The Burning Gates Read Free

Ali was as jumpy as a cat in a dogfight. They walked up the stairs to be met by a large man wearing a silvery grey suit. Although he had never met him before, Makana knew at once that this had to be Aram Kasabian.
    ‘Ali, Ali, where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you.’
    For a man in his sixties, Kasabian had the smooth features of somebody twenty years his junior. His wavy grey hair matched his suit in colour, his hand was cool to the touch and he gave off an aroma of expensive cologne. Makana was wearing his best jacket and yet it still seemed as if the waiters were better dressed than him. He felt Kasabian’s well-trained eye appraising him.
    ‘And this is the man you’ve been telling me about.’ He stretched out a hand.
    ‘This is Makana,’ said Ali perfunctorily. ‘We’ve known each other for years.’
    ‘Welcome, merhaba .’ Aram Kasabian leaned over as he ushered the two of them in. ‘We will talk later, Mr Makana,’ he said confidentially.
    They stepped through the first set of double doors to find themselves in the midst of Kasabian’s well-heeled guests. The lights seemed very bright after the relative gloom of the veranda. The two front rooms had been turned into galleries. The walls were hung with framed canvases of various sizes. Makana watched Kasabian slide through the crowd with practised ease, pausing to shake a hand here or exchange a greeting there before arriving at the far end of the room where a small stage had been set up. He spoke like a man who was not only used to speaking in public but who enjoyed it. His natural charm soon had his guests nodding and chuckling.
    ‘This is always a great honour. The autumn exhibition has now become, I am proud to say, a key event in the cultural calendar of this great city. It gives us the opportunity to discover some of the wonderful talent that surrounds us as we go about the rather dull business of earning a living.’ He gestured at the walls around them. ‘Artists allow us mere mortals to dream. Their vision enriches our lives. Each year we discover brilliant new talents and this year is no exception.’ He mentioned several names that meant nothing to Makana and pointed out certain people in the room. There was some polite clapping. Kasabian went on to thank a few of the private patrons and sponsors without whom, he emphasised, the exhibition would not have been possible. There were more smiles and nods as they enjoyed their moment in the spotlight. Everybody seemed pleased to be there. Makana knew that for Ali this evening meant a lot. The guests who thronged the room, clutching non-alcoholic grape juice in champagne glasses, were the cream of society. Wealthy entrepreneurs, businessmen and investors, bankers and men of industry, along with a good sprinkling of embassy staff and expats. They were the patrons every struggling artist was hoping to captivate with their work and maybe make a few sales.
    When Kasabian finished his speech the noise level rose as the guests resumed their conversations. Some moved around and for a time Makana moved with them, grateful for a break from Ali’s fretting. He was now busy chatting away with potential buyers. To Makana he resembled a man out of place. Most of the time he was Ali the Mechanic, who ran a car-repair shop just off Sharia Sudan Street.
    From the snippets of conversation he picked up Makana concluded that wealth did not qualify a person to understand art. The pictures reflected a range of style and quality. It was a strange business. The fortunate ones would find their way to a wall in a house or private flat, in the lobby of an embassy or the boardroom of an insurance company, proof of the sophistication and taste of their new owners. Makana stared at a picture of a bowl of what might have been artichokes but on the other hand could have been a family of dead frogs.
    ‘Are you really his manager?’
    Makana turned to find the woman he had briefly met earlier, Dalia Habashi.
    ‘I’m