by N E. David
“Come on!” said Reda, and began to lead the way up toward the railway station.
The others fell in behind. They had dropped hands now and although there was no need, Blake held on for as long as he could.
At the top of the square, Reda brought them to a halt and pointed down a well-lit side street.
“This is Sharia Al-Souk – the way to the market. Look, you can see.” A little further down, a row of shops began. “This is good, you will be fine from now on. I have some business to attend to, but if you need me I will be here, in the House of Umm Kulthum.” He indicated a café on the corner to his right.
“I thought you said you were coming with us,” Joan chided him.
“Don’t look so scared!” Reda responded. “Stay together as a group and everything will be alright, I promise you. Enjoy.”
He turned and headed off in the other direction.
Sharia Al-Souk was a narrow thoroughfare, full of bright lights and packed with people. Eager for business, the local population was out in force for the evening and apart from the tourists, the crowd was predominantly men, mostly of African appearance. A long row of shops lined the way on either side, their contents spilling out onto the street. Intentionally or not, rails of dresses, shirts and garish tops barred the route. Here and there, outside the vegetable markets, hessian sacks bulged with assorted grains. Piled on top, both dried and fresh fruits were in abundance, and on every corner there was the musty tang of spices.
In the dimly lit backstreets Blake was aware that there were other, less-common goods on offer – gold, silver, ivory, the skins of rare animals and much to his disgust, even the feathers of exotic birds. But that was the way of it in this part of the world – men had been buying and selling their wares here for thousands of years. More likely than not, you could source whatever you wanted, and if you had the right money you could probably find someone who’d sell you a camel.
Keith resumed his position as leader and with Janet clutching one arm, used the other to ward off the constant attentions of the vendors. Close behind, Ira clung to Mrs Biltmore like a limpet sticking to a rock. This time Lee Yong hung well back – it was not the kind of place where women went out in front. Following after David and Joan, as if he were the tail guard of an army patrol, Blake brought up the rear.
Every so often, Sharia Al-Souk was bisected by a side street and at each crossing a gust of warm air wafted up from the Nile. Blake instinctively counted every intersection – in these places it was crucial to know where you were.
After they’d gone past three, the street closed down even further and with the thick crowd surrounding them, Blake began to feel hemmed in.
Joan had asked for a spice shop and they had started to look round when there was a sudden commotion in the street. A panic had set in amongst the traders and racks of goods were rapidly being removed from the pavements. A cry went up, swiftly followed by the blare of car horns from behind them as a cavalcade of vehicles approached down the narrow thoroughfare. Preceded by a pair of motorcycles, three white unmarked cars rumbled forward. In the back seats, men in brown uniforms peered out in disapproval at the crowd. The police were doing their nightly round.
This unlooked-for intervention caught everyone by surprise. Confused by the general hubbub, the group split up to let the cars pass. Janet, Keith, Mrs Biltmore and Ira took to one side with Blake while David, Joan and Lee Yong went over to the other. The cavalcade came to a halt beside them, horns still blaring. Further on, some unfortunate beggar had blocked their path and was hurriedly removed. Pandemonium ensued. There were several blasts on a whistle, then the road cleared leaving Keith and his party alone. Across the street, there was no sign of the other group.
In a moment of panic, Blake took control. On their immediate right was a spice shop, probably the one they’d been searching for. It looked like a suitable refuge. He pointed toward it.
“You go in there – I’ll go and find the others. If all else fails, I’ll see you back at the ship.”
Keith nodded and led his charges inside.
Blake turned and set off in the direction from which they’d arrived.
The police cars had moved on, their tail-lights blinking in the dark. The atmosphere was calmer now and there was a sense that things were returning to normal. He soon found David and Joan happily poking about amongst the recently restored rails of dresses and cotton shirts. Had they seen Lee Yong? No, they had not. This disconcerting news left him in a quandary and he wondered whether he should retrace his steps to the spice shop or continue his search. Lee Yong was self-reliant, but an overwhelming sense of responsibility was weighing down on him. If anything should happen, he would never forgive himself.
Then a thought occurred, and with some sense of purpose he headed back toward the House of Umm Kulthum.
The café of Umm Kulthum was not one of Egypt’s best. It presented a rather rundown appearance and standing on the corner overlooking the well-kept square, it looked distinctly out of place. It had no frontage to speak of but gave out directly onto the street, the neon-lit Coke sign above its open entrance in need of repair and flashing intermittently. Inside, there was just enough light to make out a row of pinball machines at the back. Punctuated by their continual pinging, the piped music of Umm Kulthum herself floated out into the warm evening air. It was the same mellifluous voice that Blake had heard at the Egyptian evening.
As he’d suspected, Reda and Lee Yong were sitting at an outside table. After his efforts the previous day when he’d struggled to find them within a hundred yards of each other, here they were together at last, in plain view. They seemed casual enough, and if they were ‘an item’ then they’d either decided not to make a secret of it, or they were oblivious to all concerned.
Reda was smoking a water-pipe, and every so often took a puff, blowing out the sweet smell of applewood. On the table in front of him stood a glass of karkaday he occasionally sipped at. He’d obviously failed to persuade Lee Yong to try something as traditional as she’d opted for the more familiar taste of latte.
She seemed relaxed in Reda’s company. When she’d become detached from the group perhaps she’d simply headed for the rendezvous Reda had nominated – although it struck Blake that their meeting was no accident and that after the incident in the souk she’d taken the first opportunity to seek him out.
He approached their table.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“Please do.” It was Reda who responded. “Take a seat, Mr Blake. Have you had enough of shopping already?”
Blake shrugged. It had never been his intention to go shopping – he’d merely gone along for the ride. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all. We were just talking about America.”
Blake wondered whether he meant geographically, politically, or as a tourist destination. He searched their faces for clues but came up with a blank.
“But I’m forgetting my manners,” continued Reda. “May I get you something to drink?” He hailed a passing waiter.
“Mint tea will be fine. And why don’t you call me Michael?” Being continually addressed as ‘Mr Blake’ was beginning to wear a bit thin.
Just at that moment the piped music flared up again and his comment was lost beneath the wailing words of Umm Kulthum.
“You were saying,” he resumed, “about America?”
“I was just telling Reda…” Lee Yong broke in.
“…about your plans to study?”
“Exactly.”
Blake had heard them before, but he was keen to encourage Lee Yong to talk. Reda didn’t eat at the same table and all this might be news to him. She leant forward and stirred aimlessly at her latte.
“Although I’m not sure I’ve been able to convince him of the benefits of it. He thinks it’s – what do you British call it? Pie in the sky? Anyway, he says I’m fooling myself. But I’m absolutely determined, Mr
Blake. I will do it.”
Given what he’d seen up to now, Blake had no doubt of it.
“I’ve been trying to persuade him, but he won’t have it. Perhaps you can make him see sense.”
It was no surprise to Blake to discover that they disagreed on the matter. Reda would have his views and he already knew Lee Yong to be strong-willed. He doubted that she needed an ally, but if so he was only too willing.
“After what you told me the other day, Reda, I’m at a loss to understand. I’d have thought you’d have jumped at the chance of becoming an educated man.”
There was a hint of irony – he was an educated man himself but he’d never thought of it as doing him any good.
“As I told you the other day, Mr Blake, my father wanted me to go to Oxford. But America? That is a totally different matter. He would be horrified.”
“Why? What’s wrong with America? Don’t you like Americans?”
“I don’t trust them, Mr Blake. Nobody in the Middle East trusts the Americans.”
“What? Not even the Israelis?”
“Especially the Israelis, they above all people. At least we Arabs know where we stand. Whatever the Americans may say, they will always let us down – they never have been on our side and they never will be. But they give the Israelis hope, Mr Blake, and that is a very dangerous thing. If it wasn’t for that, perhaps we wouldn’t have half the trouble that we do.”
There was an element of bias in what he said, but it was still a serious point. Reda was a serious young man. He’d previously talked of philosophy, today it was international relations. Strictly speaking, this was Blake’s territory and yet it was he who was being given the lesson. Although Reda was absolutely right – and in the murky pool of Middle Eastern relations it often took the youngest eyes to see the most clearly. Had he thought this out for himself? Or was it something he’d gleaned from his illicit website?
“Oh, and where did you come across that piece of ideology?”
“Don’t worry, Mr Blake.” Reda drew deeply on his water-pipe. “I’m not one of your fundamentalists. I’ve been taught, not indoctrinated. I may have my views but they’re very much my own – and whatever I believe in, I do so out of my own free will.”
This admission came as a relief to Blake – the danger of brainwashed extremism had been a worry. He glanced across at Lee Yong to gauge her reaction.
So far she had taken little part in the conversation and seemed disinterested, her cup of latte remaining untouched on the table in front of her. He began to wonder how much she knew and whether Reda’s political activities were as much news to her as her plans to study were to Reda. She looked up and caught his eye.
“Oh, don’t look at me, Mr Blake – politics doesn’t interest me in the slightest. I have no desire to change the world – merely to explore it. It’s Reda who has other ideas.”
Blake looked back at the young Egyptian.
“You see, I’ve already been to college,” said Reda.
“Oh, where?”
“In Cairo.”
“Really? And what did you study?”
“Politics, History and Economics. Everything you need to become a tour guide.”
“But don’t you wish for something more than that?”
“Yes, perhaps.” Reda shrugged his shoulders. “But where I come from we have a saying.” Here, he turned to face Lee Yong as if his remark was addressed to her. “‘Happy is the traveller who knows where to stop’. Do you not say something similar in your country?”
Blake shook his head – if they did, he was not aware of it.
“You see,” continued Reda, “I count myself a lucky man, Mr Blake. I am exempt from National Service, and unlike those poor fellows who escorted the bus to Edfu today or sit in watchtowers twelve hours a day guarding pieces of empty desert, I get to do something I actually enjoy. The history of my country is a precious thing, Mr Blake, and I would much prefer to guard that.”
“You’re exempt? How so?”
The requirements for Egyptian National Service were stringent. If Reda had escaped them, then he was indeed a lucky man.
“When my father died, I registered myself to look after my mother. She is not in the best of health and she needs my support. I do what I can, although I don’t earn a great salary. I had started to save, but…” He shrugged his shoulders again. “That is the will of Allah and I must obey it.”
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.
Chapter Seventeen
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 Governorat
e 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!
