Birds of the Nile

by N E. David

  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 compa
rison) 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.

  A flabby paunch hung over the belt of his trousers – these policemen lived well. But unlike Mrs Biltmore (who was large for no discernible reason) he carried his weight with purpose as though he might at any moment use it to impose himself on others – big in character as well as in body, he dominated space rather than simply occupying it.

  He shortly reached through the rear window of his vehicle and brought out a loud-hailer of his own. Coals to Newcastle, thought Blake. And he was right, for whatever message the policeman sought to convey was hopelessly lost amidst the general cacophony of noise. The crowd were unimpressed and carried on chanting and if they understood a word of what he’d said they gave no sign. The policeman nonetheless insisted on finishing his address before climbing back into his car where he began shouting his commands into the mouthpiece of a two-way radio.

  Twenty minutes elapsed before the reinforcements he’d called for arrived. Blake guessed they were part-time volunteers and it would have taken them some time to assemble and equip themselves with the helmets, shields and batons with which they finally appeared. The police station (as he later discovered) was located half a mile away down Sharia Abtal, a turning off the square to their left, and the makeshift force had probably run all the way as they emerged into view at the trot. They formed up in the space between the cars and awaited their instructions.

  The fat policeman got out to welcome them. He’d swapped his megaphone for a swagger stick which he brandished like a fly swat, pointing firstly at his troops and then at the opposition. His thick lips worked furiously and Blake imagined the savage words of exhortation – had he been standing close enough he might have felt the spittle landing.

  The police chief gave a final flourish of his stick, then stepped aside and urged his men forward. They shuffled together to form a phalanx in front of the parked cars and on the command of their officer in charge they made their move. At neither a run nor a walk, but using the same steady trot with which they’d entered the square, they advanced toward the protestors in determined fashion.

  Their intention was probably to drive a wedge through the crowd, split it in two and gain access to the ringleaders on the steps of the Governorate. If so then it was doomed to failure – there were simply not enough of them to achieve their objective and their initial charge was met with stiff resistance and immediately petered out. The cry of Down with the police! rose up once again and the crowd began pushing back. Now it was the police who were under attack and they responded by raising their batons and raining down blows on those in front of them. The officer in charge soon became lost in the crush and without his orders, what had begun as an orderly advance deteriorated into a melee. Scuffles broke out as groups of police tried to bring the protestors under control. Sticks were wielded like baseball bats, striking at what they could find. Yielding under the pressure, sections of the crowd began to break off and rushed for the exits. On the steps of the Governorate, the protest’s leadership realised the game was up and abandoned their position, melting into the throng. At its edges the gathering was losing cohesion and like an old garment frayed at the hem, the protest was slowly unravelling.

  Trapped outside the shuttered frontage of the café, Blake and his party continued to fret. With the scene before them descending into chaos, it was now impossible to escape without becoming embroiled. Reda had still not signalled they should take action, although the calm that had earlier pervaded his face had turned to a worried frown. If things did not improve soon, thought Blake, the young Egyptian would have a lot to answer for.

  Out in the square, the gathering had finally fractured beneath the weight of the police reprisal. The general chanting had ceased, although here and there odd pockets of resistance carried on with their cries. Most were fleeing as best they could, running like mad to escape, then stopping occasionally to look back as if waiting for a friend before hurrying on.

  Figures rushed by on either side. Immediately to their right, two young men sprinted toward a side street. Suddenly one stumbled, his sandal stubbed against the kerb, and he sprawled across the pavement. His companion close behind fell straight on top of him and before they could scramble to their feet, the policeman pursuing them was upon them. Standing astride the pair lying prone beneath him, he raised his heavy baton and brought it crashing down. The figure on top lifted an arm to protect himself but the policeman sma
shed it aside and continued his beating. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, the figure below succeeded in dragging himself clear and continued his flight into the darkness.

  In front of the café there was a sharp intake of breath.

  “Good Lord,” said Keith, stiffening in his seat.

  “Oh my!” said Mrs Biltmore, speaking for the first time since the episode had begun.

  On the far side, Joan sucked hard on her latest cigarette while behind her, Janet finally let go of the frame of her chair – but only so that her hand could fly up to her face and cover her mouth. It was as well that she stifled her cry – no-one wanted to attract attention.

  There was a movement to Blake’s left. Lee Yong had instinctively grabbed hold of the sleeve of his linen jacket. She continued to stare straight ahead and with all her fortitude, it seemed that even she was not immune.

  While they were registering their shock, the fallen protestor managed to escape his assailant and staggered off into the night clutching his shattered arm. Elsewhere the action continued and they’d barely recovered their breath when a second and more telling incident demanded their attention.

  Another man was running from right to left in front of them. Older and smaller, he wore a dirty white galabeya and a traditional wound turban. He too tripped and fell, but before his pursuer could begin the inevitable beating, he rose to his knees and looked up, pressing his hands together in supplication. The officer stood over him, ready to strike, but the old man was saying something that stopped him, his mouth working furiously against the clamour. He began to look around in desperation, then his eyes alighted on the café and he turned toward it, pointing, There!

  A shiver of recognition descended Blake’s spine. The face that now looked in their direction was unmistakable. Old, wizened and with a straggly beard and blackened teeth, he remembered it from the meeting in the field the day before. Common amongst the rural poor, it was not the kind of face you could forget. Here too was the hazy figure he’d seen with Reda on the riverbank. Ancient Egypt was still alive and had come to betray them.