City of Jackals Page 5

  ‘Anyway, enough of my problems,’ said Sami. The coffee seemed to revive him. ‘Aziza tells me you had some drama here this morning.’

  Makana told him about the morning’s excitement.

  ‘Only a head? No sign of the rest of him?’

  ‘The police dragged that section of the river but they found nothing more.’

  ‘Sure, I can see them breaking their backs over that. One less to worry about.’

  In another age a head emerging from the water would have been taken as an omen, a sign of the gods’ displeasure, perhaps. Now it was a nuisance, a distraction from the business of ridding the city of unwanted intruders. Makana had no idea why he felt some personal obligation. He couldn’t explain it. Perhaps it was simply the sadness of anyone having to wind up that way. The feeling that under other circumstances it might have been him washing up on the riverbank. And then there was the memory of that night years ago when his wife and daughter had plunged into this very same river. Did he see some twisted form of resolution in all of this?

  Why was the past so hard to put behind? They were bound together, North and South, by a history of discrimination. The Southerners carried the memory of having once been slaves, while the Northerners had the burden of their slave-trading forefathers. Makana had had little to do with Southerners here. Culturally and racially they were different, chained together by a common history, by the borderlines that fate had dealt them. He saw them on the streets sometimes, selling things in the market or just going by, but they didn’t move in the same circles. That seemed like an almost shameful omission on his part.

  Makana’s phone interrupted his thoughts. It was Sahar Hafiz, Mourad’s sister.

  ‘I was hoping we could talk,’ she said.

  ‘Would it be possible to meet in person?’ He wondered if perhaps she might be more forthcoming in the absence of her parents.

  ‘Yes, that would be better. Should we say tomorrow?’

  They agreed to meet at a fashionable bookshop in Zamalek, around the corner from the Verdi Gardens. When the call was over Makana found Sami staring at him.

  ‘Mysterious appointments with women? This is a new development.’

  ‘How did you know it was a woman?’

  ‘Your tone of voice changes when you speak to women.’

  This was news to Makana. He suspected Sami was guessing, but felt obliged to explain about Mourad Hafiz.

  ‘Why should it be a mystery? He simply decided that studying was a waste of time. You can’t blame him for that. Congratulate him on coming to his senses. Wish him good luck.’

  A certain delirium seemed to have come over Sami. Makana suspected this might have something to do with his marriage crisis.

  ‘He’s a dreamer, apparently. Wants to save the world.’

  ‘Save the world how?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Makana lit a cigarette, felt the reassuring burn of tobacco hitting his throat.

  ‘Rania has a cousin who’s a researcher at Ain Shams, doing something connected to urban planning. Maybe it would help to talk to him.’

  While Sami tried to locate the cousin without going through Rania, Makana made a call of his own. Sindbad sounded glad to hear from him, as he always did after a long layoff. He didn’t actually work for Makana, but there was an unwritten collaboration between them, an agreement that when his services were required he would make himself available. And in return . . . Makana did his best to make it worth his while, although clearly money was not Sindbad’s only incentive to drive for him. He was off as soon as he heard Makana’s voice, describing the dreary reality of ordinary life as a taxi driver.

  ‘One whole week, ya bash-muhandis, driving Americans around, not just to the Museum and Giza. Oh, no, up and down, to Sakkara and Dashour and Memphis even. The truth is they put us to shame, these foreigners. They know more about our country than we do, I swear. We visited pyramids I’ve never even heard of. Also, they paid me exactly what we agreed on, no haggling at the last minute to try and cut the cost.’

  ‘It’s good to hear that there are still honest people in the world.’

  They agreed a time and place. When he hung up Makana turned to find Sami holding out his telephone. Rania’s cousin did know Mourad Hafiz and was willing to talk.

  ‘We ran a workshop for them, about three months ago. I remember him. Smart, but like a lot of young people nowadays he lacked focus.’

  ‘I’m trying to get an idea of the kind of person he is, the sort of things that interest him.’

  ‘The same thing all kids of that age are interested in, at least those with a modicum of intelligence. He sees the world as unfair. The division of wealth. That was very much the focus of our workshop. Urban decay, the kinds of communities who live scattered about the city. He was quite shocked, I think, to realise how bad things are for people.’

  ‘You mean, what, the poorer quarters of town?’

  ‘Refugees. Sudanese, mostly, but also Eritreans, Ethiopians, Africans generally. They have the worst of it.’

  ‘This would have been after the camp started outside the mosque in Mohandiseen?’

  ‘It would have been around that time, yes.’

  When he had finished talking Makana thanked him and turned around to hand back the phone. He found Sami busy unpacking a rucksack.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Why would I mind?’ Makana pointed at the bag. ‘Looks like you’re thinking of staying for a while.’

  ‘Well, just until this blows over. Who knows how long that might take.’

  ‘Who knows,’ echoed Makana.

  Sami grinned. ‘Still, what are friends for, eh? Maybe you can order something for supper while I take a shower?’

  Chapter Seven

  The church of Our Lady Josephine was protected by a wall of grey breeze blocks. Fists of cement like petrified tears leaked from cracks here and there, like an everyday miracle. The pinnacle of the church roof could just be glimpsed over the top: sheets of rusted corrugated iron cut and bent into a rough spire. The improvised construction seemed to say something about the dedication and humility of the congregation, as if their faith had been shaped and beaten out of remnants discarded by the city. The gate to the church compound was made of the same material. It reverberated like a drum when Makana rapped on the door. A face appeared framed in a little window cut into the metal at around waist level.

  ‘Yes?’

  Makana bent to address the speaker. ‘I’d like to speak to a priest, or someone in charge.’

  The man eyed him warily. ‘What is your business here?’

  ‘I’m not going to discuss that out here. Just get the person in charge please.’

  ‘You have no business here.’

  ‘Are you the priest?’

  ‘No, but I am telling you.’

  There was something hard and stony about him that went beyond mere distrust. The door wouldn’t be opened by threats nor, Makana suspected, by money.

  ‘Look, I’m not looking for problems. Just let me speak to whoever is charge.’

  ‘Cornelius! Let the man inside, please.’

  There was a delay as the doorman fumbled with a set of keys to unlock the padlock and draw the heavy chain through. The task was not made easier by the fact that the man’s left arm ended in an ugly stump where his hand should have been.

  The door swung open to reveal a corpulent man in a white soutane. Beside a solitary palm tree planted in the middle of the bare yard, a short, round figure stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The tree barely matched his diminutive height. His name, he said, was Father Saturnius.

  ‘Anyone who comes here in peace is welcome.’ The priest’s smile revealed a wide gap between two prominent front teeth.

  The compound was dominated by the church, a simple structure made of more of the same grey breeze blocks as the outer wall. A large wooden cross rose above the vaulted roof from a roughly fashioned spire of iron sheets. Along one side of the compound a
row of simple rooms was connected by a low veranda held up by green wooden posts. A string of coloured lights were draped around a makeshift wooden manger to mark the forthcoming nativity celebrations. Father Saturnius tilted his head to one side as Makana explained his visit. When he mentioned that Amir Medani had recommended he visit the church, the priest grew warmer.

  ‘Amir is a great friend. He has represented us in court several times, always contributing his expertise for free. A great and noble man.’

  As he led the way along, Father Saturnius indicated the buildings and their purpose. Makana, it seemed, was to be treated to the full tour.

  ‘A schoolroom for teaching the young ones. A dining hall allows us to provide meals for the needy. Our resources are limited but people are struggling. We try to do the best we can.’

  The wall was decorated with naïvist paintings depicting scenes from the Bible: Moses in the desert accompanied by a burning bush; the exodus from Egypt; the Ten Commandments wafting down from heaven on feathered wings; Jesus entering Jerusalem; Noah ushering animals onto his ark, two by two. There was something about the style that struck Makana as vaguely familiar. At the end of the montage he found the answer he was looking for: the name Fantômas was scrawled low down. Father Saturnius was delighted to hear that he also knew the artist.

  ‘He works with a friend of mine. They share a studio.’

  ‘One of our most dedicated supporters. He came and offered his services. He runs workshops for the children. It is a great thing to share one’s God-given gifts.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Makana. They had drawn up to a mural dedicated to Josephine Bakhita, after whom the church was named.

  ‘I was particularly happy about the way this turned out.’

  The panel was an illustrated account of the saint’s life. Born in Darfur in the nineteenth century, she was taken captive by slavers who scarred and beat her. Salvation came in the form of an Italian family into whose hands she was mercifully sold. When the Mahdi’s Islamist revolt swept across Sudan in the 1880s, they decided to bring her with them to Italy for her own safety.

  ‘There she was revered. She once said that if she ever met those who had kidnapped and enslaved her she would fall to her knees and thank them, because it was through them that she had discovered Christ.’ The rotund priest was positively aglow. ‘There could be no better example of the values we try to pass on to our young people.’

  Two rooms were reserved for a small dispensary and clinic. A row of people sat on a bench waiting, several of them with children. A slim white woman with short blonde hair appeared in the doorway. She wore a lab coat and had a stethoscope draped around her neck.

  ‘And this is our medical officer.’ Father Saturnius’s broad face split in a grin. He introduced the woman as an American doctor, Liz Corbis. ‘Alas, she is with us for too short a time.’

  Makana would have put her age at around the mid-forties, but there was something unworldly about her, as if uncomfortable with the attention. She studied him when she thought he wasn’t looking at her.

  ‘Miss Corbis and her brother the Reverend Preston have been a great help to us in our time of need,’ the priest explained. ‘We receive no help from our own government or from this one. We depend on the Lord’s help, and the kindness of a few strangers. How many years have you been coming back to us, Doctor Corbis?’

  ‘Oh, this is our fifth year.’

  ‘Every year we are blessed with their assistance for a few short weeks. We shall leave you to see to your patients, Doctor.’

  With a brief farewell Doctor Corbis retreated inside her clinic. Makana still hadn’t got to the matter he had come here for, but that didn’t seem to matter so much right now. Gaining the priest’s trust was his first priority.

  ‘Shall I tell you what the hardest thing is? It is preaching to the young, telling them that they must not meet hate with hate.’

  Father Saturnius’s office was at the far end. Here too there was a bench set outside for people to wait, in this case a young man. The room was sparsely furnished. A simple table acted as a desk. A low cupboard against one wall had chipped paint and one leg supported by a rough block of wood. On the wall behind the desk hung a crucifix with a vividly painted and bleeding clay figure of Christ suspended on the cross. On the other side a series of newspaper clippings and photographs had been fixed to a noticeboard on the wall. Father Saturnius settled his bulk into the creaking chair.

  ‘How do you teach a generation who have grown up knowing only war and exclusion not to meet violence with violence? This is a question I struggle with every day. The young man sitting out there has a problem with drugs. It is common among the young. They sniff glue, petrol, anything they can get their hands on. All I have to offer them are the teachings of Christ, the belief that we must learn to turn the other cheek.’

  ‘Sounds like you have your hands full.’

  Father Saturnius lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘I wish I could say that I believe it is working. Now, please tell me why you are here.’

  Makana described the human remains that the fisherman had pulled out of the water the previous morning. Father Saturnius heaved a sigh.

  ‘A tragic story, but I do not see how this is of your concern.’

  ‘It isn’t, not really.’

  The priest raised his eyebrows. ‘This is what you do, take up the causes of injustice?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. People come to me for help and sometimes I can do so. In return they pay me a fee for my time. It’s not much of a living, but it’s what I do best.’

  ‘Forgive me for prying, but I get the impression that you have worked previously with the security services?’

  ‘I was a policeman before I came to this country. I fell foul of the regime, which explains how I wound up here.’

  ‘Your situation is not so different from ours then.’ A sly smile crossed the priest’s face. ‘Forgive me for being so inquisitive, but I still do not fully understand. Unless I am mistaken nobody has asked for your assistance in this case.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  Father Saturnius folded his hands together on the desk. He was silent for a moment. ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘I’m not sure I fully understand myself, Father.’

  ‘You are here because you feel that an injustice has been done. Not by yourself, of course, but by your fellow Northerners.’ He lifted his hands almost in a gesture of prayer. ‘Do you really believe that centuries of Northern oppression can be put right single-handedly?’

  Makana glanced out of the window to his left. ‘I grew up in a country that is very different from what it is today. There used to be a belief that if we could only overcome our differences, if we could see beyond race, religion and tribe, we could truly become a nation.’

  ‘The evidence suggests that we failed that test, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Perhaps, but surely that doesn’t mean the idea was wrong.’

  ‘Mr Makana, please don’t take this the wrong way. I understand what you are saying, but there is nothing you can do.’ The priest smiled. ‘My advice is that you forget this unfortunate incident. Go on with your life. Leave us to heal our own.’

  ‘With all due respect, Father, this is not about you or me. A crime was committed. Someone murdered that young man and cut the body into pieces to try and cover up the crime. If the killing was racially motivated the killers may strike again.’

  ‘We can take care of our own.’

  ‘You can believe that if you want to, but I’m telling you that you’re on your own. The police are not going to take an interest. Nobody is coming here to help you. I’m all you’ve got.’

  Father Saturnius was silent for a moment. He shifted in his chair. ‘Tell me, Mr Makana, are you familiar with the Christian saints? No matter. Jude the Apostle is known as the patron saint of hopeless causes. It would seem that you are something of a modern equivalent.’

  ‘
I didn’t come here for a reward, Father, spiritual or otherwise. I came because I think I can help. Maybe I was wrong.’ Makana started to get to his feet. The priest held up a hand to stop him. He gave a loud sigh.

  ‘I suppose I am as guilty as anyone. I wish I could put the war behind me, but I can’t. I too have lost family. I too have experienced prejudice at the hands of Northerners and I have little optimism in the idea of our continued coexistence.’

  ‘The war is over, Father. North and South are at peace.’

  ‘And I hope that it lasts, but there’s very little trust left between us, too many agreements dishonoured.’

  ‘If we cannot come together over an issue as grave as this then the bigots will have won the day. What does your faith say about that?’

  ‘Christmas is almost upon us. A time of celebration. It is a season for generosity.’ Father Saturnius allowed himself a smile. ‘I believe you are a good man, Mr Makana, that your heart is in the right place. Your gesture is appreciated. I can assure you that you can count on my support and the assistance of our volunteers. As for the rest of the congregation, I can ask them to cooperate but I cannot promise they will comply. Distrust runs deep, and a Northerner coming to help us will be viewed with some suspicion, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I understand.’

  They both got to their feet and moved towards the door.

  ‘You are a persuasive man, Mr Makana. I am old enough to admit that I allowed my prejudice to momentarily blind me.’

  ‘Whoever killed that young man may have been driven by the very same prejudices you speak of.’

  ‘A hate crime? Yes, of course, it is possible.’ Father Saturnius nodded. ‘I wish I could say I am shocked, but my years here have hardened me to the cruelty man is capable of. It goes without saying that you can rely on my help in any way.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who the victim is, or was?’

  ‘There isn’t much to identify him I’m afraid. The water and the fish have done their work, so his face is not what it was. The rest of the body has not been located. The head is with the Chief Forensic Officer right now, undergoing tests.’ Makana described the lines on the man’s head, drawing them with his finger on the desk. Father Saturnius nodded before he was finished.