decent accountant with a sharp pencil. The company records were in a chaotic state. They were in such a hurry to take on new business they tossed aside old files the minute the tourists were on their plane home. He was willing to bet there was a small fortune buried there in outstanding debts and duplicate bills.
Talal’s tall, bony frame was topped by a wild bush that he probably imagined made him look like a mad conductor. To most people, of course, he just looked mad. Cheerful by nature, he was greeted by the others with surprising warmth. Everyone seemed not only to know him but to be glad to see him. Makana watched from his corner of the room as Talal drifted round, perching himself on a desk here, sharing a joke there. He seemed capable of lifting everyone’s mood, even Arwa appeared to lighten.
‘Have you met our latest recruit?’ Wael asked, waving a hand in Makana’s direction. ‘He’s going to save us all from ruin.’
‘Of course he knows him,’ snapped Arwa. ‘They are compatriots, after all.’
‘Not all Sudanese are born knowing one another,’ Wael countered bravely.
‘We do actually know each other,’ Talal smiled. ‘In fact, I recommended him to Sayyid Faragalla.’ For a moment Makana wondered if he was going to get carried away and tell all.
‘You see?’ Arwa shook her head and Wael rolled his eyes.
‘In fact, I was hoping he was going to show his gratitude by buying me a cup of coffee.’
Which was music to Makana’s ears. He was already on his feet reaching for his jacket.
On the ground floor a sad trail of lifeless shops lined a passage leading into the building from the street. The crumbling stucco around the entrance arch had been covered over by tacky sheets of chromed plastic adorned with gaudy kaleidoscopic tassels that fluttered in the occasional gust of wind. Somewhere an architect was turning over slowly in his grave. The dim arcade was lifted from the gloom by the white neon strip lighting covered in cobwebs that illuminated the shop displays. Cracks in the floor stood out like veins on the worn marble. Hijabbed mannequins stared glassily at Makana and Talal as they passed down to a narrow café set so far back that daylight barely reached it from the street. The distorted screech of excited music greeted them and the door appeared to be permanently jammed halfway open. Inside there was barely room for a grubby counter and a couple of tables that might once have been bright orange in colour but were now a shade of mud. Talal’s arrival was met by a brief nod of recognition from a heavy-set man whose right eye drooped severely to one side. He leered at them from behind the counter.
‘Look,’ Talal said as they sat down, ‘I know you are doing this as a favour to me, or to my father really, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Makana, idly watching the man behind the bar fishing a couple of cups out of a sink of dirty water. ‘Your father was a good friend.’
‘If you could only meet her, you would understand how much she means to me.’ Talal grinned like a schoolboy.
‘I’d love to meet her.’ Makana didn’t have the heart to tell Talal that to judge from the look on Faragalla’s face when his name came up, Talal had as much chance of impressing the girl’s father as the sphinx had of flying.
‘You would? When?’
‘I don’t know, anytime.’
Makana had never had a son himself. He had hoped, of course, but when Muna delivered a girl he contented himself with that and Nasra was as dear to him as any son could ever have been, more so even. Muna used to tease him about it. Men always talk about sons, she used to say, but what they dream about is a daughter who will take care of them and admire them more than any son could ever do. But they were both gone now. Talal had lost his father and seemed to have turned to Makana to fill that absence in some way.
‘That would be great. I mean, I don’t have any family here, really, apart from my mother. I want her to know where I come from. You understand?’
Makana looked into the earnest young man’s face and nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
A boy of about thirteen came in through the door carrying a