even have time to settle in.’ Arwa clucked at her own humour. ‘Now that might improve our situation.’ She marched off before he had time to respond.
‘I got the same lecture when I first started here,’ Meera said. ‘The mess goes back as far as you can imagine and many of the figures are inaccurate or illegible.’
Intrigued, Makana went through the heap of files trying to get an idea of how this firm managed to operate. The problem was that nothing really matched. Even the names of places seemed to vary. Makana didn’t need to be a trained accountant to understand that the Blue Ibis administrative system was in such disarray it was hard to understand how a company could manage to function in such a state of disorder. Money was seeping out of the company like a leaky boat. Nobody really had any idea how much came in or went out. There was a trail of unfamiliar names too, the mention of which elicited only blank looks, or remarks like ‘Oh, she doesn’t work here any more’ or ‘He left years ago!’ The high turnover of employees might also have explained the variety of filing methods. Each new person appeared to have brought their own system with them which would then be abandoned when it came time for them to leave. Some were alphabetical, others numerical, some by year, others by month, one was even based on country of origin. And someone had come up with an innovative method of classifying tourists according to their dietary requests. Makana’s head was spinning when he looked up to find Yousef standing in front of him wearing a thin, cunning smile.
‘So, how are you getting on?’
‘Well, you know. It takes time to get the measure of things.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet it does.’ Perching himself on the corner of Makana’s desk, Yousef produced a green-and-white packet of LM menthol cigarettes from his breast pocket and shook one out. Makana declined, preferring his own Cleopatras. Yousef then lit both of them with a gold lighter.
‘So you’re here to clean things up for us, eh?’
‘Sayyid Faragalla thought I might be able to help.’
‘I’m sure he did.’
Yousef wore a gold chain around his neck that matched the watch on his wrist. There was something about him that was hard and cheap. It made you want to count your fingers after shaking hands. But he was also at ease. Makana had met his type before. He was used to giving orders, to being in charge.
‘Maybe you want to take a break from all that?’
‘I could do, I suppose.’ Makana stretched his arms above his head.
‘I have an errand to run. I thought maybe you could help me. Get some fresh air.’
‘Why not?’
Nobody in the room seemed to pay any notice. On the reception desk, Meera’s attention was focussed firmly on the typewriter in front of her. As they started to descend the stairs, Yousef turned to him.
‘You don’t have to play games with me. Faragalla told me you just got out of prison.’
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ Makana improvised, wondering what else Faragalla might have dreamed up.
‘It always is,’ Yousef said knowingly. ‘I understand you are distantly related to him?’
‘A distant cousin, on his mother’s side.’
‘I didn’t know he had relatives abroad.’ Yousef paused, then dismissed the matter. ‘Still, you learn something new every day.’ He drew on his cigarette, examining Makana carefully. ‘You can drive, right? I need someone who can take me around.’
‘I thought Faragalla wanted me to work here?’
‘You’ll find out that Faragalla leaves most decisions to me. Come on.’
Yousef led the way downstairs and out into a side street where an Opel Rekord, the brown colour of rotting bananas, was parked. The cars were all tightly packed in a row, nose to tail all the way down the street. A couple of street boys, no more than twelve years old, ran up and started rolling the cars back to allow them to get out. Yousef called them over and handed them each a few crumpled notes.
‘You were in the army?’
‘I did my military service,’ Makana replied, which was true. He omitted the part about going from the army into the police.
‘I did fifteen years in the Military Police. It does something to a man, don’t you think?’ Yousef tossed the car keys across to Makana. ‘You drive.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way.’
The traffic was heavy. When a car cut in front of them Yousef leaned out of the window to hurl insults