert landscape, which also contained a building tucked into a rocky hillside. Palm trees peeped over the white walls. It looked like a monastery. Perhaps the one Macarius had mentioned. Wadi Nikeiba. Underneath were letters from an alphabet Makana could not read.

‘We are at war, Mr Makana. It is as simple as that. A minority act, but it is the silence of the majority which is the real crime.’

‘Is that what this is about,’ Makana asked, ‘preparing people for war?’

‘I tell young people to be careful when they go outside. Our women have to put up with insults when they walk in the streets. They have their hair pulled, the crosses torn from their necks. Such barbarism. Where is the merciful and compassionate Islam that history has taught us?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not the right person to answer that question, Father.’

‘This is my proudest achievement, a gym for boys of all ages. We do not discriminate. People can train no matter if they are Muslims or Christians, or anything else for that matter.’

Makana recalled Eissa, the boy from the café under the Blue Ibis offices. A group of young men were sparring, shadow-boxing, moving back and forth, throwing punches, ducking and weaving. Father Macarius was speaking again.

‘Children run away because they have no choice. The home becomes a prison in which all kinds of abuse takes place. No one can protect you from your family. They spend their days wandering the streets, and sleeping rough at night. We give them a place to stay, and food to eat.’

Makana’s attention was drawn to the wall where a row of photographs hung. The older ones were in cheap frames. Others were simply pasted to the grubby plaster. Some were clippings from newspapers, frayed and yellowed with age. One of these showed a young Father Macarius, barely recognisable in singlet and shorts, gloved fists raised in front of him as if taking aim at the photographer. There were pictures of boys young and old. Championships. Pictures of the church in better days, gleaming white with old horse-drawn carriages, a policeman in a tarboosh. There were other pictures, of picnics and riverboat outings. A catalogue of young men who had passed through this shed on their way to adulthood.

‘Ah, Antun,’ Father Macarius said. ‘Are those for tomorrow’s fight?’

‘Yes, uh . . . Father.’ A diminutive young man of about nineteen with haunted eyes. He seemed to have some difficulty speaking. He paused to set down a plastic basket filled with laundry. On the top lay a stack of flyers. Macarius held one out to Makana. It was simply done. The logo of the club ran along the top and underneath it read: Under
16
s Championship.

‘We hold these from time to time. It gives the kids something to look forward to.’

Antun picked up his basket and moved off, glancing over his shoulder as he went.

‘You didn’t finish telling me about the Seraph.’ Makana tapped the logo on the flyer which was a reproduction of the angel mural on the wall.

‘The Seraph?’ The big priest frowned, unclasped his hands behind his back and folded his arms over his broad chest. Makana wondered if priests were allowed to play sports. There didn’t seem to be any real reason why not.

‘The word means,
Those Who Burn
. The seraph is a creature that lives in heaven, close to God. They have eyes all over their bodies and are said to be like dragons, or snakes, with six wings. Amongst the angels they rank most highly.’

‘What are those?’ Sami pointed at the wooden figures suspended from the girders supporting the roof.

‘Oh, yes, they are quite unique,’ said Macarius. ‘You can read their names: Hassan, Safwat, Ali and Kamal. I am afraid that Antun has not finished carving the latest victim, Amir.’

Following his gaze, Makana spotted the boy who had been carrying the laundry. He was now seated in the far corner, whittling away at a lump of wood.

‘You mean, these figures are angels representing the boys who were murdered?’

‘You may have heard that there has been something of a miracle here recently. The sighting of an angel?’

‘It was in the papers,’ said Sami.

‘You mean, people really believe there is an angel floating around up there?’ Makana asked.

‘It brings comfort to a lot of people,’ said Father Macarius.

It made as much sense as anything, thought Makana, as he reached for his cigarettes. He wondered what the implications were of murdered Muslim children being turned into Christian angels. His old distaste for religious belief rose in him. Angels and demons seemed a perfect excuse to keep people on their knees with their eyes shut and their hands clasped together in the dark.

‘Not in here, please,’ Macarius shook a finger in front of Makana’s nose. ‘I try to discourage the boys from such habits.’

Makana watched a young boy pummelling a punchbag. He was skinny, a collarbone sticking out through the arms of his worn singlet as sharply as a knife.

‘Earlier you said the police haven’t paid much attention to these murders,’ said Makana.

‘None at all,’ said Father Macarius. ‘It’s as if they don’t care. If it was their children things would be different.’

‘I’m sure,’ nodded Makana. ‘Did some of the victims stay here?’

‘All of them, as far as I know, passed through at some time.’

‘Do you think these killings could in some way be directed at the church?’

‘A way of paying us back for trying to help? Yes, it is possible. Everyone is afraid. Muslim and Christian. This is not a good time. This whole area could explode at any moment and when it does, God help us all.’ Father Macarius shook his head in dismay. ‘I understand your point of view, Mr Makana, perhaps better than you think. I too, ask myself why the Almighty puts these terrible trials before us, and the only answer I have is that it is to test us, to make us ask ourselves what kind of men we are.’ The fierce gaze bored into Makana as he shook his hand. ‘That is the only question that matters: what kind of man are you?’

Chapter Nine

The ghostly outline of the
Binbashi
was lit up by strings of coloured lights, making the steamer resemble a sketch by an artist with an unsteady hand. Like Makana’s
awama
, it was more a floating building than a ship. The entrance was reinforced by a wall and a gate complete with a collection of doormen deep in earnest discussion who duly ignored Makana as he entered. A path led down to a short gangway that brought him into a lobby, gaudily decorated with coloured tinsel, mirrors and a revolving glass ball hanging from the ceiling. Music played over speakers everywhere you went, providing a non-stop soundtrack to your experience. Makana counted the names of four restaurants, but he had an idea there were more of them hidden around the vessel somewhere. He followed the signs to the upper deck and entered a long stately room with low lighting.

Talal had managed to exchange his customary T-shirt for something with a collar, and he was even wearing a jacket that looked as if it had been through a grain thresher and was at least two sizes too small for him. The sleeves came up to his forearms. They were sitting at a table on the riverside. Through the window the city lights swam like luminous fish in the black water. The woman of his dreams had a high bust and creamy skin. She wore a tight blue dress covered in ribbons and bows that emphasised her full figure. She looked as though she would eat Talal alive.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘Bunny, this is the man you’ve heard so much about.’

‘He really doesn’t stop talking about you,’ she said, holding out a limpid hand. There was a playful lilt to her voice and her eyes lingered for a moment on Makana.

‘Please sit,’ Talal urged, as jumpy as a scalded cat.

‘Thank you,’ Makana said.

‘Actually,’ she giggled, ‘I hear your name all the time now that you are helping my father.’

‘Yes, how is that coming along?’ Talal chimed in.

‘It’s too early to say.’

The place was almost empty and they seemed to be surrounded by a swarm of beefy waiters, snapping their fingers, holding out chairs, lifting up and setting down cutlery, handing out menus. Makana reached for his cigarettes.

Bunny prompted, ‘Talal.’

‘Oh,’ Talal said, looking up from his menu, which was big enough to hide a family of four. ‘If you don’t mind. Bunny doesn’t like smoke.’

‘No problem.’ Makana replaced the cigarette in the packet, put the packet back in his pocket and instead took the menu that was thrust under his nose. After staring at it for a time he realised it made no sense to him. The dishes all had foreign names. He took another look around. Low lighting was generally a bad sign in any restaurant. It implied you were not meant to be able to see what you were eating. The empty tables seemed to encourage this line of thinking. Eating was a serious pastime in this country. Not that such trivia affected the happy couple. As Bunny chattered on, Makana realised this was Talal’s idea of trying to impress her. He tried to put his doubts aside. By the sound of it they were planning to taste every available dish. Bunny was running down the menu ticking off one after another as a distracted waiter tried to take note. Makana had a feeling this was going to be a long evening.

‘What about you?’ Talal asked.

‘Oh, why don’t you order for me?’

It was the right thing to say, and allowed Bunny to spend some time playfully measuring him up with her eye to decide what he might like. She clearly liked attention, particularly the male kind. While the young couple chattered between themselves, discussing the merits of one dish over another, the waiter stood tapping his pen against his pad impatiently as if he had a hundred customers waiting for him elsewhere. Makana was about to excuse himself to go outside and have a cigarette, when a shadow crossed before him and another man pulled up the chair opposite.

‘So there you are, we were beginning to get worried.’

The newcomer was around the same age as Makana, in his forties. He wore a colourful African shirt and a broad smile. As he sat down he placed not one but two large mobile telephones on the table and reached into the air to snap his fingers for the waiter. If a moment ago Makana had had good reasons for wanting to leave, they had just multiplied.

Once upon a time Mohammed Damazeen was an artist, a painter with a sideline in the import-export business to keep him in fancy shirts. Makana observed the look of complicity that passed between Damazeen and Talal, whose face was a picture of carefree innocence. A senior waiter in a black jacket appeared, cheerless and balding, and with a look of disdain on his face that had been perfected by years of waiting on tables.

‘You two know each other, of course,’ said Talal.

‘Oh, we have known each other for years,’ smiled Damazeen, before turning to the waiter and demanding wine be brought.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ A cold sneer creased the waiter’s face. ‘We only serve alcohol to non-Muslims.’

‘It’s all right,’ protested Bunny. ‘It really doesn’t matter.’ The idea of wine clearly scandalised her. She gave Talal a hard stare, but he had an absent look on his face that Makana had seen before and also appeared to have lost the ability to speak.

‘Look,’ Damazeen summoned the waiter closer. ‘I’m a friend of the owner. Call Ayad Zafrani and ask his permission.
Yallah
, go! Tell him, Mo Damazeen asked for wine.’ He turned his back on him in a gesture of contempt. The waiter, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of disturbing his boss with such a trivial matter, tugged nervously at the cuffs of his jacket. He addressed the back of Damazeen’s head.

‘I’m sure there is no problem,
ya basha
. If you wish for wine, I shall bring it personally.’ He spun on his heels and clapped his hands, causing four other waiters to start fighting over a bottle of Omar Khayyam, which was passed along from hand to hand with all the care of nitroglycerine. It took a while for them to find a corkscrew. They poured two glasses in the end. One for Damazeen and then, at his insistence, one for Makana, who had no intention of touching it.

‘Still stirring up scandal, I see.’