by N E. David
“Excuse me…Tarek…Where…?”
The girl with the sunglasses and leather jacket was hard at work applying more bandages. Another stained and bloodied head lolled beneath her nimble fingers. She didn’t look up, preferring to shrug instead.
“Tarek? Who is Tarek? I don’t know Tarek. You’d better ask someone else. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
After his earlier refusal to help, Blake couldn’t expect much more. He heaved himself upright and moved on.
Another tent, another girl, another invalid. And no, she didn’t know Tarek either – but this time the invalid did. With one arm strapped across his chest (it jutted awkwardly as if it had been broken above the elbow) he pointed with the other. Some twenty yards off, gathered round the base of some stone steps, sat a group of eight or so shabab. Most were smoking and busy checking their mobile phones. Unsure if they were ‘on duty’ or not, Blake tentatively approached.
Sure, they knew Tarek. But he wasn’t there. There was trouble at the 6th October Bridge – someone was throwing concrete blocks onto the protestors below and he’d gone off with another group to sort it out. If Blake wanted, they could show him the way.
Blake shook his head. It was too far off – further even than Reda’s position. He’d come from the museum, he told them. There was trouble there too.
They nodded. Yes, they’d already heard. There was trouble everywhere.
Blake tried another tack. Did they know Reda?
There was a pause while they looked round at each other. Then one of them, a tall youth with fancy sideburns, randomly stubbed out his cigarette so he could speak.
“Reda? Reda who?”
“Reda Eldasouky.”
Another pause, then a voice from the back.
“Reda Eldasouky? Yes, he’s a friend of my cousin’s…”
And one by one they slowly hauled themselves to their feet.
The tall youth with the sideburns introduced himself as Khaled.
“These are my brothers,” he said, jerking his thumb at the rest of his gang. Blake assumed he meant comrades – there were too many to be family. “We’re from Mohandiseen. And you?”
“I’m Michael,” said Blake. “From Dokki.”
There was a grudging nod of respect.
“The same side of the river then…” Khaled extended a hand and they shook as if there were a pact between them. “So, do you want to show us where we’re going?”
“Follow me,” said Blake.
The running was easier on the way back. His breath came more readily – although whether this was because of the practice he’d had or the adrenalin flowing through him, he didn’t stop to think. He’d set off almost at once and the group fell in behind but he used a slower pace to ensure they kept together. They’d hardly gone a few yards when Khaled touched him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.
“Here, Michael. Why don’t you take this?”
He’d been carrying a flag slanted jauntily over his shoulder and he thrust it into Blake’s hands. It felt awkward and at first it held Blake back – but once he’d got used to the heft of it and raised it aloft, the red white and black bands streamed out easily behind him. It was a symbol, an icon, and drew others in like a magnet.
At the exit from the square they passed another group of shabab, lounging around one of the wrecked cars.
“Hey! Khaled!” they shouted. “Where are you going?”
“The museum!” Khaled called back. “We’re going to save the museum! Why don’t you come with us?”
He waved his hand, pointing forward and inviting them to follow him.
“We’re with you!” they chorused and got up to tag along.
Soon, another group joined them, then another, and in a matter of minutes they were twenty, thirty strong. Now it was Blake who took up the cry.
“The museum!” he shouted. “We’re going to save the museum!”
They left the square and headed up Mirit Barha. In the distance, the dusky pink facade of the museum still shone out like a beacon, drawing them on. They were all shouting now, surging up the street in a mass. Blake took the lead, a tidal wave of voices rising behind him and pushing him forwards. He raised the flag higher and began to run that bit faster. His blood ran faster too and he was filled with an intense feeling of exhilaration. It seemed to lift him up so that all he had to do was raise his feet from the ground and he would fly. He’d never felt quite so alive.
“The museum!” he cried. “The museum! We’re going to save the museum!”
We are all Egyptians now…
Then, suddenly, he was flying as his feet momentarily left the ground. Suspended in mid-air, he flailed like a long-jumper and the flag he’d so proudly been carrying was ripped from his grasp. He stretched out to save it but it was too late, the red, white and black bands streaming into the distance. He crashed to the ground, his left shoulder crumbling beneath him. Sprawling forwards, he fell face down, his cheek tight to the tarmac.
For a moment he lay motionless, half dazed by the collision. While he’d been racing forward, a large and heavy object had careered into him unseen from the right and sent him tumbling. He struggled for air, the breath he’d done so well to conserve knocked clean out of his body. He gulped in, then, as the panting ceased, the stabbing pain in his shoulder shot through him and forced him fully into consciousness.
Everything was now in confusion. Odd pairs of feet, some in boots, some not, ran back and forth before his eyes. Behind him, the chanting had stopped, replaced by the violent yells of a street fight as thugs and protestors engaged. He could hear sticks clashing, batons being rapped on shields and the intermittent crackle of what he thought must be gunfire. Shortly, there was another huge Bang! and somewhere off to his left, someone let out a scream. And everywhere the air was filled with the acrid smell of smoke and burning cordite and the high-pitched cries of frightened horses.
He raised his head to look up from the tarmac. He was facing toward Sharia Champollion. Out of the side street, a group of Mubarak supporters had mounted a cavalry charge and the area in front of him was a melee of men and animals. The particular horse and rider he’d so spectacularly failed to see was still towering over him, its flanks dark and heavy as he lay prostrate beneath it. Its eyes wide and white with fear, the massive beast reared up and pawed the air in front of him, neighing loudly.
Then, all sound was turned off, muted, save for a tinny clatter audible even above the tumult. And as if from out of nowhere, a little metal canister rolled slowly toward him from beneath the belly of the horse. No bigger than a coke can, it came to an ominous halt and settled in front of his face, so close that he could read the signage. The message it carried –Danger! Made in the USA – stared back at him. Hissing like a venomous snake, it began to emit a thick grey smoke and for one brief but transparent moment he knew that he should move.
But he could not and suddenly the world exploded with a terrifying clap of thunder, there was a flash like lightning and his eyes were seared with a fearful pain. He tried to open them again but everything had gone black.
Chapter Thirty-four
During the course of the months to follow, Blake learnt as much about himself as he did about his medical condition. His state of physical health was actually easier to deal with as his medical problems were readily diagnosed. He’d dislocated his shoulder and he’d been blinded. The one was repairable, the other was not – it was as simple as that, there were no grey areas. It was the mental effects of his blindness and the problems it gave rise to which were more difficult to handle.
“How will I cope?” he’d asked Dr Aziz.
The doctor was peculiarly philosophical.
“You’ll find that blindness is both a curse and a blessing,” he said. “Before it came to you, all you did was look out. Now you will look in, and you will discover far more of yourself than you did when you could see. Learn to embrace it, Mr Blake, and it will be of enormous benefit to you.”
&nbs
p; The statement puzzled him, but in time he was to find it was true and as his strange new world opened up to him, he began to understand much more, not just about himself but also about the rest of mankind. At last he started to realise why he’d stayed in Egypt, why he hated the Diplomatic Service, why he’d never married – and why he so loved birds.
It had begun immediately after what he called ‘the accident’. As the battle raged around him he’d lain for a while, semi-conscious, and his first recollection was of being moved onto a stretcher, the stabbing pain in his shoulder jerking him rudely awake. Later, as he forced himself to focus in on it to try and bring back the moment, he recalled the dry dusty smell of canvas and, at his side, the cool touch of polished wood.
They must have taken him back to the camp because rather than load him straight into an ambulance, he was physically carried some distance. He remembered that well enough, the bouncing ride performed at the trot, his unhinged shoulder flapping from side to side in agony. When they mercifully came to a halt, he was raised up and taken to a chair where he imagined himself seated as if in a barber’s shop. Someone was talking behind him, then a woman approached (he could tell by her scent) and she began to apply first aid. As his head was being bandaged, just as he’d seen done before, he reached out for her arm and felt her sleeve between his fingers. And yes, it was a leather jacket she was wearing.
“Are you…?” he asked.
Although as soon as she replied, “Am I what?” her voice told him it was not the same girl he’d met earlier.
And all the time he kept telling himself I will get through this. Don’t panic and it will be alright.
The hospital was packed – he was not the only person injured in Cairo that day – and the entrance lobby was full of the whine of sirens and gabbling voices. He’d imagined he’d be met by the pine-fresh scent of disinfectant, but it was the warm and overbearing smell of his fellow human beings that greeted him. He lay on a trolley and there was a sense of being hemmed in (he thought he might be queued in a corridor) but he was happy to wait, quietly stretched out, breathing deeply. His instincts told him he was badly hurt and he was ready to submit himself to whatever might be needed.
Later on, after his initial treatment, as he lay motionless on his ward bed with his head neatly swathed and his re-set arm strapped to his chest, he was asked for a point of contact. Was there family, a next of kin, someone they should inform? No, he said, there was not – but then he thought how sad that sounded and told them he’d be grateful if they’d tell the British Embassy.
But as soon as he’d let the words slip out, he regretted it. An image had formed in his mind of Carpenter turning up with fruit and flowers in his typically puppy-dog fashion. He was the closest thing he had to a friend but at the moment it would be more than he could bear. Instead of which, it was the First Secretary who arrived out of the blue two days later. He bore no such gifts or blandishments and other than a brief statement of condolence, he was brutally matter-of-fact.
“We found your name on the hospital list yesterday and I thought there can’t be more than one Michael Blake in Cairo for this to be a coincidence, so I came as soon as I could.”
Bandaged up and blinded as he was, Blake could tell there was an air of contrition about his visit. Guilt was a powerful motivating force – as he knew only too well. If only they’d read his memo, he thought, if only they’d acted sooner. It was too late now of course, and all that was left for the First Secretary to do was come and commiserate.
“Are you still planning to leave?” Blake asked. The last he’d heard from Carpenter they were on the verge of departing.
“No,” the First Secretary replied. “The evacuation procedure was purely precautionary. For the time being we’re staying put – although we’re obviously ready to go at a moment’s notice. Between you and me,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “HMG is still unsure as to who to support. Mubarak’s position is getting weaker by the day but there’s no clearly defined opposition. I mean, who are we supposed to talk to? The Brotherhood are still persona non grata, so that’s out of the question – publicly, at least, although I believe that privately…” The First Secretary faltered, conscious that in his desire to appease, he was giving too much away. He abruptly changed tack and returned to his original intent. “Well, I’m sorry to see you this way, Blake. If there’s anything we can do…Is there anyone back home, in England?”
Blake shook his head – but the First Secretary had known it was a futile question.
“Hmm…Well the good news is I’ve been able to arrange a private room for you. We like to look after our own in the Diplomatic Service, you know. You don’t really want to stay here…” Blake imagined him looking scathingly round the ward. “We’ll get you somewhere nice, somewhere away from all this.”
Blake’s heart sank. The First Secretary didn’t understand. He didn’t want to be on his own – at this time of crisis he was happy to be in the company of his fellow Egyptians.
It was another week before his bandages could be removed. Time was required for his injuries to heal and for things to settle down before he could be looked at. He was not in any hurry. He was not going anywhere (the keys to his flat were in the drawer next to his bed) and he’d come to think of his coverings as a comfort rather than an inconvenience. It was as if they were a barrier that shielded him from reality and the cruelty and injustice of the world. As long as they stayed on, he felt safe.
They came off on the day Mubarak resigned. While he’d been in hospital he’d kept up to date with affairs by means of a portable radio. There was no TV on the ward and hence no access to news so he’d asked the nursing staff to go out and buy him something (there was plenty of money in his wallet and he told them to take what they needed). They’d returned with a small wooden box fitted with a row of knobs and switches and he’d set himself the mental task of discovering how it worked. Soon, he’d taught himself to turn it on and tune it to the BBC so he could profitably occupy his time.
On the day in question, after it had become clear as to what was happening, he’d switched it off to listen to the reaction of his fellow patients. There’d been cheering and applause and in this newfound spirit of joy and conciliation, the nursing staff visited him and made their proposition.
“Ah, Mr Blake. Let’s get these bandages off so we can have a look at you.”
Up until then he’d have resisted the idea, but now he was happy to let go and allow them to do their work. It was as though he’d waited for that specific moment when he could open his eyes on a different world and see the new Egypt in all its glory.
But his eyes could not open, they remained intractably shut and instead of being bathed in the light of the country’s new dawn, his new world was a dark and impenetrable place. The longer he’d been swathed up, the more he’d begun to feel he might recover and that he would see again. With his bandages on, there had been hope – once they were off, there was none. It was a shock and for the first time in his life he understood the meaning of the words ’blind panic’.
It was as well this coincided with him meeting Dr Aziz. The consultant who’d been assigned to treat him was a renowned eye surgeon but he also liked to think of himself as a practitioner of mental health and occupational therapy.
“I’m here to help you see,” he said, “with or without your eyesight. Vision is only one way of interpreting the world – there are many others. Here, let me show you what I mean.” He thrust his hand into Blake’s. “Now, tell me, what do you see?”
Blake thought it a pretty foolish question.
“Nothing,” he replied, dejectedly.
“What? Nothing at all? You cannot mean to tell me there is not some image or another formed in your mind – what is it?”
“Well, yes, obviously – a hand, I suppose,” he grudgingly admitted.
“Good! That’s a start. And what kind of a hand is it that you can see?”
Blake felt the long smooth f
ingers and there was a warmth about the palm. He desperately wanted to believe it was the hand of a skilled surgeon and a kind and caring man. He passed on his hoped-for description.
“Excellent! Well done! I can tell that you and I are going to get on famously together. Work with me, Mr Blake, and we will achieve miracles.” It was the first of a number of sessions that Dr Aziz was to have with him on the art of seeing without sight. In the beginning he thought them puerile and gimmicky, but after a while they started to have an effect and he began to feel more confident about himself and his surroundings. The experience taught him a valuable lesson. Perhaps his life had not come to an end. Perhaps there was a point after all.
His first task was to familiarise himself with his hospital bed and to learn how to get in and out of it unaided. Then he set about conquering the ward and was soon able to walk smartly from one end to the other without clattering into some obstacle. With practice, the combination of these techniques allowed him to visit the toilet without help, a feat that some of his fellow patients couldn’t perform even though they were sighted.
For a blind man these were great triumphs – but they bred an unwarranted sense of faith in his own abilities. On the day he was discharged, he was escorted back to his flat. He’d been given a thin white cane to tap about but once left alone, he thought himself familiar enough with the place to dispense with it and tried to move around with the same confidence he’d had on the ward. He immediately tripped over some forgotten object and fell heavily, cracking open his shin. He cried out, in shock as much as in pain, and as he lay face downwards, blood seeping from his wound, he found himself gripping the cracks in his wooden floor with his fingertips. Moving his hands from side to side, he discovered that the boards were tightened down with square-headed nails. It was a feature he’d never noticed before.
