Read Online MemoRandom: A Thriller by Anders de La Motte - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anders de La Motte
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to force his mind to change track. Soon he would be sitting on the plane.
A plastic mug slid out, then the machine squeezed out a thin brown trickle. The mug filled slowly, as if the huge machine were really doing its best to produce some liquid.
“Atif, my friend.”
With the plastic mug in his hand he turned around. He had identified the hoarse, rasping voice before he saw the familiar face. He couldn’t help smiling.
“Abu Hamsa!”
He leaned forward and let the fat little man kiss him on both cheeks. Abu Hamsa was an old friend. Atif’s mother had worked in one of his bars a long time ago. Atif, and later Adnan, used to hang out there after school. Running small errands in exchange for the occasional bar of chocolate or can of cola. Hamsa was one of the old guard. He owned a couple of neighborhood bars, a few exchange bureaus, and loaned out money—no champagne orgies or luxury villas, no overblown signs of success. Nothing to attract the attention of the police, or anyone else, for that matter.
“Envy, boys . . .” he used to say in his hoarse but simultaneously slightly shrill voice. “Envy is fatal. If you make too much of a show of success, people will want to take it from you!”
Hamsa was content with what he had, the status quo suitedhim, with its calmness and balance. For that reason he was also a popular mediator, someone everyone trusted. He must be close to seventy now, yet there wasn’t a single gray hair on his head. He probably dyed both his hair and his little mustache. The rug on his head also looked suspiciously thick: Abu Hamsa had always been rather vain.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss, my friend,” he hissed in Arabic. “Your brother was a fine young man. He deserved a far better fate than this.”
“Thank you, Abu Hamsa,” Atif said as he blew on the scalding-hot coffee.
“How long are you staying, my friend?”
“I’m going back the day after tomorrow.”
“Ah, so you’re not looking for work?” Abu Hamsa smiled.
Atif shook his head, which seemed to make the little man’s smile even wider.
“Wise decision. Things aren’t what they used to be. The consultants are taking over, even in our business. Everything is being opened up to competition, there’s no honor anymore, no loyalty. High time for people like me to get out. Let younger talents take over, inshallah.”
Abu Hamsa made a small gesture toward the ceiling. Atif couldn’t help looking over at the young men who were still flocking around Cassandra. A couple of them were glaring in his direction. He drank some coffee without looking away.
“You can hardly blame them.” Abu Hamsa seemed to have read his mind.
“How so?”
“You still have a certain . . . reputation, my friend. There was a lot of talk when you left. Some people really weren’t happy, and even suggested that you were letting everyone down.”
“Like I said, I’m going back first thing next week,” Atif said, still without looking away from the young men. “And whatever a load of snotty kids think about that, well—” He broke off, realizing that his tone of voice was getting harder. “You mustforgive me, I didn’t mean to sound unpleasant,” he said, and looked back at the little man.
“No problem, my friend. I understand. Not an easy situation, this. Your brother, his little girl. What’s her name again? I’m starting to get old, I was at her naming ceremony and everything . . .”
“Tindra,” Atif said, noting how his voice softened as he said it.
“Little Tindra, yes, that was it. Losing your father so young, in that way . . .” Something in Abu Hamsa’s voice made Atif frown, and the little man noticed. “I . . . I assume you know what happened?”
Atif nodded. “Cassandra told me.”
“And you know the details?”
“The boys were unlucky,” Atif said. “An unmarked cop car saw them driving away from the security van. Evidently one of them hadn’t taken his balaclava off in time, so
A plastic mug slid out, then the machine squeezed out a thin brown trickle. The mug filled slowly, as if the huge machine were really doing its best to produce some liquid.
“Atif, my friend.”
With the plastic mug in his hand he turned around. He had identified the hoarse, rasping voice before he saw the familiar face. He couldn’t help smiling.
“Abu Hamsa!”
He leaned forward and let the fat little man kiss him on both cheeks. Abu Hamsa was an old friend. Atif’s mother had worked in one of his bars a long time ago. Atif, and later Adnan, used to hang out there after school. Running small errands in exchange for the occasional bar of chocolate or can of cola. Hamsa was one of the old guard. He owned a couple of neighborhood bars, a few exchange bureaus, and loaned out money—no champagne orgies or luxury villas, no overblown signs of success. Nothing to attract the attention of the police, or anyone else, for that matter.
“Envy, boys . . .” he used to say in his hoarse but simultaneously slightly shrill voice. “Envy is fatal. If you make too much of a show of success, people will want to take it from you!”
Hamsa was content with what he had, the status quo suitedhim, with its calmness and balance. For that reason he was also a popular mediator, someone everyone trusted. He must be close to seventy now, yet there wasn’t a single gray hair on his head. He probably dyed both his hair and his little mustache. The rug on his head also looked suspiciously thick: Abu Hamsa had always been rather vain.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss, my friend,” he hissed in Arabic. “Your brother was a fine young man. He deserved a far better fate than this.”
“Thank you, Abu Hamsa,” Atif said as he blew on the scalding-hot coffee.
“How long are you staying, my friend?”
“I’m going back the day after tomorrow.”
“Ah, so you’re not looking for work?” Abu Hamsa smiled.
Atif shook his head, which seemed to make the little man’s smile even wider.
“Wise decision. Things aren’t what they used to be. The consultants are taking over, even in our business. Everything is being opened up to competition, there’s no honor anymore, no loyalty. High time for people like me to get out. Let younger talents take over, inshallah.”
Abu Hamsa made a small gesture toward the ceiling. Atif couldn’t help looking over at the young men who were still flocking around Cassandra. A couple of them were glaring in his direction. He drank some coffee without looking away.
“You can hardly blame them.” Abu Hamsa seemed to have read his mind.
“How so?”
“You still have a certain . . . reputation, my friend. There was a lot of talk when you left. Some people really weren’t happy, and even suggested that you were letting everyone down.”
“Like I said, I’m going back first thing next week,” Atif said, still without looking away from the young men. “And whatever a load of snotty kids think about that, well—” He broke off, realizing that his tone of voice was getting harder. “You mustforgive me, I didn’t mean to sound unpleasant,” he said, and looked back at the little man.
“No problem, my friend. I understand. Not an easy situation, this. Your brother, his little girl. What’s her name again? I’m starting to get old, I was at her naming ceremony and everything . . .”
“Tindra,” Atif said, noting how his voice softened as he said it.
“Little Tindra, yes, that was it. Losing your father so young, in that way . . .” Something in Abu Hamsa’s voice made Atif frown, and the little man noticed. “I . . . I assume you know what happened?”
Atif nodded. “Cassandra told me.”
“And you know the details?”
“The boys were unlucky,” Atif said. “An unmarked cop car saw them driving away from the security van. Evidently one of them hadn’t taken his balaclava off in time, so
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