next to Faragalla was a young man in his twenties.
‘That’s Ramy. Mr Faragalla’s nephew. He is running our Luxor office.’
‘You seem to know your way about this place. How long have you been working here?’
‘About a year.’
‘What did you do before this?’
‘Oh, this and that,’ she brushed a hand through her hair. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Somehow you don’t strike me as someone who belongs in the tourist business.’
She met his gaze evenly. ‘And you don’t strike me as a management consultant.’
‘Fair enough. How does anyone ever manage to make sense of all this?’ he asked, gesturing at the archive room and the heaps of paper.
‘They don’t. This is the age of mass travel. The name of the game is speed. Get as many people into and out of the country as fast as possible. You have to push the prices down as far as they can go. The big foreign agencies demand huge discounts. So the only way to keep going is to increase the volume. People come to Egypt for the trip of a lifetime, but they don’t want to pay more than is absolutely necessary.’
‘You sound like you know a lot about it.’
‘I’m a fast learner, as I hope are you.’ Meera picked up a ledger and began to explain how their accounting system worked. There was a series of categories and codes. Hotels and resorts each had their own sub-headings, as did locations – Sinai, Aswan, Luxor, Valley of the Kings. Then there were packages – Nile cruises, adventure sports, diving, etc. Another set of codes applied to the tourists’ country of origin. Makana had never imagined how complex this business was. They needed interpreters who had fluent Korean, Japanese, Chinese and Russian, as well as English, French, German and Spanish.
‘You’ll excuse me if I say that this doesn’t look like the most efficient way of counting money in the world. How do you square all the accounts?’
‘Well, I’ll be honest with you, since you are here to help the company,’ Meera said, looking him in the eye. ‘That worried me at first, then I realised they just make it up.’
‘So that all the pieces fit?’
‘Exactly.’
Back in the main office the woman in the hijab, Arwa, muttered loudly: ‘This place is like a prison sentence.’ It wasn’t clear who the comment was aimed at exactly. She rummaged in an enormous handbag that took up most of her desk and produced a bottle of perfume which she proceeded to spray in a halo around her head, as if warding off evil spirits. ‘Did I tell you they took my nephew away? Nothing. No charges, no idea where he was or why. He just vanished.’
‘You’ll have to excuse her,’ Wael addressed Makana. ‘Arwa has her own special way of expressing herself.’ He ended with a chirpy giggle.
‘You can laugh, you don’t have responsibilities. They beat that boy so badly he still doesn’t walk properly. And for what? For wearing a beard? For declaring his love for Allah?’
Wael was still laughing, although it wasn’t clear why. Arwa made a dismissive gesture.
‘If you had a family you might understand. Or maybe you’re not interested in marriage?’ A sneer twisted her features. ‘Is that it?’ Wael suddenly took a great interest in rooting through a heap of paperwork in front of him. Arwa chuckled, her fat fingers crunching the stapler as they might an insect.
‘Why don’t you give your overworked tongue a rest,’ snarled Yousef. His face had a rodent-like quality to it and he carried himself with the assurance of a man who is not afraid of much. He certainly commanded authority in that office. The others were silenced. When he smiled, a thin-lipped leer crossed the pockmarked face. ‘Mr Makana is here to help us. Isn’t that right?’
‘I’m certainly going to try.’
‘He’s going to try.’ The idea seemed to amuse Yousef. ‘You hear that? He’s going to show us the error of our ways. So why don’t you all stop complaining and get to work before he decides the solution lies in throwing you to the dogs.’
Suddenly everyone had something else to do. The chatter of conversation died as if cut off by a knife. Yousef gave Makana one last look before turning away.
By the time Talal turned up late that afternoon, Makana had already concluded that his love for Faragalla’s youngest daughter was a hopeless quest. He was also convinced that nothing but divine intervention could improve the fortunes of Blue Ibis Tours. What Faragalla really needed was a