it his knowledge of these languages did not extend much beyond the odd compliment or greeting. Despite this, he carried himself with the weight of a man who was negotiating world peace or brokering million-dollar deals on the stock exchange rather than arranging a few holidays. The final member of this happy family was Arwa. Short and somewhat overweight, she was buttoned down inside a heavy black coat that came down to her ankles and wrists and turned her into a shapeless creature of indeterminate gender. She wore a leopard-skin hijab and chewed gum like it was an Olympic sport. She shuffled across the room to her workspace with barely a nod to anyone.
Faragalla himself finally turned up. A bluff, clumsy figure of a man on skittish legs. His features were blurred by loose, hanging folds of flesh which gave his face a puffy, indistinct look. His eyes were jaundiced and swollen. Dressed in a shapeless two-piece suit that looked as if he had slept in it for a week, he wandered by like a man under heavy sedation, a handful of newspapers under one arm, and nothing more than a brief nod to Meera on the reception desk.
‘This is Mr Makana,’ she announced, leaping to her feet. ‘He’s been waiting for some time.’
‘Waiting?’ frowned Faragalla. ‘Whatever for?’
‘He says he has an appointment.’
‘An appointment?’ Faragalla peered at Makana. ‘What appointment?’
‘I believe Talal had a word with you, sir?’
It took a while for the clouds to lift from the other man’s brows, but then he gave a start. He brushed a hand over his grey moustache and nodded his head.
‘Ah, yes. Yes, of course. You’d better come in.’
Faragalla’s office was the most chaotic mess Makana had seen in a long time. It was hard enough working out where the desk was. Finding anything in the heaps of folders and files and papers that were stacked up in every conceivable spot around the room would have been an impossible task. A row of shelves had collapsed under the pressure and now slumped at an alarming angle into the far corner like a paper landslide. Faragalla fiddled with the air-conditioner switch, flipping it back and forth and thumping the unit with his hand until finally it wheezed into life, filling the room with an unhappy grinding sound and a faint current of warm, dusty air.
‘Have a seat, please.’ Faragalla disappeared behind a wall of paper as he sat down. He got up again and shifted an armful of files to the top of a filing cabinet, where they perched precariously, and began to go through his pockets. ‘Of course, Talal told me all about you.’ He finally found the pipe he was looking for. ‘He said you were an old friend of his father’s?’
Back in the days when Makana was a police inspector in Khartoum, he had worked together with Talal’s father on a number of cases. Abdel Aziz fell foul of the authorities long before Makana did. He protested frequently and, being an intelligent man, managed on a number of occasions to outwit the regime’s legal goons, most of whom, he proclaimed indignantly, would never have managed to get into the Faculty of Law in his day, let alone graduate. Makana had tried but failed to persuade him to flee. Despite his being a prominent figure it was only a matter of time before the regime decided to rid themselves of him. Eventually he was charged with conspiring to overthrow the state and sentenced to death.
‘Talal tells me you were in some kind of trouble yourself.’ Faragalla was stuffing the bowl of his pipe with large, clumsy fingers. Flakes of tobacco fluttered left and right like insects scurrying to safety.
‘They were difficult times for everyone.’ Makana shifted in his seat and reached for his cigarettes. It was ten years since he had landed in this city and he wasn’t keen on going over all of that here and now. It all seemed a long time ago and far away. ‘Why don’t you tell me what is bothering you?’
Faragalla had a match going by now and the big fleshy head nodded up and down like a baggy elephant as the flame veered sideways before being sucked into the bowl. In a few moments he had a forest fire going with clouds of smoke filling the room.
‘Yes. Well, it’s not as simple as all that. You see. A man in my business has to be discreet. You understand that? Reputation is everything and I