The Burning Gates (2 page)

Inside the ticket office sat a small unshaven man who kept up a steady stream of chatter with anyone and everyone who passed him by. In front of him lay a messy heap of banknotes and coins that he shuffled with the confidence of a croupier in Monte Carlo, passing tickets back through the roughly cut hole in the glass with speed and dexterity.

‘
Yallah, ya basha
. Buck up your ideas before the Americans start landing.’

‘Why would the Americans come here?’ The man behind Makana wore an old check shirt covered with a liberal sprinkling of fishscales.

‘You ask why? Aren’t those two eyes in your head? Why? To liberate us from the oppression of our leaders, just like they did in Iraq.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ offered a woman in black with tired eyes. ‘We have nothing they want.’

‘You wait,’ nodded the croupier confidently, shuffling coins in the direction of the next in line, a girl of sixteen cradling a baby she could barely hold up. ‘When they finish with the Iraqi oil they will be thirsty for good water and they’ll be right over.’

The man in the fishscales lingered, his face a twisted knot of anguish. ‘Who do you think put the president in charge? He’s in their pocket. They’d never move against him.’

Makana left them to it and wandered down the ramp to the quayside where the other passengers waited. Already in the distance the water taxi was visible. Sitting low in the water, the vessel cut across the river at a good pace. Beyond it Makana could see the bridge that linked this side of the Nile to the island of Gezira. When he had first arrived in this city the river had been spanned by a quaint iron structure whose design harked back to the last century. The Boulac Bridge came with its very own myth attached, namely that it had been built by one Gustave Eiffel, better known for a certain tower in Paris. The legend went further, claiming that on discovering that the swing bridge would not open as intended, M. Eiffel had hurled himself from it in despair. As with so many stories in this city, the facts were seasoned with a good sprinkling of imagination. The bridge was not designed by the same engineer who had built the famous tower, and as for his suicide, this too appeared to have been an embellishment. Romance had eventually bowed its head to reality and the narrow, impractical bridge was replaced by a clumsy concrete structure that hummed day and night to the tune of thousands of vehicles flying back and forth over the river.

The boat ride was a pleasant alternative route, an idyllic interlude, a humble reminder that without this river the city would not, in all its fury and ferocity, exist. Ten minutes later Makana stepped ashore on the far side and walked through the tree-lined streets of Zamalek while the birds overhead sounded their shrill excitement in the last rays of daylight.

The house was a large villa, set back elegantly behind a row of enormous banyan trees. Ali Shibaker was already kicking his heels in the dust outside. Tonight he was dressed in full artist’s regalia: a velvet jacket that he kept in a bag full of mothballs and a beret that seemed to have acquired a crown of cat hairs somewhere along the line. Makana remembered the jacket from the early years when they had both been strangers in this city. He had no idea where Ali had got the notion that this was how artists were supposed to dress, but it wasn’t a subject that came up easily in conversation. Ali felt he had to look the part, and on the rare occasions when he saw him like that Makana felt obliged not to comment.

Appearing in public as an artist seemed like a nerve-racking business. Shibaker couldn’t stand still and insisted on tugging nervously at the silk scarf around his neck, which wouldn’t hang right. If Makana hadn’t shown up in time he might well have succeeded in strangling himself.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for ages.’ Makana muttered an apology. He knew better than to argue when Ali was in this mood. ‘Let’s go in. We don’t want to be late.’

They were, by Makana’s estimate, right on time, but he thought it unhelpful to say so. Instead he followed Ali through the gate, past a couple of men who were checking invitations. They didn’t bother with Ali, who no doubt had been in and out a dozen times already while waiting. Instead they gave a sigh of relief, happy to see the back of them.

The garden was a wide, cool expanse of green lawn, edged by shrubs, tall neem trees and palms. Indeed, it was so crowded with vegetation that the outside world seemed to pull up sharply at the gate, ceasing to exist, giving way to another age. A path lit by old-fashioned oil lamps marked the way up to the house. The flickering light lent the scene a timelessness, putting Makana in mind of the Ottoman pashas in the nineteenth century, living inside a silken cocoon, oblivious to the wretched fate of the world outside. Certainly, the handsome villa that stood at the far end of the lawn might have dated from that age. Steps rose up the front to colonnades and a veranda running along the front of the house. Open French louvre doors on the right led to a brightly lit set of interconnecting rooms. The hum of voices and faint music drifted out to mingle in the night air. On both sides of the stairway long tables covered by white cloths had been set out and laden with food and drink. Makana slowed, suddenly acutely aware of his hunger. Ali tugged him along impatiently.

‘There’s no time for that now.’

A woman in an elegant black dress, wearing a translucent shawl that did a bad job of covering her bare shoulders, exchanged a smile with him.

‘Don’t talk to that one, she’s a snake!’ Ali hissed, managing to smile at the same time. But the woman was clearly not going to be passed by. She stepped into their path and extended a hand.

‘Ali, you weren’t going to go by without even saying hello?’

‘Never.’ He clutched her hand in both of his and did a convincing job of looking like a devoted admirer. ‘How lovely to see you, Dalia.’

‘Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?’

‘Yes, of course. This is Makana, my manager.’

‘Your manager, really? Well, we must get together.’ She was an attractive woman in her forties. Her eyes had a somewhat faded spark of mischief.

The smile stuck to Ali’s face as he dragged Makana onwards.

‘Who was that?’

‘Dalia Habashi. Another dealer. Hates Kasabian, of course. Doesn’t have a fraction of his taste. Look at the way she’s dressed, flaunting herself.’

‘Do you think it was wise telling her I’m your manager?’

‘Of course, why not? It makes them think you’re important.’

‘But don’t you think she might find out?’

‘Let me worry about that. I know how this business works.’

Makana fell silent. Ali was as jumpy as a cat in a dogfight. They walked up the stairs to be met by a large man wearing a silvery grey suit. Although he had never met him before, Makana knew at once that this had to be Aram Kasabian.

‘Ali, Ali, where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you.’

For a man in his sixties, Kasabian had the smooth features of somebody twenty years his junior. His wavy grey hair matched his suit in colour, his hand was cool to the touch and he gave off an aroma of expensive cologne. Makana was wearing his best jacket and yet it still seemed as if the waiters were better dressed than him. He felt Kasabian’s well-trained eye appraising him.

‘And this is the man you’ve been telling me about.’ He stretched out a hand.

‘This is Makana,’ said Ali perfunctorily. ‘We’ve known each other for years.’

‘Welcome,
merhaba
.’ Aram Kasabian leaned over as he ushered the two of them in. ‘We will talk later, Mr Makana,’ he said confidentially.

They stepped through the first set of double doors to find themselves in the midst of Kasabian’s well-heeled guests. The lights seemed very bright after the relative gloom of the veranda. The two front rooms had been turned into galleries. The walls were hung with framed canvases of various sizes. Makana watched Kasabian slide through the crowd with practised ease, pausing to shake a hand here or exchange a greeting there before arriving at the far end of the room where a small stage had been set up. He spoke like a man who was not only used to speaking in public but who enjoyed it. His natural charm soon had his guests nodding and chuckling.

‘This is always a great honour. The autumn exhibition has now become, I am proud to say, a key event in the cultural calendar of this great city. It gives us the opportunity to discover some of the wonderful talent that surrounds us as we go about the rather dull business of earning a living.’ He gestured at the walls around them. ‘Artists allow us mere mortals to dream. Their vision enriches our lives. Each year we discover brilliant new talents and this year is no exception.’ He mentioned several names that meant nothing to Makana and pointed out certain people in the room. There was some polite clapping. Kasabian went on to thank a few of the private patrons and sponsors without whom, he emphasised, the exhibition would not have been possible. There were more smiles and nods as they enjoyed their moment in the spotlight. Everybody seemed pleased to be there. Makana knew that for Ali this evening meant a lot. The guests who thronged the room, clutching non-alcoholic grape juice in champagne glasses, were the cream of society. Wealthy entrepreneurs, businessmen and investors, bankers and men of industry, along with a good sprinkling of embassy staff and expats. They were the patrons every struggling artist was hoping to captivate with their work and maybe make a few sales.

When Kasabian finished his speech the noise level rose as the guests resumed their conversations. Some moved around and for a time Makana moved with them, grateful for a break from Ali’s fretting. He was now busy chatting away with potential buyers. To Makana he resembled a man out of place. Most of the time he was Ali the Mechanic, who ran a car-repair shop just off Sharia Sudan Street.

From the snippets of conversation he picked up Makana concluded that wealth did not qualify a person to understand art. The pictures reflected a range of style and quality. It was a strange business. The fortunate ones would find their way to a wall in a house or private flat, in the lobby of an embassy or the boardroom of an insurance company, proof of the sophistication and taste of their new owners. Makana stared at a picture of a bowl of what might have been artichokes but on the other hand could have been a family of dead frogs.

‘Are you really his manager?’

Makana turned to find the woman he had briefly met earlier, Dalia Habashi.

‘I’m afraid Ali is a little nervous this evening. I came to lend support.’

That made her laugh. ‘Well, at least you’re honest about it.’ She leaned over to whisper. ‘Which is more than most people here are.’ Her eyes lit up when Makana produced his cigarettes. ‘You’re a mind reader, but they won’t allow it in here, I’m afraid. Let’s go outside.’

The veranda was lit by the soft glow that came from a huge copper lamp with glass sides, hanging from the ceiling above the stairs.

‘It used to belong to King Farouk,’ whispered Dalia Habashi.

‘He left it behind as a parting gift?’ queried Makana, lighting both of their cigarettes. Dalia Habashi leaned back and exhaled at the stars.

‘Not at all. How it came into Aram’s possession is a mystery.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘But then you know all about that.’

‘Lamps?’

‘Aram’s mysteries. I understand you are here to help Mr Kasabian.’

‘Then you know more than I do,’ said Makana.

‘You’re discreet. I like that. Sounds like an interesting life, investigating people. Is it?’

‘It has its moments.’

Dalia Habashi smiled. Her accent was Lebanese and she had that olive complexion that spoke of being bathed in money for generations.

‘What did Ali tell you about me?’ A mischievous gleam twinkled in her eyes.

‘I’m afraid he isn’t making much sense tonight.’

‘You’re being diplomatic, or evasive.’

‘I’ve never really thought of this city as being a place for art collectors.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised. The Cairenes, the wealthy ones at least, like to think of themselves as closer to Rome or Paris than to, say, Khartoum.’

Mention of his hometown prompted a stab of anguish in Makana. ‘I don’t need convincing of that.’

‘There is a market for artworks, certainly, but it tends to be less about quality than about who you know.’

‘Who would have thought?’

Makana saw her eyes pass over his shoulder and turned to see a broad-shouldered man in a blue-striped suit. From newspapers and television appearances Makana recognised him as Deputy Minister Qasim Abdel Qasim. People were falling over themselves to shake his hand. In itself this wasn’t all that surprising. Qasim had a lot of influence nowadays. He was part of the inner circle of the ruling National Democratic Party and a close personal friend of the president’s son. You couldn’t get much better connected.

This was what these events were really about – being seen with the right people. And it seemed that Makana was about to become one of the chosen ones, since Qasim was headed straight towards them. The deputy minister was clearly interested in speaking to Dalia Habashi, who in turn seemed reluctant. There was a slightly awkward moment, which Makana’s presence did nothing to alleviate. When introduced, Qasim ran his eyes over Makana and dismissed him as insignificant in the general scheme of things, but then a frown crossed his face.