be protecting him. They didn’t do a very good job, did they?’
‘I’ll stay away from high places,’ said Makana as he turned to leave.
‘Just remember what I said, and be careful.’
Out in the hallway, Makana eased his way round the large woman still berating the timid man, who was obviously her husband. He threw Makana a pleading look as he went by. Her voice followed him down into the street. It was clogged with night-time traffic that bumped and hooted its way through the downtown snarl-ups. Couples walked along examining the bright displays of clothes and shiny shoes; the mannequins that displayed them were stick-thin and pale as milk. European models. Bizzare to try and imagine any of the passers-by in those outfits, and yet they took comfort from these boulevards of opulent dreams.
Nabil was waiting for him at Felfela’s. His contact at the largest state newspaper, Al Ahram , was a short man with a large paunch and a receding hairline. He stood at the counter with a stack of sandwiches in front of him, putting them away as if a law might be passed at any minute, forbidding the consumption of food by overweight men. Makana indicated a quieter spot in a corner and waited for Nabil to transfer his snack. He passed over a thick envelope between bites.
‘That’s basically a selection,’ Nabil said, managing to stop chewing for long enough to get the words out. ‘I could have brought you twice as much. The papers adore him.’
Makana pulled out the photocopies and began leafing through them. Most of it he already knew. Adil Romario had come out of nowhere. He had no former track record, had never played for another team before. There was a description of life at the Hanafi Sports Academy. They had selection days and anyone good enough to impress the scouts would be offered a place. It meant somewhere to live, an education and regular meals. If you worked hard enough you got into the DreemTeem. Adil apparently devoted a lot of time to charity work for the Academy, touring the city, the country, showing little boys what they could achieve if they set their minds to it.
‘This is the one that caused all the trouble,’ Nabil interrupted, leaving a greasy mark on the page he tapped.
‘The trouble?’
‘You know, all the rumours about the other players hating Adil.’
Makana cast an eye quickly over the copy in front of him. He realised that the shorter piece he had already seen was referring to this article. It was by a journalist named Sami Barakat who promised an exclusive insight into the conflict that was tearing the DreemTeem apart from within. Rivalry there had apparently reached unprecedented heights. His team mates were furious about Adil Romario’s poor performance. ‘The team is being sacrificed for the boss’s favourite boy,’ he summarised.
‘Who is this Sami Barakat?’
‘I don’t know him, but he obviously isn’t planning a long career in journalism,’ judged Nabil. ‘Hanafi will have him thrown out on his ear before too long, mark my words.’
Makana paused in his reading to look round the brightly lit snack bar. There was a constant stream of people coming and going. Groups of students,young and old. Solitary men stood and munched quickly, eyes fixed on their food. He realised that since his conversation with Amir Medani he was automatically being more cautious.
‘What’s this all about anyway?’
‘It’s about discretion.’
‘I’m just asking.’ Nabil wiped his mouth with a napkin and swallowed half a can of some kind of pink drink with a picture of Adil Romario on the label.
‘What is that stuff?’
Nabil frowned at the bottle. ‘Pineapple and watermelon.’ He held it out. ‘You want some?’
Makana ignored him. ‘I’ve seen most of this material before,’ he said. ‘Did you find anything about his interest in films?’
His mouth once again full, Nabil reached across and rifled through the heap of papers, managing to distribute oily crumbs and a slice
‘I’ll stay away from high places,’ said Makana as he turned to leave.
‘Just remember what I said, and be careful.’
Out in the hallway, Makana eased his way round the large woman still berating the timid man, who was obviously her husband. He threw Makana a pleading look as he went by. Her voice followed him down into the street. It was clogged with night-time traffic that bumped and hooted its way through the downtown snarl-ups. Couples walked along examining the bright displays of clothes and shiny shoes; the mannequins that displayed them were stick-thin and pale as milk. European models. Bizzare to try and imagine any of the passers-by in those outfits, and yet they took comfort from these boulevards of opulent dreams.
Nabil was waiting for him at Felfela’s. His contact at the largest state newspaper, Al Ahram , was a short man with a large paunch and a receding hairline. He stood at the counter with a stack of sandwiches in front of him, putting them away as if a law might be passed at any minute, forbidding the consumption of food by overweight men. Makana indicated a quieter spot in a corner and waited for Nabil to transfer his snack. He passed over a thick envelope between bites.
‘That’s basically a selection,’ Nabil said, managing to stop chewing for long enough to get the words out. ‘I could have brought you twice as much. The papers adore him.’
Makana pulled out the photocopies and began leafing through them. Most of it he already knew. Adil Romario had come out of nowhere. He had no former track record, had never played for another team before. There was a description of life at the Hanafi Sports Academy. They had selection days and anyone good enough to impress the scouts would be offered a place. It meant somewhere to live, an education and regular meals. If you worked hard enough you got into the DreemTeem. Adil apparently devoted a lot of time to charity work for the Academy, touring the city, the country, showing little boys what they could achieve if they set their minds to it.
‘This is the one that caused all the trouble,’ Nabil interrupted, leaving a greasy mark on the page he tapped.
‘The trouble?’
‘You know, all the rumours about the other players hating Adil.’
Makana cast an eye quickly over the copy in front of him. He realised that the shorter piece he had already seen was referring to this article. It was by a journalist named Sami Barakat who promised an exclusive insight into the conflict that was tearing the DreemTeem apart from within. Rivalry there had apparently reached unprecedented heights. His team mates were furious about Adil Romario’s poor performance. ‘The team is being sacrificed for the boss’s favourite boy,’ he summarised.
‘Who is this Sami Barakat?’
‘I don’t know him, but he obviously isn’t planning a long career in journalism,’ judged Nabil. ‘Hanafi will have him thrown out on his ear before too long, mark my words.’
Makana paused in his reading to look round the brightly lit snack bar. There was a constant stream of people coming and going. Groups of students,young and old. Solitary men stood and munched quickly, eyes fixed on their food. He realised that since his conversation with Amir Medani he was automatically being more cautious.
‘What’s this all about anyway?’
‘It’s about discretion.’
‘I’m just asking.’ Nabil wiped his mouth with a napkin and swallowed half a can of some kind of pink drink with a picture of Adil Romario on the label.
‘What is that stuff?’
Nabil frowned at the bottle. ‘Pineapple and watermelon.’ He held it out. ‘You want some?’
Makana ignored him. ‘I’ve seen most of this material before,’ he said. ‘Did you find anything about his interest in films?’
His mouth once again full, Nabil reached across and rifled through the heap of papers, managing to distribute oily crumbs and a slice
Similar Books
