of onion before he found what he was looking for. It was a brief, highlighted note, tacked on to the side of another in-depth article on the player. Most of it was unashamed speculation:
Egypt’s heartthrob Adil Romario is set for movie fame, our sources tell us. He has set up a production company of his own, Faraga Films, with veteran director and producer Salim Farag. Watch this space, movie lovers!
‘This is better,’ said Makana, tucking the sheets away. ‘But I need more, and I want you to find out about his family. Who they are and where they lived.’ He extracted a few notes from the envelope Gaber had given him. When Nabil pulled a face at the amount, he said sternly, ‘I don’t pay you to get me what I already know. Get me something I haven’t seen.’
On his way home, rattling along in yet another taxi that appeared to be on its last journey in this world, Makana decided he could no longer put off sharing some of his newly acquired wealth with Umm Ali. Benevolence was not his only motive. His landlady had applied her tried and tested technique of disconnecting the cable that delivered electricity to Makana’s sinking palace. The supply line looped down from the main road and dropped to a distribution box high on a pole set conveniently close to the plywood shack tacked on to the river bank. The youngest of her lovable little urchins could scramble on to the precarious roof and disconnect the cable. She only ever took this measure when the rent was too long overdue. Of course, Umm Ali would never admit to such retaliation. It was merely an unspoken understanding between them that when his finances were at a low ebb, the power might begin to fail. The first time it happened Makana had wasted a morning at the central exchange being told there was nothing wrong with the line. When he approached his landlady with the required money the power would be miraculously restored, sometimes within seconds.
Umm Ali was overjoyed to see him counting banknotes off into her hand, though she had no doubt been anticipating such an event since she had first set eyes on Hanafi’s big car pulling up outside. She could barely contain her joy.
‘I will bring you another bag of pickles this evening,’ she promised with a warm smile. Umm Ali was proud of her pickles. There were months when Makana felt as though he practically lived on her pickles.
‘Perhaps you might check the electricity again?’
‘Right away, ya bash-muhandis , you don’t even have to mention it.’
She turned and let out a blood-curdling shriek, and a boy who had been dozing on the ground outside the hut like a cat, leaped up and scuttled on to the roof.
‘An important man like yourself cannot afford to live without any light in his house. How are people supposed to find you?’ Chuckling to herself, she tucked the money into her bosom and went off a happy woman.
On the upper deck Makana sat in the watery restored glow of his reading lamp and went back through all his material, Gaber’s file and Nabil’s envelope, looking for something he had missed.
Adil Romario became star material early on. At the age of twenty-one he was declared the most eligible bachelor in the country. There were plenty of photographs of him in the company of the glamorous set: actors, movie directors and producers from Egypt’s thriving film world. Women in flashy gowns smiling like their life depended on it. Fat old men and handsome younger ones. The glitzy life of stardom. Adil Romario appeared to have had his picture taken with all of them.
One picture caught Makana’s eye. He studied it for a moment. Adil stood in the centre of a group of smiling people. In this case several older men who appeared to be overjoyed to be snapped next to the famous player. To one side stood Gaber, looking exactly the same as always. Next to him was a slight, unremarkable man in a navy blue suit. He looked uncomfortable. The kind of man who did not like having his photograph
Egypt’s heartthrob Adil Romario is set for movie fame, our sources tell us. He has set up a production company of his own, Faraga Films, with veteran director and producer Salim Farag. Watch this space, movie lovers!
‘This is better,’ said Makana, tucking the sheets away. ‘But I need more, and I want you to find out about his family. Who they are and where they lived.’ He extracted a few notes from the envelope Gaber had given him. When Nabil pulled a face at the amount, he said sternly, ‘I don’t pay you to get me what I already know. Get me something I haven’t seen.’
On his way home, rattling along in yet another taxi that appeared to be on its last journey in this world, Makana decided he could no longer put off sharing some of his newly acquired wealth with Umm Ali. Benevolence was not his only motive. His landlady had applied her tried and tested technique of disconnecting the cable that delivered electricity to Makana’s sinking palace. The supply line looped down from the main road and dropped to a distribution box high on a pole set conveniently close to the plywood shack tacked on to the river bank. The youngest of her lovable little urchins could scramble on to the precarious roof and disconnect the cable. She only ever took this measure when the rent was too long overdue. Of course, Umm Ali would never admit to such retaliation. It was merely an unspoken understanding between them that when his finances were at a low ebb, the power might begin to fail. The first time it happened Makana had wasted a morning at the central exchange being told there was nothing wrong with the line. When he approached his landlady with the required money the power would be miraculously restored, sometimes within seconds.
Umm Ali was overjoyed to see him counting banknotes off into her hand, though she had no doubt been anticipating such an event since she had first set eyes on Hanafi’s big car pulling up outside. She could barely contain her joy.
‘I will bring you another bag of pickles this evening,’ she promised with a warm smile. Umm Ali was proud of her pickles. There were months when Makana felt as though he practically lived on her pickles.
‘Perhaps you might check the electricity again?’
‘Right away, ya bash-muhandis , you don’t even have to mention it.’
She turned and let out a blood-curdling shriek, and a boy who had been dozing on the ground outside the hut like a cat, leaped up and scuttled on to the roof.
‘An important man like yourself cannot afford to live without any light in his house. How are people supposed to find you?’ Chuckling to herself, she tucked the money into her bosom and went off a happy woman.
On the upper deck Makana sat in the watery restored glow of his reading lamp and went back through all his material, Gaber’s file and Nabil’s envelope, looking for something he had missed.
Adil Romario became star material early on. At the age of twenty-one he was declared the most eligible bachelor in the country. There were plenty of photographs of him in the company of the glamorous set: actors, movie directors and producers from Egypt’s thriving film world. Women in flashy gowns smiling like their life depended on it. Fat old men and handsome younger ones. The glitzy life of stardom. Adil Romario appeared to have had his picture taken with all of them.
One picture caught Makana’s eye. He studied it for a moment. Adil stood in the centre of a group of smiling people. In this case several older men who appeared to be overjoyed to be snapped next to the famous player. To one side stood Gaber, looking exactly the same as always. Next to him was a slight, unremarkable man in a navy blue suit. He looked uncomfortable. The kind of man who did not like having his photograph
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