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Authors: Parker Bilal
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the shoulder as he made to leave. ‘Forget about this girl and get yourself a decent case. You need to work. We all do. It’s the only thing that makes sense in this crazy world.’
For a long time Makana watched him walk away, then he lit another cigarette and turned on his heels and went the other way.
Chapter Six
Makana spent the next few hours wandering the area talking to everyone and anyone he came across. It’s not hard to get people to talk. Give them half a chance and most leap at the opportunity to display the breadth of their knowledge. The real problem was always getting to the little details, the things which stuck out and which, hopefully, would eventually illuminate a way forward. Listening was tricky. It was an acquired skill. You had to give people space and time, you had to sift out what was useful from the flood of irrelevant information. You had to sniff out what was true from what was embellishment, exaggeration, fabrication, fantasy, pure lies. In other words, everything had to be tempered by a good pinch of scepticism.
Mother and daughter had set up the shop some twelve years ago, which would have meant around the time Musab came out of prison and went abroad. There was some confusion about where they came from originally. Some said Siwa, others Alexandria. There was nothing unusual about people arriving in the city from one corner of the country or another. Details grew even more sketchy when it came to why Musab went to prison, but what was clear was that he never came back here after that. The stallholders and merchants, the porters and tea boys, all grew vague on the matter. Some said they had heard he had gone abroad, others that he was dead. Nagat had carried on. It was the girl who made the difference, explained one woman: ‘That was the best thing that useless man ever did. He gave her a child and then took himself away. What more could anyone ask for?’ Everyone remembered the girl, from when she was little. They wiped away tears as they recalled how she would run through the streets on errands, never too busy to talk. ‘Everyone loved her.’ When Nagat fell ill everyone rallied around to help out. They had nobody else to depend on. The two women were alone. ‘Around here it’s like one big family. Anyone who has something will give to those who don’t.’
The sun was beginning to wane and people began to drift away. Makana decided it was time to pack it in for the day. He made his way back in the direction of the main road and Attaba Square, hoping to find a taxi quickly that would take him home before the rush. He had his hand in the air when a voice behind him said:
‘Mr Makana?’
Turning, Makana found himself looking straight into the eyes of a young woman. The first thing that struck him were the eyes themselves. He couldn’t quite work out their colour. The light from the setting sun was refracted over the rooftops of the buildings behind him, which had the strange effect of making them appear to change colour, going from brown to green, turning through a spectrum of shades in between. The second thing that struck him was that he had seen this particular set of eyes before. They darkened as he watched her.
‘Yes?’
‘Excuse me for bothering you. I was wondering, are you a lawyer?’
Makana shook his head stupidly. Not a lawyer.
‘Only the people in the clinic told me that you were working for Doctor Ragab?’
He remembered her now. Then she had been wearing a midnight-blue headscarf. Now she wore something that was more like a turban that left her face free. She used the word doctor as a form of respect, for someone with an education. A professional. She frowned as if confused. He noticed that she was observant, taking stock of his clothes and general appearance. Makana felt somewhat like a rabbit on a dissection table.
‘That is correct.’ Which it was, now.
‘I happened to be passing. I understand you are asking questions about Karima?’
‘Did you
For a long time Makana watched him walk away, then he lit another cigarette and turned on his heels and went the other way.
Chapter Six
Makana spent the next few hours wandering the area talking to everyone and anyone he came across. It’s not hard to get people to talk. Give them half a chance and most leap at the opportunity to display the breadth of their knowledge. The real problem was always getting to the little details, the things which stuck out and which, hopefully, would eventually illuminate a way forward. Listening was tricky. It was an acquired skill. You had to give people space and time, you had to sift out what was useful from the flood of irrelevant information. You had to sniff out what was true from what was embellishment, exaggeration, fabrication, fantasy, pure lies. In other words, everything had to be tempered by a good pinch of scepticism.
Mother and daughter had set up the shop some twelve years ago, which would have meant around the time Musab came out of prison and went abroad. There was some confusion about where they came from originally. Some said Siwa, others Alexandria. There was nothing unusual about people arriving in the city from one corner of the country or another. Details grew even more sketchy when it came to why Musab went to prison, but what was clear was that he never came back here after that. The stallholders and merchants, the porters and tea boys, all grew vague on the matter. Some said they had heard he had gone abroad, others that he was dead. Nagat had carried on. It was the girl who made the difference, explained one woman: ‘That was the best thing that useless man ever did. He gave her a child and then took himself away. What more could anyone ask for?’ Everyone remembered the girl, from when she was little. They wiped away tears as they recalled how she would run through the streets on errands, never too busy to talk. ‘Everyone loved her.’ When Nagat fell ill everyone rallied around to help out. They had nobody else to depend on. The two women were alone. ‘Around here it’s like one big family. Anyone who has something will give to those who don’t.’
The sun was beginning to wane and people began to drift away. Makana decided it was time to pack it in for the day. He made his way back in the direction of the main road and Attaba Square, hoping to find a taxi quickly that would take him home before the rush. He had his hand in the air when a voice behind him said:
‘Mr Makana?’
Turning, Makana found himself looking straight into the eyes of a young woman. The first thing that struck him were the eyes themselves. He couldn’t quite work out their colour. The light from the setting sun was refracted over the rooftops of the buildings behind him, which had the strange effect of making them appear to change colour, going from brown to green, turning through a spectrum of shades in between. The second thing that struck him was that he had seen this particular set of eyes before. They darkened as he watched her.
‘Yes?’
‘Excuse me for bothering you. I was wondering, are you a lawyer?’
Makana shook his head stupidly. Not a lawyer.
‘Only the people in the clinic told me that you were working for Doctor Ragab?’
He remembered her now. Then she had been wearing a midnight-blue headscarf. Now she wore something that was more like a turban that left her face free. She used the word doctor as a form of respect, for someone with an education. A professional. She frowned as if confused. He noticed that she was observant, taking stock of his clothes and general appearance. Makana felt somewhat like a rabbit on a dissection table.
‘That is correct.’ Which it was, now.
‘I happened to be passing. I understand you are asking questions about Karima?’
‘Did you
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