make?’ he said, turning to face Makana. ‘They’re the same cigarettes you buy in the street, but half the price.’ Eissa picked up a rag and began drying his hands. ‘So, you want them or not?’
‘If you think you can get them by yourself.’
‘I just said I would,’ snapped the boy, turning away again. ‘Come back tomorrow.’
Half an hour later, Makana was retracing his steps from the day when he had followed Yousef. The square with arches around three sides looked much the same except the colonnades were now filled with deep shadows. A rat squeaked somewhere underfoot. In the centre of the square a stone pedestal housed a circular well that had long since been filled in. The square was so perfectly sealed it appeared as if the walls had closed in behind him, obscuring the way in and out. He reached the wooden door decorated with iron birds. An old Ottoman-style house that had once been a caravanserai, a resting place for merchants who had travelled for weeks at a time, carrying ivory and gold from the interior of the continent, incense and silk from Syria and Baghdad. In the Middle Ages, Cairo was larger than Venice, a vast city of legend, and anyone with an interest in trade had to come here. The door had a heavy iron grille in the middle. A handle was set into the stone wall beside it. On pulling this Makana was rewarded with the tinkle of a bell somewhere far off. After a time footsteps approached and the door creaked open to reveal a young boy of around fourteen wearing a blue gelabiya and a red tarboosh.
‘Is the master of the house in?’
Without a word, the boy stepped aside, bowing for him to enter. Makana felt as though he was stepping into another age. The narrow yard was well tended with flowers and grass, which gave it the aspect of a verdant oasis in the midst of the city. A path led to a small archway and a stone staircase. Beyond were buildings that once were stables, kitchens and stores.
The boy led the way up the stairs which wound about a stone pillar scarred by centuries, rubbed smooth by countless hands. A gallery led through the building, past a window alcove that jutted out over the garden and was decorated by an elaborate carved mashrabiya. Traditionally, these window screens allowed the women of the house to observe visitors discreetly, without being seen themselves. In the gallery dozens of birdcages were hanging on long chains from the rafters high above. They were a variety of shapes and sizes and were suspended at different heights. Large, small, round, square, some made of wood, others of iron. There were even some made of ornate silver and gold. The birds they contained displayed an astonishing array of colours and types. Makana was no ornithologist. He might claim to know the difference between a chicken and a pigeon if they were on a plate in front of him, but that was about the size of it. But even he recognised that these creatures were remarkable. The overall effect was like looking at a wall of living flame going from orange to green, to red and yellow, through every brilliant shade of the spectrum.
Another open doorway and three steps led into a circular room lined with books. A few small birds (or were they bats?) fluttered about high above, flitting from one side to the other. It was as Makana might have imagined the library of a wise king. Perched high on a ladder on one of the walls of paper was an old knot of a man wearing dark glasses.
‘Hello, Yunis.’
The two men had met some years ago. In those days, Yunis had run his forgery business from inside an old junk shop in the bazaar. Now the old man climbed carefully down and clucked his tongue when he looked at Makana. Without a word Old Yunis led the way back through the gallery of birds to the enclosed balcony where a cool breeze came in through the wooden lattice. He sat down on the carpet and crossed his legs. Makana followed suit.
‘You look well.’
‘The doctor says these help to keep the cataracts under control,’ Yunis removed the dark glasses. ‘But I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about. I can hardly see a thing.’ The beady eyes flickered with fury. The years had not dulled his edge. The hollow face had the texture of