Syndrome E

22

Sharko wondered if he was really going to walk into the Cairo Bar, a crummy-looking place in a dank, unlit alley in the Tewfikieh district. Along the entire length of the alley rested carts, covered with simple sheets, and black cats scampered atop the chalk walls. Sharko walked down the few steps that led to the bar. You really, really had to enjoy strong sensations to venture into that place. A washed-out sign read COFFEE SHOP; the large windows were covered with sheets of newspaper layered over each other, preventing anyone from seeing what might be going on inside. The facade was as raunchy as the pathetic sex shops that sprouted in certain Paris neighborhoods.

The cop checked one more time that he was carrying his police ID, even though he sincerely doubted it would be of much use here, and plunged into the lion’s den. He was immediately assailed by a heady odor of hashish, mixed with the smells of mint and mu‘assel from the hookahs. The light was muted; the powerful air conditioner rumbled. The thick wooden tables, old Vienna-style lamps, bronze art objects hanging on the wall, and large steins of beer made the place look like an English pub. A waitress, Caucasian and scantily clad, threaded between the shapes, her tray loaded with glasses brimful of alcohol. Sharko had expected to find faces eaten away by syphilis, drugs, or drink. Instead, he was amazed at how attractive the clientele looked, mostly young and flamboyantly dressed.

Just his luck: in the middle of one of the oldest Muslim cities in the world, he’d stumbled into a gay bar.

All I needed!

Honeyed gazes followed him as he walked firmly to the bar, which was manned by a fellow with white skin, blue eyes, and blond hair. Sharko glanced at his watch—the taxi had dropped him off ten minutes early—and nodded toward an amber-colored bottle labeled OLD BRENT.

“Whiskey, please.”

The bartender looked him over a bit too insistently before serving him his drink. Sharko was immediately approached on the right. Here come the come-ons! The guy was in his twenties, swarthy complexion, draftee’s haircut. Around his neck he had tied a scarf tucked into a bright shirt. He whispered into Sharko’s ear:

“Koudiana or barghal, ‘please’?”

“Nothing at all. And fuck off, ‘please.’”

The cop snatched up his glass—they served doses that could kill a horse here—and went off to sit in a corner. He looked over the customers, noted the behavior of the rich in their designer suits and imported shoes, on the make, and of the poor, much more effeminate, dazzlingly beautiful in their modest clothes. Sex and prostitution must have been, here as elsewhere, a means of wresting yourself from poverty, for the space of a night and a few exchanged bills. People greeted each other Egyptian style, four pecks on the cheek and taps on the back; they weren’t yet kissing on the mouth, but the intent was clear. Sharko was bringing his glass to his lips with a sigh when a voice reached him from behind:

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. They say a young painter went blind here after drinking that whiskey. The boss, the Englishman, makes his own liquor to double his profits. It’s common practice in the old cafés of Cairo.”

Atef Abd el-Aal sat down opposite him. He clapped his hands and indicated “two” to the waitress. Sharko set down his whiskey with a grimace, without having touched it.

“Your French is damn good.”

“I’ve long frequented a friend of your country. And I work with a lot of your compatriots living in Alexandria. The French make excellent business partners.”

He leaned over the table. He had lined his eyes with khol and combed his fine hair back. His pupils were subtly congested by the effects of hashish, probably taken before coming to the bar.

“No one followed you?”

“No.”

“This is the only place we can be left alone. The police never come down here; certain people around us are powerful businessmen who control the district. Now that the police know we saw each other on the terrace, I’ll be under surveillance. I traveled by rooftop after leaving my house.”

“Why should they put you under surveillance? And why keep an eye on me?”

“To keep you from sticking your nose where you shouldn’t. Give me back the note I wrote you on the terrace. I don’t want to leave any trace of our meeting in this establishment.”

Sharko complied and lifted his chin toward the faces buried in the shadows.

“And what about all these people around us? They’ve seen us together.”

“Here, we’re outside the law and social regulations. We know each other by female names; we have our own codes and our own language. The only goal of our meetings is wasla, the practice of homosexuality between koudiana, the submissives, and barghal, the dominants. We’ll always deny having seen one of our own here, no matter what. We have rules as well.”

Sharko felt as if he were diving into the unsuspected and secret entrails of the city, to the rhythm of the night.

“Explain to me more precisely why you came to Egypt,” said Atef.

Sharko retraced the story in broad strokes, without giving away the confidential aspects of the case. He spoke without getting too detailed about the bodies discovered in France, the similarities in modus operandi with the young Egyptian victims, the telegram his brother had sent. Atef had the somber expression of a djinn. His eyes were veiled.

“Do you really think these two episodes are related, given how far apart they are in time and place? What proof do you have?”

“I can’t tell you that. But I have the feeling they’re hiding things from me, that documents are missing from the file. My hands and feet are tied.”

“When are you going back?”

“Tomorrow evening. But I promise you that if I have to, I’ll come back as a tourist. I’ll find the families of those poor girls and interview them.”

“You’re a persistent one. Why should the fate of some miserable Egyptians who died so long ago interest you?”

“Because I’m a cop. Because the passage of time shouldn’t make a crime any less hateful.”

“An avenger’s speech.”

“I’m just a father and a husband. And I like seeing things through to the bitter end.”

The waitress brought two imported beers and warm mezes. Atef invited Sharko to help himself and spoke in a low voice.

“Your hands and feet are tied because the entire Egyptian police system is corrupt. They fill their ranks with the poor and the ignorant, most of whom come from the country or Upper Egypt so that they won’t oppose the system. They pay them barely enough to survive on so that they’ll be forced to become corrupt themselves. They provide false papers for money, shake down taxi drivers and restaurant owners, threaten to have their licenses revoked. From Cairo to Aswan, police brutality is known far and wide. Just a few years ago, they were still arresting us for homosexuality—and believe me, being in those prisons was no joke. With less than thirty pounds a month to live on, thirty of your euros, people like that become the system. Half the police in this country have no idea what they’re doing it for. They’re told to repress, so they repress. But my brother wasn’t of that stripe. He had the values of men from Port Said. Pride. And respect.”

Atef took out a photo from his wallet and handed it to Sharko. It showed an upright man, young, solid in his uniform. He shone with the savage beauty of the desert dwellers.

“Mahmoud always dreamed of being a policeman. Before he was accepted, he had joined the youth center in Abdin to do bodybuilding; he wanted to be up to the level of the gymnastic tests at the police academy. He got ninety percent on his final exams. He was brilliant. He got by without money and without bribes. He was never an extremist; he had nothing to do with that gangrene. That was all a frame-up to make him disappear.”

Sharko delicately set the photo on the table.

“A frame-up by the police, you mean?”

“Yes. By that son of a whore Noureddine.”

“Why?”

“I could never find out why. Until today, when I finally learned from you that it was all related to that investigation. Those girls who were viciously murdered…”

Atef stared vacantly at his beer bottle. Made up that way, he gave off a wholly feminine sensuality.

“Mahmoud wouldn’t let the case go. He always brought back his files, photos, and personal notes to the apartment. He told me the case had quickly been classified, and that his superiors had assigned him to another investigation. Here, spending your time on the murder of poor people doesn’t bring in much money, you understand?”

“I think I’m beginning to.”

“But Mahmoud kept right on with it, quietly. When the police came to search his place after his charred body was discovered, they took everything. And now, you tell me those documents no longer exist. Someone had an interest in making them disappear.”

At the slightest noise, Atef looked around. The smoke emitted by the chichas blurred the faces, darkened the risqué gestures. Some men exited. In this place, one arrived alone but left in twos, for a busy night.

Sharko took a swallow of beer. The atmosphere was like the situation: tense.

“And your brother hadn’t told you anything? Details? Any points in common among the murdered girls?”

The Arab shook his head.

“It goes back a long time, Inspector. And when you talk about this case in hints and whispers, you’re not really helping me.”

“In that case, let me refresh your memory.”

Sharko spread the victims’ photos on the table. This time, he recounted exactly what Nahed had translated for him in the un-air-conditioned office at the police station. The discovery of the bodies, the precise indications of the autopsy report. Atef listened carefully, touching neither his drink nor the mezes.

“Ezbet el-Nakhl, where the trash collectors live…” he repeated. “Now that you say it, yes, I do believe my brother went there for his investigation. Then Shubra… Shubra… the cement factories. It all vaguely rings a bell.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again, picked up a photo, and stared at it attentively.

“I believe my brother was convinced that there did exist a link among these girls. The crimes were too close together in time, too similar for the killer to have acted randomly. The murderer must have had a plan, a path he was following.”

Sharko’s throat grew tighter by the minute. Mahmoud had sensed the killer, and he’d acted in all the right ways, starting from the principle that a killer rarely struck by chance. A true European-style detective—no doubt the only one in this vast city.

“What kind of plan?”

“I don’t know. My brother didn’t tell me a whole lot, because… I didn’t like what he was doing. But I do know who he might have talked to more openly.”

“Who?”

“My uncle. The one who got us out of poverty, so long ago. The two of them were very close and spoke about all sorts of things.”

Behind them, bottles of alcohol circulated, the atmosphere began to churn. Hands moved closer, fingers caressed wrists in a sign of desire. Sharko leaned over the table.

“Let’s go see your uncle.”

Atef hesitated a long time.

“I’d really like to help you, in memory of my brother. But this I should do alone. I’d rather remain careful and not be seen with you. We’ll meet again tomorrow, in front of the Saladin Citadel overlooking the Necropolis, an hour and a half after the call to prayer. Six a.m., at the foot of the left minaret. I’ll be there with your information.”

Atef downed half his beer.

“I’m going to stay a bit longer. You go now. And especially…”

Sharko finally picked up his glass of whiskey and emptied it in one gulp.

“I know, not a word. See you tomorrow.”

Once outside, the cop intentionally lost himself in the streets of Cairo, carried along by the human flow, the colors and smells.

He might have a lead.

The temperature had dropped a good fifteen degrees, and the sweat from the club grew cool along his scalp and ears. The cop didn’t feel like going back to his deathly little room and confronting what was inside his head. The city carried him, guided him in its whirlwinds of mystery. He discovered improbable cafés hidden between two buildings, and hookah joints lit by Chinese lanterns among which people glided, carrying reddened coals. He crossed paths with wandering vendors of vinyl wallets and paper handkerchiefs, dove into atmospheres whose very existence he would never have suspected. He smoked and drank without worrying about the water the tea was made from, without fearing the tourista. Somewhere back in the Muslim portion of the city, carried along by drunkenness, he watched the slaughter of three young bulls, their throats slit in the middle of the street, which butchers hacked into pieces before wrapping them in pouches ready for distribution. In the heart of the night, human waves unfurled: poor people, children with bare feet, women with black veils, while a well-dressed man in a suit handed out political pamphlets. Bags of meat were being tossed to the crowd along with the advertising; people elbowed each other and shouted. The whole city vibrated like a single being.

In the midst of his euphoria, Sharko suddenly felt a surge of nausea and squinted his eyes. Over there, standing apart from the crowd, was a man plunged in darkness, wearing a mustache and a hat that looked like a beret.

Hassan Noureddine.

The man stepped to the side and disappeared down a street.

The Frenchman tried to open a path toward him, but the human flow jostled him. He forced his way through the crowd, the tide of arms, and began running. When he arrived at the square, the police chief had vanished. Sharko moved forward into the deserted alleyways, turned in every direction, then finally stopped, alone in the middle of the silent houses.

They were following him. Even here. What did that mean?

And what if he’d just been dreaming? What if that silhouette had only been a vision, like Eugenie?

Sharko turned back. The air here seemed frozen. This silence, this darkness, the blackness of the building facades. He quickened his pace and finally rejoined the hubbub of the main street. Somewhere else, the buzzing was getting louder; the inimitable chants of the women filled the air, to the rhythm of clacking castanets and tabla drums. Sharko was in Egypt; he was discovering people so open that they drank from the same glass at the table, that they lived outside and cooked their bread on the sidewalk.

But in the midst of that jubilant crowd, a monster had struck.

A bloodthirsty ghoul, who had leapt from neighborhood to neighborhood to spread darkness.

That was more than fifteen years ago.

Alone in room 16, which overlooked Mohamed Farid Street, wrapped like an Egyptian in his sheets to ward off mosquitoes, Sharko crushed his hands against his ears. Eugenie was flinging cocktail sauce all over the walls and yelling at him. She didn’t want any more corpses or horrors; she cried and pulled at her hair with shrill screams. And the moment Sharko dozed off, dying from exhaustion, she clapped her hands sharply and he jerked awake again.

“All those people are watching you. They’re spying on us, dear Franck, through the window, through the keyhole. They’re following us, sniffing out our scent. We have to go back home before they do us harm. You want them to torture me like Eloise and Suzanne? Remember Suzanne, naked, her rounded belly, tied up on a wooden table? Her screams? She was begging you, Franck. She was begging you. Why weren’t you there to save her? Why, dear Franck?”

The Wernicke’s area in Sharko’s brain was throbbing. He got up and glanced into the street. He saw the tops of people’s heads, white robes swaying in the thick air. Not a trace of the arrogant fat cop. Then he double-checked that the door and shutters were locked tight. The paranoia remained, swarming beneath his flesh, and Eugenie still refused to leave. At the end of his rope, the schizophrenic policeman rushed toward the small refrigerator, gathered up all the ice cubes, and threw them into the bathtub. Shut in the bathroom, he ran the cold water and sank below the surface, breath taken away, body freezing. The tall enameled edges threw up familiar ramparts, reassuring him. The world seemed to shrink onto his body and mash up everything around it.

He ended up falling asleep in the empty tub, curled up and trembling like an old dog, alone, so far from home, with his inner phantoms. Against his chest he held the little locomotive, O-gauge Ova Hornby, with its black car for wood and coal.

He never realized he was crying.