the sandy ground into a muddy tongue the colour of molasses. The café was nothing more than a doorway, an opening in the wall, metal doors flung wide in a space that might once have been a garage for a small car. Roughly hammered together wooden benches rested against either side. These were deserted except for one man who sat upright with his back against the wall. Makana sat down opposite him and called for coffee. After a time he became aware that the man, a heavy, unshaven man with a handlebar moustache that looked as though it had escaped from the tomb of some pasha of old, as if it ought to be hanging in a frame, was staring at him.
‘I look at you, and the first thing I think is police.’
‘We all make mistakes.’
He was a self-styled Omda, a neighbourhood leader who spent his life watching the street go by, making other people’s lives his business. Air bubbled through the waterpipe as he exuded a cloud of aromatic smoke.
‘Around here we take care of our things our own way. We don’t need the police.’
‘I’m not police.’
Behind the counter a young boy no more than twelve fussed with a small brass kerosene stove set on the counter. He snapped a lighter. The flickering blue flame turned the place into a little cave of wonders. ‘I don’t mean to tell you your business,’ said the man stroking the back of his hand along his moustaches as if they were a pair of plump doves, ‘but you’re wasting your time here.’
‘All I want to do is drink my coffee in peace.’
The boy kept his eyes studiously on the battered pot he was stirring with a spoon. The smell of coffee filled the confined space.
Makana took his time to study his surroundings. The walls were scarred with the usual graffiti: Down with the Americans. Down with Israel. Down with the government. Down with everything and everyone because the rest of the world was better off, and this was as far down as you wanted to go. Who was this Rocky? Why did Meera have a picture of him stuffed behind her desk? The boy avoided his gaze as he set down the coffee on the table at his knees. The man opposite stared at him as he puffed his waterpipe. Makana sipped the coffee slowly as people came and went past the entrance of the building opposite. A little girl leading a small boy by the hand went by, a green plastic bag banging against her legs, heavy with warm round loaves of bread. A tall man with a beard, wearing thick-framed spectacles and a white gelabiya put a hand to his nose and hawked up a mouthful of phlegm which he spat on the ground before stepping out and moving away along the street.
As he got to his feet Makana reached into his pocket for some money. He found a rather worn ten-pound note, with a tear in one side. Far too much for a simple coffee. He folded it carefully and tucked it under the cup out of sight. If he came back some time it might be helpful to be able to talk to the boy. He had been planning to cross the street for a closer look, but found his way barred. Three young men stood blocking the entrance.
‘You have no business here,’ said the man on the bench behind him. Makana turned to look at him. The man circled the long pipe stem in the air. ‘Go away and don’t come back.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
The day was fading fast as Makana made his way through the gates into the Fish Garden. Shadows seeped from the base of the banyan trees like flowing ink. Birds chattered excitedly at the last rays of light draining from the sky. Makana hurried, not wanting to be late for his appointment with his mystery caller.
The Khedive Ismail inherited his fierce dislike of the British along with a love for all things French, including the roulette wheel, from his grandfather Mohammed Ali Pasha. A poor gambler, his extravagant tastes and poor judgement bankrupted the country, dropping it neatly into the laps of the European powers in 1879. The Ottoman court relieved him of his post in a telegram addressed to the ‘former Khedive’. Ismail had dared to dream of Parisian boulevards and zoological gardens packed with marvellous exotica. His grandiose plans ran out like water in a desert, leaving a few quaint touches such as