The Cairo Diary (28 page)

Azim was not at all tired. His run through the narrow streets had rather reinvigorated him, as the fear had mingled with excitement in a volcanic cocktail. All the same, what emotion! Approaching the suspect had sent terrible shivers through him, one hand on the stock of his revolver, ready to draw and fire.

If it had really been the
ghul,
shooting at it would not have been any great help to him. According to the legends, only the power of prayers had the ability to ward off the demon.

“Come on, admit it,” he whispered to himself. “You don't believe that. If you did, you wouldn't have charged right up to it, knowing your weapon would be no use. You think that behind all this are the machinations of a man.”

Then who was he? Why had he taken an interest in children at night? In sniffing their clothing, and trying to enter their bedrooms as the trader had testified?

A little disoriented, Azim's gaze strayed over the cracks in the roof.

He no longer knew what to think. The tiredness … the emotion …

He must concentrate, not doze off, wait for the signal. Nothing else …

Azim waited, with the greatest vigilance.

The hours went by, little by little. The streets were still as silent as ever. The cold became thicker, pressing blankets to clothing and skin even more as the night wore on.

Azim ate a lot of dates as he waited.

To his great surprise, the imam came to pay him a visit a little after one in the morning. He found it pointless to wait at the mosque for someone to fetch him and had decided to go around to all the lookouts to bring them support. Azim and he spoke a little, essentially about the
ghul,
which the imam barely dared name. The little detective was disturbed to discover that the religious man seemed to fear the monster. Sweat beaded his brow when they discussed the imam's decisive role if the human factor was eliminated.

The imam left an hour later, declaring that he would keep an eye on the roofs and the lanterns. If the signal was given, he would wait five minutes, allowing Azim the necessary time to judge the situation in situ, and then come to help, remaining within hearing distance just in case.

Azim returned to quietness and solitude.

His thoughts wandered. And halted at his colleague.

Matheson did not believe in the supernatural. He refused to keep an open mind about this lead, even though it had been verified by two distinct witnesses. The Englishman had an unappealing reputation in the Cairo police force. He worked alone, and when he was forced to do otherwise, he did not share, leading his investigation in his way, keeping silent. He was a bad partner. But an excellent detective.

His reputation as a “trustworthy man” ensured that he found all doors open, or almost. People said he was mysterious about his private life. Azim, who was beginning to get to know him, preferred the adjective
reserved.
Matheson did not share easily—neither his work, nor his private life. And he had the same attitude of savage defense as wounded animals, preferring to be left alone, to bind his wounds, in this case a wounded heart.

Yes, the more he thought about it, Matheson was—

Azim leaped forward, suddenly getting to his feet.

A lantern was frantically waving to and fro in the distance.

With such intensity that the flame had difficulty remaining steady. The person giving the signal was terrified.

He wasn't just giving the signal, no …

He was appealing for help.

32

Marion looked up from her reading.

The storm was blotting out the sun, darkening the Salle des Chevaliers. The pillars added to these areas of shadow by masking the far corners; the only things missing were burning torches on the walls, and you would think you had stepped back into the Middle Ages.

During her first hour's reading, Marion had heard religious chants filtering down from the church above, reinforcing the impression that she was outside the world. Now there was nothing to accompany her but the anger of the elements outside; they hurled themselves ceaselessly against the window behind her, tapping and raging on the glass, and making her jump.

Intermittently, a long, high wail sounded along the stone corridors, wandering along, dying from door to door, and then losing itself in the Mount's foundations.

Marion rummaged in her bag in search of the one or two biscuits she'd brought with her. She ate them slowly, savoring each mouthful.

Jeremy's confidences regarding his wartime experiences had particularly upset her, and she found herself dwelling on his reflections on evil and its roots. In parallel, Azim's watch on the streets of Cairo with his men was heart-stoppingly suspenseful. At the end of the day, the irony of the situation was almost comical. While one was tracking down evil, the other was attempting to understand its essential nature.

Marion shook the numbness from her legs by walking around the nearest fireplace, beneath the shadowy eaves, as far as the raised passage on the south side of the chamber. She imagined this place with its walls decked in rich tapestries, as much to keep in the heat as to partition the hall into smaller rooms; with roaring fires in each hearth, and monks bent over their desks, illuminating manuscripts with stiff pages. The smell of the candles must have imbued every inch of the place, down to the carpets covering the floor. And the light could only have been a vast, moving creature, flowing among the draperies, its spectral leopard skin spotted with black and amber, undulating across the soaring ceilings.

She was there. She could almost hear the quill pens scratching over the parchments, the clink of the jars containing the inks, the isolated creak of a chair, and the soft rustling of sleeves on the wooden tables.

Marion threaded her way among the monks as they worked, between the cold pillars, to reach the window and her possessions.

Little by little they evaporated, leaving only damp grayness behind them. Marion drank a little water from her bottle, put it back in her bag, and turned around to look at the landscape through the window.

The trees down below were shaking dangerously, their branches clashing against one another and threatening to snap, and all the bushes were under attack from the incessant winds' wantonly destructive breath.

The rain was falling almost horizontally, slicing through the air. At this altitude, the sea became confused with the sky; whirlpools of little droplets rose and fell all over the place, except when they merged and imploded.

Marion breathed in noisily under the effect of such a sight, then she returned to her book, leaving the Mount to its battle with nature and time.

She had reached a passage about Azim, the famous chapter exiled to the very end of the diary.

I find it easy to imagine Azim running along the district's still-warm paving stones, in the middle of that starry night, then pounding the beaten earth of the narrow streets, forced to bend double at the sharp twists and turns, so as to get by more easily, and only just avoiding all the detritus that littered his path. As he approached the area where the alarm signal had originated, Azim suddenly forced himself to calm down, slowing to a walk to get his breath back and to ensure greater discretion. He must be careful. He was on the trail of a ghul.… His mind was torn between his ancestral beliefs and the more Cartesian training that the colonial world had instilled in him. That was the source of the dilemma in his mind. What was he really expecting to find? A real demon or a sick person in disguise? The weight of his revolver did not give him any real comfort. Azim was on the …

Marion stopped reading.

The door of the raised passage had just opened.

A hooded silhouette appeared up above.

Its gaze began to roam the hall; then it halted. It swung round to face Marion, and the hood slid back.

Brother Gilles laid his withered hands on the metal balustrade and stared at her. Eventually he spoke. “Ah, it's you,” he said cheerlessly.

“Hello.”

“You shouldn't be here, there's a storm. You'd be better off in your room.”

Marion gave her coat the most discreet tug possible, just enough to cover up the black book. She didn't know if he had spotted it.

“I wanted to take advantage of the atmosphere,” she replied.

“You chose a bad time, and in future it would be better if you had someone with you when you came up to the abbey.”

Marion displayed the impressive bunch of keys with which Brother Serge had entrusted her.

“I have the best possible guides,” she replied with a hint of jaunty insolence. “A little patience, keys to open every door, and all the time I need.”

Marion was jubilant. This man who liked nothing better than to control everything on the Mount was visibly furious.

Brother Gilles's glittering eyes pierced right through her. “Well, don't come to me complaining if you get lost or catch your death…”

He added something else between his teeth that Marion couldn't catch, and continued on his way out, leaving the door open behind him.

*   *   *

She picked up the diary again, hoping that the monk had not noticed anything.

Marion had forgotten where she was up to.

Azim.

The signal.

The ghoul.

Yes, that was it. The ghoul …

33

Azim hurtled down the narrow streets at full speed, his leather soles echoing on the paving stones or thudding against the beaten earth.

He changed tack and lowered his center of gravity at each hairpin bend, compensating for his mistakes at the last moment by steadying himself with a hand or an arm against the wall of a house, and headed swiftly down the next street. The darkness did not make his task any easier; he could not make out the holes, detritus, and other objects littered across his path as he ran, and several times he almost fell.

As he neared the building where the signal had originated, Azim slowed down. He must not allow himself to make a sound. The advantages of his plan also resulted in weaknesses. From down below, the signal was not visible.

There was no quick way for Azim to find out if the lookout was still in position, waving his lantern, or if he had stopped.

There was just the crossroads left and then he would be there.

The little Egyptian slid along the wall, trying to get his breath back. The street he needed to go down was ten yards farther on, gaping wide and sinister. Azim mopped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and ran the tips of his fingers over his revolver. There was no longer anything magical or reassuring about the touch.

It was a
ghul
he was tracking.

He entered the dark street. Rectangles of fabric were stretched out at intervals between the fronts of the houses, to protect them from the sun. But at this time of night, they made the place even darker than a moonless night.

Azim briefly considered the top of the building where the lookout must be standing. How had he managed to see the monster passing below with all these draperies? True, they didn't cover the whole street, but all the same they did limit the field of vision.…

Perhaps he didn't really see it!
thought Azim.
Perhaps it's another false alarm.

Immediately he remembered the panicky way the lantern had moved. No, the man who had given the signal had been really terrified, to the point that he no longer realized he was shaking the lantern too hard, reducing the strength of its flame and rendering his actions almost pointless.

He had seen something.

Azim continued on his way, all his senses on the alert. He moved one step at a time, searching the shadows, his concentration mingled with the beginnings of panic.

He could hardly make out anything.

Caution told him to stop right there and then, and retrace his steps. But he did nothing. What if he was right? What if the child-killer was within his reach? Azim had no right not to continue. If another boy was slaughtered, how would he feel?

He was moving forward slowly when he caught the sound of breathing.

Slow and deep.

The beast must be lurking in some kind of recess a little farther on, on the right-hand side.

Azim unfastened the buckle of his holster and withdrew his revolver. He knew it was useless, but the feel of it in his hand gave him the strength he needed to approach.

It is not a
ghul.
… It is a man.…

Azim was no longer sure of anything.

Three more feet.

His heart was pounding beneath his shirt, urging him to run away, each muffled blow hammering home the fact that it had no desire to stop beating. Azim carried on, and gained another foot.

His revolver was weightless now.

Azim noticed that he was letting his weapon slip out of his fingers. He swiftly tightened his grip, trying to refocus his attention. Fear hampered him.

He was almost there.

The breathing grew harsher; a rasping sound.

Azim raised his weapon.

The recess was close enough to see now.

The shadowy corner became more clearly defined.

Azim began to make out a rectangular shape.

A shutter.

Then he saw.

A man was asleep there, snoring in the shade of his shutter.

All the tension that had overtaken him left the Egyptian's body. It flowed all the way down to his heels and then trickled away, to be replaced by a single fear that left his legs too light, in danger of giving way beneath his weight.

He must go on.

A cat began to yowl furiously from an alleyway a little farther on. Then there was the clatter of wooden boxes being knocked over, and hurried footsteps.

Silence immediately regained possession of el-Gamaliya.

Azim holstered his gun and covered the rest of the distance separating him from the thoroughfare.

He flattened himself against the corner, with just the very edge of his face showing.

All was calm and deserted.