Birds of the Nile (29 page)

Blake shifted in his seat and its reassuring creak reminded him of his whereabouts – mid-morning, his flat, Cairo. He’d been away on a nostalgic mental journey through the backstreets of his memory but now he’d returned to his old familiar surroundings – the wicker chairs, the table, the solid presence, somewhere close by, of bed and bookcase.

The light, that vague shadow he could sense but could not see, and which had begun the day as no more than a glimmer behind the minarets in the eastern sky, would now be a bright white shaft searing into the room through the open shutters. For the past hour he’d felt the warmth of it, stealing across his sandaled feet then hot through the thin fabric of his linen trousers until at last it had reached the hands he clasped together on his lap. He’d opened his palms to greet it, as if he’d been waiting for the moment when he could gather up the weight of sunshine and bathe his face in it. Sometimes, it was all he needed to survive…

Outside in the street, the early morning cries of the vendors had abated while in the background, the roar of occasional traffic had turned to a steady drone. Somewhere in the distance, masked by the cooing of the Palm Doves and the chirruping of sparrows, he thought he could hear a bulbul calling. Before long there would be the click of a nearby door as Mrs Ibrahim left her flat to go out to Mr Sayeed’s for groceries.

He’d habitually track her progress, marking the clump of her feet as she went down the stairs then exchanged greetings with Abdu. Across the road, Mr Sayeed would doubtless be sweeping his pavement and keeping the new Egypt clean. He’d listen to them talking.

“Good day to you, Mrs Ibrahim.”

“And good day to you, Mr Sayeed.”

“May Allah keep you well.”

“And you, Mr Sayeed…”

It would not be long before his visitor arrived. But today there would be no ritual arrangement of spirit glasses and the soda siphon – it wasn’t Carpenter he was expecting. His calls had become less frequent and although still regular, they were confined to a Friday afternoon, usually at the end of the month. Today was Tuesday – and that meant someone else.

Well, goodbye Mr Blake – and thank you
.

Were those really the last words she’d said to him? How he’d clung to them! There’d barely been a day gone by in the last twelve months when he hadn’t thought of them. It was as if by bringing them to mind he could somehow bring her back too.

Well, goodbye Mr Blake – and thank you
.

Thank you? What on earth for? He’d done nothing, he’d failed, he’d let her down and yet she’d insisted on showing her gratitude. Did she realise that by doing so her remarks had given him hope? Or was he reading too much into it?

But still he’d done nothing about it. Despite his failure to take her details at the airport, she’d still have been easy to find. Somewhere there was a passenger list and even if that hadn’t proved fruitful, he could always have found Mrs Biltmore and he was sure she’d have provided a contact. The Biltmores of Baltimore – they’d made a boast of it, there surely couldn’t be too many of them, they would have been easy to trace. And then, all he’d have needed to do was ask.

Instead of which, it had been her who had contacted him. It had been over a year and he’d still not plucked up the courage, when one day he’d heard the telephone ringing. He’d been in the kitchen preparing a simple lunch and had hurried to pick up. He didn’t get many phone calls these days.

“Is that Michael Blake?”

“Yes…” he’d answered tentatively.

“The Michael Blake that used to work at the British Embassy?”

“Why, yes. Who is it calling?”

“I don’t know whether you remember me but we met on the Nile cruise last January. It’s Lee Yong.” His grip on the receiver had instantly tightened. How could he forget? And yet he hadn’t recognised her voice – somehow she sounded different on the phone. “I was wondering if I could come and see you.”

She didn’t know it at the time, but there was nothing in the world he’d have liked more.

“Why yes, of course…”

And so it had all begun.

At first he didn’t understood why. She’d travelled halfway round the world to be there and he was not so vain as to think it was purely for his sake – there must be some other reason. When it had dawned on him, when it had become obvious as to the purpose of her visits, he’d not tried to resist it or push it away, but had sought to help her as much as he could as if there were still time to make amends. Although now it was no longer guilt that moved him – the fact that she’d returned was forgiveness enough – and he did what he did out of friendship rather than contrition. What made it doubly rewarding was that what he gave out was as readily given back as when, like today, she’d come and make her report. Although given his involvement he could hardly describe himself as a disinterested party…

The scuff of familiar footsteps ascending the wooden stairs alerted him, then came the knock he’d been waiting for. He’d no need to ask the identity of his caller – the tramp of her feet was sufficient.

“Come…”

There was the scrape of the latch lifting (he’d shown her how to open the door without the need of a key) and he could tell that she’d entered the room.

When she’d first visited him, he’d expected the click of her Cuban heels but he’d been disappointed. It seemed that they’d gone, replaced by the tread of soft-soled shoes. The jeans must
have gone too as there was often the swish of a dress. It was as if her clothing had mellowed along with her mood. She’d left the airport dressed severely, hardened against the world. But the last twelve months had chastened her and she’d become thoughtful and subdued as if the anger she’d felt had gradually burnt itself out. He sensed there was a sadness about her now and he imagined it was reflected in her appearance. As she approached, it was the faint smell of scented soap rather than the sharp tang of perfume that accompanied her.

“Good morning, Michael.”

“Good morning…”

It had become their regular greeting. It had taken a while, but at last she’d dropped the formality of addressing him as ‘Mr Blake’. How things had changed since they’d first met!

“I passed your neighbour on the stairs.”

“Mrs Ibrahim?”

Shrouded deep in thought, he must have missed her leaving.

“Is that her name?”

“I think so…Funnily enough, we’ve never met.” Prior to his ‘accident’, he’d always been at work and there’d been no contact – and yet he knew more about her now than any introduction could provide. Later on, around 3pm, the car carrying her ‘escort’ would arrive, the low rumble of its engine filling the street. “I’ve often wondered what she looks like – do tell me.”

“Ooh, let me see…Middle-aged, dark hair, short – a little on the stout side perhaps…”

Just as he’d always thought.

“So, any news?”

“No, I’m afraid not…”

“You’ve checked the hospitals again, I take it?”

He’d given her a list and suggested she visit them all in person – it was no use trying to telephone.

“Yes, I’ve been to every one. They’ve no record of any admission.”

Blake was not surprised. In the aftermath of the battles of Bloody Wednesday, with the corridors full and the staff overrun, who was going to stop to fill in paperwork? You were lucky to get treatment, never mind documentation.

“I’ve asked around the nurses as well but they’ve no recollection of the name.”

That was more of a disappointment. But it was equally understandable – the casualties must have been in their hundreds. All the same, it was frustrating. A month gone by and still no trace.

The closest they’d come had been via the tour company, Worldwide Travel. Yes, Reda Eldasouky had been one of their guides, but after his imprisonment in Aswan they’d heard nothing further from him and he’d been taken off their list. However, they’d retained a last known address for the purpose of correspondence, a flat in the district of Masr Al-Qadima. Lee Yong had immediately gone there but had found the place empty. She’d enquired amongst the neighbours and had been told that a Mrs Eldasouky, an elderly lady, had lived there but that she’d passed away. They assumed it must have been his mother – but of the son there was no sign.

How could someone disappear so easily? Even in Egypt where records were at best spasmodic and at worst false, there should have been some form of evidence of Reda’s whereabouts. But there was none. Was it deliberate on his part? Or was it something more sinister? Perhaps Hossein Rasheed had finally caught up with him. In the cheerless cells of Al-Fayoum, hundreds lay rotting – was Reda somewhere amongst them?

In an attempt to find out and put an end to the speculation, he’d once more called on Carpenter. He’d honoured his debt by means of a case of six Glenfiddich he’d ordered through Mr Sayeed, and was now, he reckoned, two bottles to the good. But this particular line of credit was running out and the longer he was away from the Embassy, the less effective it had become. The cuts which had seen off Blake had gone even deeper and
Carpenter had become protective of his position and not so amenable to favours. Not only that, but their source of information had dried up as the police closed ranks under the pressure of public acrimony and nothing was forthcoming. The ‘missing’ were, by definition, ‘missing’ and that was how it would remain. And with that avenue closed to them, they’d exhausted almost every possibility. All that was left was the morgue – and Blake had decided not to go there.

“So what will you do now?”

For the moment he’d run out of suggestions.

“I don’t know – keep looking I suppose. I can always try again tomorrow. Maybe I should go back to some of the private clinics.”

They’d been down that road before but it had yielded no positive results.

“Hmm…It’s a possibility – but I don’t think you’ll have much success.”

“Perhaps not…”

He sensed that she’d wandered off across the room and in his mind’s eye he could see her standing at the bookcase. The bird guide must have been in its usual spot (in fact he’d made sure of it an hour or so before her arrival) as she immediately selected a volume and took up her seat in the wicker chair next to his. Then he could hear her, riffling through the pages.

“Now, where were we?”

She found her place and was about to begin reading when he stretched out a hand and placed it unerringly on hers.

“Wait.”

He was not quite ready – there was a question he’d been meaning to ask for a while but had not yet dared put. Now seemed a suitable time.

“You were in love with him, weren’t you?”

And as soon as he managed to get it out he realised how accusatory it sounded, as though he were a barrister in a court of
law.

“Who?”

“Reda.”

Who else did she think that he meant?

“No!” Her first form of defence was a vehement denial. Then, like a witness who had relented under questioning, “Yes…I suppose I must have been…”

The sudden introduction of the subject had confused her and he felt the muscles in her hand tighten. Had she blushed? Even if he could see, it might have been hard to tell.

“And now?”

“Yes, still, even more perhaps…”

With the matter out in the open, her confession was all the easier.

“But what if he’s not here?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if he’s gone to England, to study? You know his father always wanted him to go to Oxford. What if he’s gone there? Would you follow him?”

There was a pause as she weighed out her answer. Then, when it came, her reply was delivered slowly.

“Yes, Mr Blake, I believe I would…”

In the heat of the moment he noticed that she’d reverted to her old form of address. It was as if the work of weeks had been undone at a single stroke.

She withdrew her hand, rose from her wicker chair and went over to stand by the window. And if ever there was a time when Blake wanted to recover his sight – and over the past year there had been many – it would have been now above all. To have seen her as she must have been at that moment, leaning against the open shutters and looking down onto the street he knew so well, would have meant everything.

“But I don’t think he has.” He sensed that she was shaking her head. “I don’t think Reda would ever leave the country – if he
wouldn’t come with me to America, why would he go to England? It doesn’t make sense. No, I’m sure he’s still here, hiding out somewhere.”

“And if you can’t find him? What will you do then? Go back to America?”

“To be honest, no, I’m not sure that I will.” There was another thoughtful pause. “You see, Reda was right.”

“In what way?”

“We talked about it a lot before I left. He said I was deluding myself. He said America was a fool’s paradise – it promised much but would deliver little. And anyway, we were supposed to be in love and with what we had, we didn’t need to go to America. Why take the risk? But I come from what is essentially a poor country. I wanted a New World but the truth was there to be found in the Old, if I’d only looked for it. And Reda already knew that – more than anyone in fact.”

“So are you saying it wasn’t what you expected?”

“Yes and no. America is a land of opportunity, it’s true, and the American Dream is still very much alive. There’s fame and fortune to be had for those who want it – and are lucky enough to find it. But that wasn’t really for me. I already had money – that wasn’t why I went there. I was looking for something else and I didn’t find it. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I was made very welcome in America. Baltimore is a wonderful city and Mrs Biltmore is a wonderful person – and Ira too, once you get to know him. But the thing is, you get the feeling everyone’s trying to make a fast buck and as soon as you pull aside that materialistic curtain, there’s nothing behind it. America has no soul, Mr Blake, that’s the problem.”

Soul? What was soul? For many years Blake had wondered whether such a thing existed, and it was only since he’d been blind that he’d truly found out. For Lee Yong to expect it so early in life was unreasonable.

“That’s all very well, but look what it could give you. The
qualifications you could get would be worth something alone. Surely you can see that?”