Birds of the Nile (27 page)

The sound drew Blake out onto his tiny balcony. In the road below a throng of protestors was moving steadily towards Sharia Tahrir and the Gala’a Bridge. He’d seen gatherings like this before – and had been in them in fact. It reminded him of trips he’d taken to football and rugby matches with his father when he was a youth – the long walk through backstreets, alone to begin with and then in company as others joined from side roads, until finally they’d arrive at the ground surrounded by the excitement of a massive crowd. United by the support of their team, they cheered for them, just as the protestors cheered now. But what united these supporters was not that they were of one faction or another, but the idea that they were Egyptians. It was not just the shabab who were marching, but citizens of every age and class – the rich and the poor, men and women, covered and uncovered,
Muslims and Christians. Whole families, even children, were involved.

Some carried banners and placards they’d created especially for the day. The slogans ranged from the obvious such as
MUBARAK OUT!
and
DIGNITY, JUSTICE AND FREEDOM
to the more satirical eg.
THE LAUGHING COW WILL SOON BE IN TEARS.
(La Vache Qui Rit was not just a popular cheese in Egypt, it was also a nickname for the reviled president). Many were humorous in content and there was much laughter. It was an altogether good-natured gathering.

At around midday, Mr Sayeed emerged out of the corner shop and stood on his freshly-swept pavement, watching the crowds passing by. Here was the potential for trade – and masses of it – but none of it was coming his way. After a while he went back inside and ten minutes later he reappeared with his wife. Taking his keys from his pocket he locked the door, and arm in arm they joined the throng.

Blake was left alone and retreated back into his apartment. He switched on the television and tuned to Al Jazeera where images appeared of Tahrir Square packed to capacity with peaceful demonstrators. Here and there, music was playing and there was singing. In the background, buzzing gently overhead, police helicopters circled the scene, powerless to act. Gradually, and without ado, the centre of Cairo had become flooded with people. And now that the army had pledged not to intervene, there was nothing the regime could do about it.

Later that night, Mubarak appeared on state-run television for the second time. In response to the overwhelming display of public opposition he announced certain concessions, namely that he would not seek another term of office and that he would stand down after the elections scheduled for September. It marked a significant change in his position and for the moment, it looked as though the crowd had beaten him.

When the speech was over, Blake switched the television off and slumped into his wicker chair. He was still troubled and the events of the day had done nothing to relieve him of his feeling of restlessness. The people of Cairo had spoken and the revolution had moved on, but he had remained silent and if anything, he felt as if he’d gone backwards. In fact, he was more unsettled now than he’d been the day before.

He got up and went over to the window. The heat of the day had passed, the night was turning cold and there was a moon now too, high and white above the city. He drew back the shutters and stepped out onto the tiny balcony. Across the street a light was on in the room above the corner shop and he arrived just in time to see it turned off. Having watched their president admit defeat, Mr and Mrs Sayeed were on their way to bed. They could count themselves happy with their day’s work as along with a million others, they had marched and they had won.

Blake felt a surge of resentment and brought his fist down hard on the iron rail. What on earth was he thinking of? Why should he feel envious? The Sayeeds were no more than simple shopkeepers – but he would give anything to be in their shoes right now. They’d helped to salvage their country from the grip of a dictator, while he had done nothing. Why had he not marched with them? It would have been easy enough – all he’d needed to do was step outside the downstairs door and he’d have been swept along with the tide. Instead of which, he’d chosen to stay put on his balcony and adopt his usual stance of observer.

It pained him to admit it, but the reason in his eyes was simple. However much he liked to think otherwise, he was not, and never could be, an Egyptian. He loved the country and he loved its people – but he was not one of them. He’d failed to understand their need for revolution and when Reda had outlined the reasons, he’d shied away from it. They were desperate for change, but he wanted things to stay as they were, the way he had always known them, the way the country he
called ‘his’ had always been. And yet it was no more ‘his’ country than it was Mubarak’s. What right did he have to dictate?

When he’d been in the company of the others, he’d prided himself on how ‘Egyptian’ he was and he’d despised them for their British ways. How shallow he had been! The fact was, they had more genuine ‘roots’ than he did. He’d chosen to abandon his – and the country he’d adopted had not adopted him. High up in the sky, the moon closed its face to him and disappeared behind a straggling cloud. His life was full of regrets, and for one intensely bitter moment he wished he’d never come to the place. He’d failed in his career as a diplomat and he’d chosen instead to write meaningless notes that would never be read in a dingy back office. He once might have thought himself in love, but had not had the courage to disclose his feelings. And now the country he professed to belong to had cried out for help and he’d been unable to give it.

Filled with remorse he took himself to bed, haunted by the fear that whatever else may have happened on his trip up the Nile, he remained as he’d always been, an outsider to the truth.

The following day brought a distinct change in sentiment. Mubarak’s concessions had split public opinion and there were those amongst the demonstrators who believed that with his agreement to step down, albeit later in the year, they should pack up and go home. They’d done enough, they said, to claim victory. But the hardliners were still sceptical. They didn’t trust the president’s words – they’d heard these kinds of promises before and saw them as a ploy to maintain the regime in power. Not only that but they’d sworn an oath to stay in Tahrir Square until he’d gone – and unless he did, they weren’t going to budge.

To reinforce his position, pro-Mubarak demonstrations were held in the morning. But when it became clear that the protestors weren’t going to give up their ground, plainclothes police and paid thugs were sent in to clear the square. By mid-afternoon things had turned ugly. The army had already announced that they’d stand aside and with this pledge not to intervene, violence broke out on a scale as yet unwitnessed. State-run television declined to show pictures but with every other network anxious to focus on the action, horrific scenes began to be relayed around the world. Mubarak had tried to suppress it but for anyone who cared to look, the evidence was there for all to see.

Blake watched avidly along with the rest. Just as Reda had been on his day of convalescence, he found himself addicted to the situation. He was not going to work, he’d lost interest in his bird report and he was affected by an overall feeling of pointlessness. With nothing else to distract him, it was easy to collapse into his wicker chair, switch on the TV, and let the images wash over him. Isolated and alone in his own front room, there was no obligation for him to respond.

The sudden introduction of the horses and the camels shocked him, but did not alter his underlying mood. Charging at
speed like cavalry, the distraught animals reared and plunged repeatedly while their riders whipped at the crowd. A surge of pro-Mubarak supporters pressed towards the square from Sharia Talaat Harb. The defenders retreated beneath a bombardment of stones, but later they regrouped. Sheltering beneath makeshift shields of corrugated iron and bits torn from wrecked cars, they pushed their assailants back.

The president’s men now sought to outflank the protestors and looked for a different point of attack. Moving westwards they turned their attention to the street outside the museum where a running battle began. There were soon reports of heavy casualties, looting and the destruction of antiquities. In a brief moment of madness, the country was turning in on itself.

This potential loss of history saddened Blake more than anything else. The Egyptians could find a new president, the streets could be swept clean and the concrete broken up for missiles repaired – but the past could not be replaced and all that made the country proud was being destroyed. It was this development, allied with the continual and sickening violence that persuaded him to turn the coverage off. Surely he could find better ways of spending his time than watching his beloved Egypt tear itself apart.

Outside the museum, gangs of shabab were pelting each other with stones. An ambulance was on the scene, doors open, loading a stretcher. The doors slammed shut and it roared off, lights flashing and siren blaring. Another casualty, another victim. He got up and approached the set with the firm intention of switching it off, but as he came closer his eye was drawn to a form in the background. The camera obligingly homed in and a familiar shape became apparent. There, in the thick of the battle was the unmistakable figure of Reda, directing and supporting those around him as they sought to protect their heritage.

In yet one more of his guises, he’d forsaken his suit and his peasant’s garb for the clothes of a streetwise youth. His
appearance was distinctly dishevelled. Bobbing and weaving to dodge the continuous stream of missiles with a skill that belied his portly frame, he cut a wild and romantic figure. What would Lee Yong think of him now? Blake wondered. Was this why he’d spurned her, so he could give himself to his country in this way?

And for that matter, what would she think of Blake, ensconced in the comfort of his apartment and content to merely observe, while those who dared decided the fate of a nation? It could only be contempt. The same cold pang of guilt ran through him that he’d felt before. Whatever else, he did not think of himself as a coward, and whether it was this, or the need to put an end to the overwhelming feeling of restlessness, or perhaps a combination of the two, but he knew the watching had to stop. If ever there was a time to act, this was surely it.

It did not take him as long to reach the museum as he’d thought. Normally he’d have walked it in half an hour but under the circumstances he thought it best to allow double. He envisaged the journey as though it were some vast reality computer game during the course of which he’d have to pass tests and gain certain objectives. At the same time he’d be subjected to attack from stones and missiles – or possibly bombs and bullets – and they would all take time to negotiate. As it turned out, there were definitely ‘events’ along the way, but they were not of the type he’d imagined.

He considered taking a weapon. It was ostensibly with the idea of defending himself (he’d no thought of committing violence) and spent five minutes searching the apartment for something suitable. He didn’t possess a golf club (unlike Carpenter who kept a full set hidden behind one of the filing cabinets in the office), nor did he have a hockey stick. The best he could come up with was a long-handled broom from the kitchen – too long as it happened, as it proved awkward to carry and looked rather foolish. There were knives in the drawer, but they
had a steely edge and purpose about them that turned his stomach and he didn’t fancy them at all. In the end he left it and decided that if necessary he’d pick up something en route.

The first obstacle he thought he’d have to surmount was the barricade at the end of the street. But when he got there he found it unmanned (the shabab had all gone to the square) and he was able to walk straight past it and out onto the Gala’a Bridge. Once beyond the safety of his neighbourhood, he felt as if he’d entered a no-man’s land where anything might happen, although Gezira was quiet and he was able to pass through unimpeded. It was at Tahrir Bridge where he imagined there might be trouble.

There were only so many bridges across the Nile and entry to the square from the west would depend on who controlled them. Later on, he discovered that immediately to the north, the 6
^th
October Bridge had been held by pro-Mubarak thugs, one of whom had gone berserk with a rifle. Four people had died and thirteen seriously injured. But Blake was lucky and there were no such disturbances on Tahrir. Part-way across, a group of a dozen or so lads passed by in the other direction, shouting and jeering. Whether they were pro-Mubarak or pro-change, he couldn’t tell – this was a war where none of the combatants wore uniforms. On the service road below, a burnt out CSF truck lay shattered in the dust, its twisted and blackened frame still smouldering.

At the entrance to the square he was halted by an army check- point. A group of soldiers were sitting on top of a tank, laughing and smoking. Some of them had taken off their forage caps and were persuading the local girls to try them on. As he approached, their corporal jumped down and insisted on stopping and searching him. He knew then that even if he’d found a weapon to bring, it would have been confiscated.

They let him pass and he entered Tahrir at what must have been a lull in proceedings. He’d expected to be joining a battle- field where he’d have to fight to get through, but what he found was merely the aftermath of one. Unlike the day before when the
square had been packed to capacity by a friendly crowd, large parts of it stood empty save for the random detritus of violence which lay scattered on the ground. Here were the same objects he’d seen in Aswan – rubble, bottles, discarded clothing – even down to the same forgotten shoe.

Any action taking place was now on the perimeter and from over to his left a section of the crowd began chanting –
Mubarak! Mubarak!
– inviting another section to respond –
Traitor! Traitor!
– all to the accompaniment of the thunderous clamour of sticks beaten onto pieces of corrugated sheeting. It ended with a great cheer, as if of victory, but was followed by an eerie silence broken only by the wail of an ambulance siren.

A small group of protestors suddenly rushed quickly by in front of him. Three young men were carrying a fourth who appeared to be unconscious with blood streaming down the side of his face. They hurried on, calling out as they went –
Make way! Make way! –
and headed towards the tented camp in the centre of the square. Momentarily disoriented and for want of a better direction, Blake fell in behind and followed them.

Yesterday the protestor’s camp had been decked out with banners. Today they’d all been taken down and the place had been transformed into a makeshift field hospital. In Aswan he’d seen just the one person wounded, propped up against a shop front in a side street. Here, they numbered a hundred or more. Scattered amongst the tents with no particular sense of order, some were lying down, some were standing up, some were being attended while some were still waiting for treatment. They were mostly bruised and cut but they all needed help.

He picked his way slowly through the confusion but found his route blocked. Immediately in front of him, a man sat cross-legged on the ground as a young girl in sunglasses and a leather jacket finished winding a bandage round his head. Caught in a moment of childlike fascination, Blake stopped to watch. The girl looked round at him.

“Are you injured?”

He shook his head.

“Then make yourself useful and take this.”

She held out the roll of bandages. Blake backed away and raised his hands to apologise.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m looking for someone.”

He’d willingly have helped her but he had other, more pressing, things to do – a man was waiting to be rescued and there was a soul to save. He moved on, anxious to reach the museum, and began to search round for Reda.

Blake had no idea of what he might say when they met. Since leaving the apartment he’d purposely not thought about it. Something at the back of his mind told him that if he started asking questions, doubts would creep in and his determination would falter.
I’m not sure what I’m doing
he’d told Carpenter when they’d been discussing Reda’s release.
But I’m going to do it anyway
. It was probably best to keep it that way now.

As to the cause he was fighting for, he hadn’t thought much about that either. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter whether it was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ – it was precisely these pros and cons that he wanted to avoid. What mattered was that there
was
a cause and that he’d committed himself to it. When he’d rescued Reda before, it had been for the sake of Lee Yong. Now it was not so much about saving the young Egyptian, but more about saving himself.

It was beginning to grow dark and the street lights in Mirit Barha had already come on. In the distance the facade of the museum shone dusky pink, while in front of it there were signs that the street fight was still raging. A crowd was milling round the entrance, there were shouts and cries and something went off with a
Bang!
He sensed that a line had been broken and a gang of people were running back down the street towards him. The
sight of this sudden retreat made his stomach churn, although it wasn’t fear that gripped him but rather the thought that he’d left it too late.

He reached the museum in time to see the crowd had melted away. Outside the entrance to his left, half hidden between the ornamental fishponds, were the remains of one of the barricades. Lying with his back to the shelter, hunched over his mobile phone as he tried to tap out a text, Reda was seeking refuge beneath a piece of corrugated sheeting.

When Blake had seen him on television he’d appeared inordinately active, but now he looked exhausted. His flabby cheeks were drawn, his face and clothes were streaked with dirt and a florid bruise was swelling up on his forearm. He looked up and saw Blake, then continued with his messaging. There was a flicker of recognition, but no expression of surprise – it was as though he’d been expecting him.

“You’d better get down, Mr Blake. There’ll be another shower of rocks any minute.”

Blake crouched beside him and instinctively covered his head as a volley of stones clattered against the sheeting. Reda hardly seemed to flinch.

“Damn it! No signal.” The young Egyptian shut down his mobile phone and shoved it into his pocket. “It’s been on and off all day.”

Further down the barricade, one of the young shabab lay in a similar position. The side of his face had been badly burnt. Reda glanced across and saw Blake looking.

“Oh yes, that’s their latest trick – Molotov cocktails. Sons of bitches! It’s Mubarak’s men – them and the plainclothes police. They’re pigs. We’ve been holding them off for almost eight hours. It’s been a long day, we’re tired and some of us are injured. They’ve got us bottled up I’m afraid, but we’re not going back. We can’t afford to lose this, Mr Blake. If we do, they’ll take the square – then our revolution will be over and you can come and
collect the body bags from the morgue in the morning.”

Blake shuddered. It was not an outcome he wanted to contemplate.

Head back down, Reda had resumed tapping at his phone.

“Lee Yong sent you, I take it?” he said almost casually, without looking up.

“No!” Blake refuted the idea. It was one that hadn’t occurred to him – although he could see why the young Egyptian should think it. “No, as a matter of fact, she didn’t. To tell you the truth, she doesn’t know anything about this.”

“Really? Then why have you come, Mr Blake?”

This was the question he’d deliberately avoided asking himself. In the face of the challenge, he cleared his throat exactly as the First Secretary would have done and mumbled an apologetic reply.