The Burning Gates by Parker Bilal

that made no sense. It was the way he was standing that struck him as odd; off to one side, reading a newspaper and wearing dark glasses. The rumble of the Thunderbird brought Makana’s attention back to the front drive and he walked out to join Sindbad.

Chapter Seven
    The Zerzura Gallery was set on the ground floor of a modern apartment building in Mohandiseen. A white horse that appeared to have wandered out of another century stood grazing in a patch of sparse yellow grass on the little square facing it. The gallery building was encased in grey marble and resembled a mausoleum. You might have expected to find a displaced head of state embalmed in the window, instead of carved lattice screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
    To reach the window you had to clamber over piles of sand and broken brick. Construction appeared to have tailed off rather than come to a satisfactory conclusion, as if the builders had just lost interest. Despite this they were trying to preserve some sense of exclusivity. Chains prevented undesirable cars from blocking the entrance and a bored guard in a fancy uniform looked the Thunderbird over and decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. Tucked into the narrow gap between the next building were more leftovers: iron rods, timbers, more sand, heaps of broken breeze blocks and tiles, along with the tail end of a motorcycle: a yellow Yamaha.
    Inside, a young woman wearing a headscarf sat behind a desk, her face illuminated by the blue glow of a computer screen. Makana murmured a greeting and moved on. Cases displaying jewellery in quaint rustic shapes evoked a city dweller’s romanticised view of rural life. Table lamps inside clay minarets, ashtrays shaped like farmhouses in the rif . At the far end was a wall of canvases picked out by hot beams of white light. As Makana took a moment to examine these Dalia Habashi stepped out from an office at the far end of the room. She brushed away her surprise at seeing him with a flick of her hair and came forward.
    ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.’ Her wrists jangled as she held out her hand.
    ‘I just happened to be in the area.’
    Dalia Habashi was elegantly dressed in grey trousers and a black blouse. She carried herself with style, although underneath it he detected a jittery nervousness. Her movements were quick and awkward and her pupils were dilated. He glanced towards the office with the drawn blinds from which she had emerged and she immediately gestured at the walls around them.
    ‘What do you think so far?’
    They strolled slowly around the gallery. ‘I haven’t really had time to take it in, but it all looks very interesting.’ Makana glanced dutifully at each frame. ‘How do you tell if something is valuable?’
    ‘You can’t, not really. I mean, you can, but there are no rules.’ She pushed a hand through her hair nervously. ‘It’s all about whether someone else can see what you see.’
    Makana nodded as if this made perfect sense.
    ‘Many great artists never sold a painting in their lifetimes. Now their work sells for millions.’
    ‘That seems unfair.’
    ‘Did nobody tell you? Life is unfair.’ She swivelled to face him. ‘Why did you come here?’
    ‘I thought I should devote more of my time to understanding art.’
    Dalia Habashi examined him for a moment. ‘You seemed a lot more charming last night. Now I have the feeling you are out to hurt me. You insult me by trying to appear more stupid than you are.’
    ‘That’s because I’m out of my depth.’ He gestured around them.
    ‘Not your sort of thing?’
    ‘Not really.’ Makana strolled on. Dalia Habashi followed. ‘What was the name of your friend, by the way?’
    ‘Which one?’
    ‘The one on the motorcycle.’
    She pulled up. ‘So this isn’t a social call?’
    ‘I don’t, as a rule, make social calls.’
    ‘You must lead a very quiet life.’
    ‘I’m not complaining.’
    ‘What did Kasabian hire you to do?’
    ‘I can’t go into