Authors: N E. David
Blake was surprised to hear him express such fatalistic views. For all his modern thinking, the young Egyptian was still bound to his roots. He looked back across at Lee Yong. She was still not speaking and had even turned her head away and was staring out into space. Had he touched a raw nerve?
“As for myself,” Reda continued, “I prefer this part of the world.” He extended an outstretched arm in the direction of the square. “It’s much more peaceful and relaxing, don’t you think?”
He drew on his sheesha again and let out another waft of the apple-scented smoke. From a loudspeaker poised above his head, the voice of Umm Kulthum warbled her approval.
Despite the recent press of the souk, Blake felt inclined to agree – there was definitely something laid-back about the place. Compared to Cairo it was relatively calm and its provincial feel and open space gave it a certain seductive quality. Over the way stood the great mass of Elephantine Island while in between, the white-sailed feluccas plied gently back and forth with their cargoes. On the far bank, the tawny wastes of the Western Desert stretched endlessly into the distance…
He turned to Lee Yong.
“What about you? Do you like it here?”
She must surely have a view but for the moment, a grudging “It’s alright…” was as much as he could wring out of her.
He was forced to continue his conversation with Reda alone and they carried on for another ten minutes or so, dissecting the politics of the Middle East. Eventually the situation was relieved by the arrival of the others who came wandering back from the souk.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” said Keith. “We wondered where on earth you’d got to.”
With a screech of scraping metal, he dragged over another table and they each pulled up a chair and sat down.
“And how was the spice shop?” Blake decided to show interest.
Joan had already started to unload her shopping bag and they crowded round to inspect the contents.
“Just look at these – aren’t they wonderful?”
To her credit, Lee Yong immediately roused herself from her reverie and took an interest in Joan’s purchases, thrusting her
nose amongst the packages.
“They smell nice…”
After they’d settled down, a waiter appeared and they ordered themselves something to drink. Blake had long since finished his glass of mint tea and decided to ask for a second.
The group soon split into two – the women still discussing Joan’s purchases while amongst the men, the talk got round to the future.
“So what are the plans for tomorrow?” Keith was anxious to know.
“Haven’t a clue,” said David. “But I’ll take a bet it involves another early start.”
They turned to the young Egyptian for an answer.
But Reda had taken the opportunity to distance himself and was sitting to one side. He’d left off his water-pipe and had taken his mobile phone from his pocket and was checking his messages. A distinct look of concern crossed his face and he immediately began tapping out a response.
It took ten minutes or so for the drinks to arrive. While he was waiting Blake gradually became aware of the beginnings of a disturbance. Initially masked by the singing of Umm Kulthum, raised voices were making themselves heard somewhere nearby. He lifted his eyes from the dregs at the base of his glass and looked round to discover the source of the noise.
Before him lay the wide expanse of Midan Al-Mahatta. On the other side of the square, a crowd was gathering outside the imposing frontage of the Governorate building. During the course of his conversation with Reda, and latterly with the others, a steady stream of passers-by had been making their way towards it. At first he’d thought them a mixture of tourists, late-night shoppers returning from the souk, or workers on their way home. But now he could see that they’d all been heading to the same spot and what had started as a small, inconspicuous grouping had steadily swelled into a large and vociferous throng. And all the while, more and more were joining them from the various approaches to the square.
He turned toward Reda with the intention of asking for some explanation, but the young Egyptian’s head remained lowered as he continued to attend to his texts.
Blake consulted his watch. It was precisely ten o’clock and as if timed with some predetermined signal, a fuzzy voice suddenly blared out through a megaphone, drowning out the unfortunate Umm Kulthum.
“What on earth was that?”
Keith was startled from his seat and within a few seconds the whole party were craning their necks in the direction of the noise. Too late and too strident to be confused with the wailing of evening prayers, it had succeeded in taking them all by surprise.
The Governorate was an elegant building. Dressed in a coating of shiny white marble, it looked down on those who confronted it with disdain. But the crowd gathered in front of it was clearly not to be put off and had grown to a few hundred strong. One of their number, a young man in a leather jacket and jeans, clambered up the steps leading to the entrance and began addressing them through a loud-hailer, urging them to join him in achieving greater things. A loud cry went up in response, then another, and within a matter of moments the whole crowd had broken into a chant.
Mubarak out! Mubarak out! Mubarak out!
Small groups of people started jumping up and down in time with the slogan and here and there the Egyptian flag was being waved.
Keith got to his feet to get a better view.
“What are they saying?” asked David, still seated.
With the voice of Umm Kulthum warbling in the background and the fuzzy blare of the loud-hailer, Blake struggled to make it out – but he could easily hazard a guess.
“They want rid of Mubarak.”
“What, Hosni Mubarak, the president?”
“Yes, the very same…”
“Why would they want to do that? I thought he was well-respected.”
Blake shrugged. It wasn’t for him to speak on behalf of another nation, even if it was one he might consider his own. He pointed in the direction of Reda.
“If you want the answer to that, you’d better ask an Egyptian.”
Reda was only too happy to enlighten them. He looked up from his phone to respond.
“He might be respected in the West, but in his own country he is despised. You only know what you read in your newspapers and see on your televisions. You think he does a good job because he keeps us Muslims under control and you never think of Egypt
as a threat. But all the while he keeps us pressed beneath his thumb, we suffer for it. He’s kept us down for almost forty years – but the Egyptian people have had enough. Now they want their freedom and they’re prepared to stand up and fight for it.”
“Good Lord.” Keith was genuinely shocked. “I had no idea…”
Blake shook his head in dismay. In the realm of international affairs, his countrymen could be disarmingly naive. But as he’d said before, this was Egypt – a place where things were not always what they seemed.
The clamour from across the square had increased in volume. The young man at the top of the steps was joined by some of his friends and now four or five of them were passing the megaphone from one to another and making impassioned speeches. On the Corniche away to the left, traffic had slowed to a crawl and a number of cars had pulled off the highway and onto the sidewalk to watch. Their drivers leant permanently on their horns, adding to the dreadful din. The overall effect was deafening and if the general aim was to attract attention, it could hardly have been more successful – the whole of Aswan must have heard it.
Blake wondered as to the protestors’ final objective. The building itself was empty. There were no lights on, the employees and officials having left work some hours before. Was it the intention to storm the place in their absence? If so, it would not be long before someone heaved a brick through a window.
And where were the police? They’d already made an appearance earlier that evening, prowling round the souk, looking for trouble – they surely couldn’t ignore this. It occurred to Blake that perhaps the demonstrators had deliberately waited until their nightly patrol was over before showing their hand. The action appeared chaotic, but Blake’s suspicion was that events had been carefully planned. And here was Reda, casually checking his watch and texting on his mobile phone…
For a while, no-one spoke – even if they had it would have been difficult to make themselves heard above the din. Distracted by the blasts of the car horns and the constant chanting, they were all engaged in watching the action that was unfolding on the other side of the square. Like spectators at an open-air performance that had been laid on for them to witness, seated in comfort at the House of Umm Kulthum and for the price of a cup of coffee, they could view their entertainment from a safe distance.
But that was about to change and any thought that they could remain isolated from events soon evaporated. Umm Kulthum was suddenly cut off in her prime and the rickety neon lights of the café behind them flickered for the last time before they were shut off. The few customers who had lingered on inside through fear of venturing out soon emerged, quickly followed by the patron who smartly pulled down the rollered steel-shutter before locking it and disappearing into the night.
“I hope this isn’t going to get out of hand.” Keith watched him go with apprehension.
“Calm yourselves my friends.” The childlike enthusiasm Reda had shown earlier in the evening had abated. “These affairs are not intended to be violent. Stay here with me and all will be well, I promise you.”
Despite his attempt to hearten them, a sense of unease settled on the group. Keith remained standing and started fiddling with the loose change in his pockets. Behind him, Janet vowed she was not going to be moved by anyone or anything and clung to her chair with a vice-like grip. Mrs Biltmore, unable to sit steadily on her seat, wobbled like a jelly on a plate and rather than haranguing the others, resorted to talking to herself and mumbled under her breath. Next to her, Ira sat bolt upright and said nothing. And in order to calm her nerves, Joan had already delved into her cream-coloured bag for her cigarettes and had lit up, blowing a trail of acrid smoke across the table. Of the six of
them, it was only David who remained completely impassive. As an old soldier, he’d probably seen it all before.
Blake didn’t feel comfortable himself. Now that the patron had fled and the shutters were locked the option of retreating back inside the café was denied them, and there seemed little alternative but to stay where they were and sit things out. The direct route back to the ship was cut off – nobody would have wanted to walk across Midan Al-Mahatta at present – and the idea that they could slip away down some side street seemed risky. They’d have Reda to guide them of course, although he was preoccupied with his mobile phone and didn’t appear minded to suggest it. They were completely in his hands and yet he was doing nothing. Someone needed to formulate a plan so if push ever came to shove, they were prepared.
Blake looked to his left and Lee Yong. She’d come to their rescue at the Valley of the Kings, taking control and guiding them through the tombs. They’d willingly given themselves up to her then and had allowed her to carry them along in her wake, awed by the force of her character. But this was different – this was no casual jaunt through history – and Blake wondered whether she could be relied on to repeat the performance. As things stood, he doubted it – she was equally as absorbed in the action as the others.
She’d said little all evening. Since his arrival at the café, Blake’s conversation had been primarily with Reda. Lee Yong had seemed subdued and distant, and he’d formed the impression that some coolness had grown up between her and the young Egyptian. A lovers’ tiff perhaps? Or had she too discovered his involvement and disapproved? Perhaps that was why she now looked away. Whatever her reason, Blake could tell she was not in the mood to be positive.
Across the square, the protest rumbled on. The crowd outside the Governorate had continued to grow and like a gathering storm whose clouds were about to burst, the feeling was that at
any moment it might all spill over.
They’d been watching from the café for a while (ten or fifteen minutes perhaps – unlike Reda, Blake hadn’t been keeping track of time) when the blare of car horns on the Corniche was augmented by the howl of sirens. Of the drivers who had pulled onto the sidewalk, one or two made off – they were presumably known to the law and had no desire to be recognised – but most stayed on to jeer the police when they arrived.
It was the same three cars which had been on duty at the souk earlier that evening that sped into view. The honking doubled like a flock of raucous geese – but the police had no intention of waiting to enjoy their greeting and simply mounted the kerb and drove straight toward the disturbance. The crowd turned to face them and for the moment ignored the rantings of their leaders on the steps. At the sight of the three cars they immediately changed their chant, abandoning their cries of
Mubarak out!
for the shout of
Down with the police!
Blake doubted it was a wise move. At this stage the crowd far outnumbered the law and other than bolster their confidence, it served no practical purpose as the police were bound to resent it and prepare themselves to retaliate. It was as if someone the size of Mrs Biltmore (Blake couldn’t help but make the comparison) was being bothered by a wasp and rather than ignore it had chosen to swipe at it with a rolled-up newspaper – an act which could only enrage it further. Later, it would doubtless return to implant its sting.
But the police were aware they were too few to respond and settled for drawing their cars up in a line across the centre of the square facing the demonstration. Beyond announcing their presence, this too was a pointless move as the square was so large that the crowd could easily have dispersed around them. But with neither side inclined to back down, a stand-off was bound to ensue, and what with the blaring of car horns, the wailing of
sirens, the abusive chanting of the crowd and the amplified exhortations of its leaders, it was hard to hear yourself think.
“Now what?” bellowed Keith.
With the arrival of the police they should have felt less vulnerable – but if anything it had the opposite effect and heightened the tension.
“Be patient,” replied Reda.
“Well I’m not so sure we shouldn’t be making a move.”
“No, there’s nothing we can do, we wait.”
And weather the coming storm
, thought Blake. He was struggling to come up with options – but there were none he could think of. They were completely in the hands of the young Egyptian. Hopefully, he had good reasons for his advice.
Keith resumed his seat. He’d spoken for them all but to no avail. They were powerless and continued to sit, immobile in their chairs, tight-lipped and anxious.
There was a predictability about these events that Blake found depressing. The police would call for reinforcements, confrontation would ensue and the inevitable battle would take place. No-one would want to give way. He’d seen it many times before – random acts of violence played out in the backstreets of Cairo. Anywhere injustice was felt, the seeds of rebellion were stamped on and weeded out before they had a chance to take root. Egypt had been a battleground for years. The suppression of popular dissent was commonplace and brutal (look what had happened to Khaled Saeed in Alexandria). Yet it was so easily explained away –
We’re keeping the Islamists under control –
that no-one took any notice, least of all the West. And here was another example, thrust right under his nose.
It irritated Blake intensely that he should get caught up in it all. Wasn’t he supposed to be on a birding holiday? He’d meant to leave politics behind at the Embassy – but with the exception of the boat trip two days before, precious little birding had been
done. There was no chance of that now. He was sorely tempted to do what Keith had suggested, stand up and walk out – and were it not for Lee Yong, he undoubtedly would have done so. Without her, he’d have slipped away and headed down a side street, trusting his luck, but the grip she had on him held him back. He was anxious and his first priority was to protect her. His natural instinct was to grab hold of her and get her out of there, even if it meant taking a risk. The others would all follow Keith. They’d said nothing themselves and it had been left up to him to give voice to their feelings. Reda seemed to have his own reasons for staying on the scene and had told against him. Why were they so beholden to the young Egyptian? They hung on his every word – didn’t they have minds of their own? Why did they have to wait?
Meanwhile, the police were being patient. Of the three cars drawn up in the square, only one of the occupants had thought to get out and he stood, hands on hips, surveying the scene. No more than fifty yards away the crowd roared in defiance, but he retained his pose without flinching and dared to raise his chin at his abusers. He was either mad, brave or supremely arrogant, thought Blake, and there was something about him that clearly suggested the latter.