Birds of the Nile (3 page)

On reflection, he would still not have attended – and it was not sour grapes that made him think so. The prospect of saying goodbye so many times over was unappealing and he had no intention of becoming the object of disdainful comment.

Well, well, look who’s here. And I thought they’d given Blake the bullet…

So instead, he moped about his apartment for the best part of
a month, feeling aggrieved at his enforced condition of idleness. Finally, almost in a fit of pique, he decided to book himself a holiday and found a place on a cruise ship going up the Nile.

It was a journey he’d been intending to take for some time. He’d already visited most of the other bird-watching sites in the country – Lake Qarun, Wadi El Rayan and even the Hurghada Archipelago. He’d been on an exploration of the Delta whilst on secondment to Alexandria but for some reason the upper reaches of the Nile had always eluded him. He’d told himself then that if he wanted to find more of the real Egypt and learn of the culture and origins of the Upper Kingdom, he’d have to go south to Aswan and experience its reportedly African feel – the birds that inhabited the First Cataract and its surroundings were supposed to be worth the trip alone.

The voyage was to begin at Luxor. It had once been the ancient city of Thebes, the capital of the New Kingdom, and was in itself a place of considerable historical and archaeological renown. Here were the Valley of the Kings and the Temple at Karnak, recognised sites of international importance. Then the tour would progress upriver, visiting temples and sites of interest en route until it eventually arrived in Aswan. As to exactly what birds he might discover, he couldn’t be certain, but that was part of the excitement of the trip.

And so, with his telescope and its supporting tripod stashed in his luggage and feeling marginally better about his future, in the third week of January he found himself on an aeroplane, heading south.

He had decided to fly from Cairo, an hour in all, rather than risk the long and laborious road journey. That would have taken him through territory where it was best for people of Western appearance not to be seen, even those of his extensive experience. Armed gangs were rumoured to roam the area between Assyut and Luxor, and there had been robberies, beatings and even deaths. Some said the gangs were simply bandits, others that they were terrorists – in either event they were to be avoided. Horrific though it might sound, it was probably better to be blown up in the air than be captured and shot on the ground.

Despite these concerns he arrived safely in the early evening, the lights of the airport lounge glowing gently in the dusk as he cleared the terminal and was guided to his shuttle bus. He clambered aboard, stowed his backpack and found himself a seat. Soon, they were speeding through the city of Luxor and after half an hour or so, the slab-white outline of a cruise ship appeared against the night sky.

The bus turned off into a car park adjacent to the mooring and the slow but necessary process of embarkation began. First, the luggage had to be off-loaded. Half a dozen local porters had been engaged for the purpose and were standing on the quayside, dressed in their long galabeyas and turbans. As if they’d been waiting for their cue, a squabble immediately broke out amongst them as to who had the right to begin. Blake descended from the bus and took the opportunity to stretch his legs. The driver had already got out and was loafing on the tarmac, smoking a cigarette. In Egypt, this kind of operation could take a while.

It was something the management had foreseen, and to amuse the passengers during their unavoidable wait they’d engaged a pair of whirling dervishes to perform. Beneath the street lights at the edge of the car park, their coloured costumes
flared like a rainbow.

It was while he was studying their technique that he became conscious of a second altercation which had just broken out behind him. The luggage compartments of the bus had been swung open and various sets of suitcases had been pulled out onto the car park. Nearby, a middle-aged woman dressed in a cream-coloured top and matching slacks, a Westerner, was becoming agitated as two of the local porters began badgering her for money.

“Baksheesh! Baksheesh!” they were crying. They had doubtless provided some small service for her and were demanding what they thought was their due.

It would have been unfair to say she was dripping with jewellery, but there were at least two rings on each hand and it was evident she was not short of a few bob. But even if she’d been plain and unadorned, to Egyptians such as these the mere fact that she could afford to ride in a bus was proof enough that she was wealthy. Although just at the moment, she looked far from in control of affairs as her ringed hands fluttered about her head as if she were trying to shoo away a wasp.

“Go away! Imshi! Imshi!”

It sounded like the one word she’d made sure she’d learned from the phrasebook before setting off in order to protect herself – now she was being called upon to use it at the first time of asking. If she’d studied her guide a little more thoroughly, a better choice might have been ‘la, shukran’ (no, thank you) which, although meaningless in the current context, might have been a little more calming. Instead of allowing the porters to get on with their job, she’d made the mistake of becoming involved. Perhaps her luggage was not being treated with the care she thought it deserved – or perhaps she’d simply made some chance remark. Whatever the reason, she’d put herself under pressure and it had induced an inappropriate reaction. What she failed to realise was that she need only give her besiegers a few small
coppers and the matter could easily be settled.

Blake fingered the coins in his own pocket, kept there for that very purpose. In Egypt someone invariably wanted tipping. There was always a door to be opened, a bag to be carried, a way to be pointed, some small service to be performed – it was part of the custom of the country. And to help the lady out, all he had to do…

But it was not in his nature to interfere and his hand stayed firmly in his pocket. He had long since convinced himself that he was not responsible for the problems of others – people should be left to resolve their own affairs. Such matters could take their course without him. It was not that he was a mean man, either with money or in spirit, but it was rather a question of belief. And like so much else in his life, it stemmed from his love of birds.

Birds were a part of nature – and nature was a force to be reckoned with. You altered nature at your peril and it seemed to Blake that every attempt to do so had met with disaster. The loss of rainforests, the melting of polar ice-caps, global warming – they were all the large-scale results of human tinkering. On a personal level, he took the view that birds were to be observed and enjoyed but most importantly, they should be left in peace to get on with their lives. However they’d arrived on earth, be it through the hand of God or through the natural process of evolution, they were not intended to be played with like toys. And as with birds, so with man – or in this case, woman.

As it happened, there was no need for him to become involved. The thought of assisting her had barely crossed his mind when a third party intervened and came to the lady’s rescue. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered round the door of the bus. One of them, an Egyptian, heard the fracas and broke away, walking smartly across. He was a young man in his late twenties, clean-shaven and heavily built. He had a soft round face, and although he lacked the aquiline features that accompanied
some form of nobility, his bearing suggested he was still of good family. Dressed in Western clothes, he wore a dark suit over his white shirt and tie – a sure sign he was part of ‘the management’. He spoke in a dialect Blake did not understand, barked a few sharp words at the porters then, with a distinct motion of his head, signalled they should leave. They immediately backed off, a hand reached out and a small note was discreetly passed across. Their palms had been greased and all would be well. With this resolved, the young man could now turn to the lady and give her reassurance.

“You must excuse my countrymen. They do not always understand Western ways.”

Nor she theirs
, thought Blake.

But if the young man had the same idea, he was far too polite to express it.

“Your bags will be taken up to your cabin,” he continued. “Everything has been clearly marked. It is all arranged.” His English was perfectly phrased although delivered with an accent that marked him out as of Middle Eastern origin. “You have nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

“But my jewellery box is missing,” the woman protested. “I should never have let it out of my sight.”

“It will be found, I’m certain. The loading of the bus has been most carefully supervised.”

“Well I certainly hope you’re right. It contains some valuable pieces.”

“I’m sure of it. It will be delivered to you immediately. I will see to it personally. Now, what is the number of your cabin?”

“Wait a moment. Here…”

She fumbled in her shoulder bag for her travel documents and produced a booking confirmation which the young Egyptian inspected.

“Aha! Number 12. The upper deck. An excellent choice. I will have the box brought up to you straight away.”

“Oh thank you, thank you so much.” An emotion in the woman’s voice presaged tears. In addition to the paperwork she had also fished out from her bag a small handkerchief and proceeded to dab at her nose. “My husband would never forgive me.”

Her eyelids fluttered a little more quickly than the situation demanded and Blake noticed a distinct lack of moisture. To the practised observer, she was clearly more artful than upset.

But this feigned show of distress did not deter the young Egyptian from his duty.

“Please do not concern yourself. This will soon be resolved, I promise you. Now, if you would like to follow this gentleman…”

He guided her gently toward the gangplank onto the ship where a member of the crew stood waiting.

Blake struggled to suppress a wry smile at the lady’s pantomime of concern. And as for the young Egyptian, you could not deny he had a certain adult charm, despite his boyish looks. As an exercise in mollification, he had to admit it had been expertly done.

The lady in cream was now halfway across the gangplank and casting an anxious glance over her shoulder. Back on the shore, the young Egyptian bowed his head and smiled politely. He waited until she had disappeared on board, then turned smartly on his heel and marched briskly over to the bus where he began to snap out his commands.

Blake’s attention returned to the whirling dervishes. For the time being the incident was over and the steady, if prolonged, process of embarkation could be resumed.

Blake’s cabin was on the lower deck. It was not as prestigious as the one accorded to the lady in cream but that didn’t concern him – he wasn’t planning to spend a lot of time in it. There were twin beds (he’d asked not to have a double) and he chose one to sleep in and laid his birding gear out on the other – his telescope, tripod, binoculars and the illustrated guide he’d bought especially for the trip. Against the far wall was a small dressing table (somewhere to write up his notes, he thought) and in the corner by the plate-glass window, a chair faced out toward the river, a position from which he could view sunrise or sunset. Although personally, he’d have preferred to have been up on the sun-deck, out in the fresh air…

He’d hoped to get in an hour’s birding before dinner. There were sandbanks close to the moorings and they should have provided a good selection of waders – godwits, sandpipers and stints etc. But it was gone half past six and the light was against him. The conditions would make viewing impossible and it meant he would have to wait until the morning for his first sighting.

He still had to unpack his bags so it was not until after seven that he was able to get changed and go down for the evening meal. Outside the dining room, a seating plan showed he had been placed at a table for eight in the far corner. As he approached, a familiar voice could be heard as the infamous lady in cream was holding forth in a loud and belligerent tone in stark contrast to the deferential manner she had employed earlier on.

“…but do you know, he was as good as his word because as soon as I got to the cabin, there it was on the dressing table. I couldn’t believe it after all those goings-on with the bus. I was relieved, I don’t mind telling you. It’s nice to find someone in this damned country you can trust.”

Her companion was an older man whom Blake took to be her
husband. Both his hair and his moustache were of the same silvery colour – as were his eyebrows which he was in the process of raising as if in protest.

“Look, dear, I’m sure it would have turned up eventually. I know these people, they’re really not that bad.”

“Don’t you believe it, David. They had their eye on it from the moment we got off the plane. Mark my words, they’re a shifty lot, if you ask me.”

Blake pulled out one of the two remaining chairs and sat down. His arrival seemed to come as a welcome relief as the other two couples looked up and gave him a weak smile of welcome. Up until then they’d presumably been forced to sit and suffer in silence as the argument raged back and forth between the lady and her husband (whom he’d already christened Mr & Mrs White). But if the others had hoped that his incursion would put an end to the discussion they were disappointed. The conversation continued in the same vein for some while with Mrs White continually attacking their hosts and Mr White continually defending them.

“Look, dear, I was stationed here for eighteen months, remember. I do know what I’m talking about.

“Yes, but that was years ago – things have changed since then.”

“I don’t see that it’s changed that much. It’s still the same country – and it’s still the same people.”

“But it’s different now. When you were here we were in charge – today we’re just visitors and they think they can treat us how they like. Anyway, I don’t care what you say, I still don’t trust them.”

It was a debate Blake had heard before, both within the Embassy and beyond it. Either diplomatically or on a personal basis, were the Egyptians to be trusted? Or anyone else from the Middle East for that matter. These apprehensions arose from a fear of the unknown – what you didn’t understand, you treated
with suspicion. The first barrier was the language – because if you couldn’t understand the language, how could you understand the people that spoke it? Which was why, unlike so many of his colleagues, he’d taken such trouble over it himself. The British were notoriously bad at talking in other people’s tongues and it was not just the Egyptians who were vilified, it was the world that existed beyond the English Channel. Johnny Foreigner was a rum lot and had to be treated as such.

His thoughts were confirmed when the lady seated immediately to Mrs White’s right suddenly chimed in. She’d been anxious to break into the conversation for the last few minutes and had only managed to contain herself by continually fiddling with her napkin ring. Finally, as Mrs White’s tirade against their hosts came to an end, she was able to interject. Blake had expected a British voice but it was an American who cut in. Its owner was older, although not elderly, and if the fleshy condition of her upper arms and shoulders were a clue, seriously overweight. Based on what he could see of her above the table Blake surmised that like an iceberg, there would be a lot more of her below it. Her mousy hair was kept short and she wore a shapeless green top which did nothing to counteract the impression she gave as to size. You could hardly say she was a victim of fashion since fashion had ignored her as if it did not consider her a suitable case for treatment. But despite her unprepossessing appearance, once she’d managed to break in all heads were turned in her direction and she held the floor and spoke without a shred of self-consciousness as though she naturally expected everyone to listen.

“You know what, honey? You’re so right. It’s the same the whole world over. The Italians are just as bad. Why, only last year, Ira and me – that’s Ira, my husband.” She indicated the man sitting at the end of the table. He was of roughly the same age but as thin as she was plump – to the extent that Blake wondered whether he suffered from some sort of consumptive disease. And
whereas she gloried in the occupation of space, he seemed to apologise for using it and sat with his arms folded in front of him, either in an attempt to make himself appear smaller or as a means of defence. Had she not pointed him out, he might never have been noticed at all. “Ira and me,” she continued, “we were in Rome. We’d gone there for our wedding anniversary. We usually go to my sister’s in Oregon but this year we decided to go to Rome because it was a special anniversary. What anniversary was it, Ira?”

Ira’s reaction was to tighten his grip on himself. And before he’d had chance to respond, his wife had answered her own question.

“Our 30th. That’s right, I remember now, it was our 30th. It’s pearl you see and my daughter gave me pearls and I don’t wear them – but that’s another story. Anyways, we’d gone to Rome and we were staying in a little hotel – where was that hotel, Ira?” She turned toward her husband again but just as soon as he’d opened his mouth to speak, she cut him short again. “Well I guess it doesn’t matter where the hotel was, but I wanted to go to the Trevi Fountain. My sister went to Rome the year before and she said, ‘Whatever you do, honey, make sure you go to the Trevi Fountain.’ So Ira took me, didn’t you, Ira?”

“Yup.”

This time Ira managed an abbreviated reply.

“And when we got there, I went to throw a coin in – because that’s what you do at the Trevi Fountain, you throw a coin in and make a wish. Anyways, I went to throw a coin in and I couldn’t find my purse. I looked everywhere, on the side, on the floor, but I just didn’t have it.”

“Lost the darned thing,” chirped Ira, this time without prompting.

“No, Ira, I didn’t lose it. I left it at the hotel. I know I did, so don’t you go saying different. It was on the clerk’s desk before we set off and I must have walked out without it. So we went
back…”

“Took a taxi. Cost me darned near twenty dollars.”

“…we went back and they said they didn’t have it. I said, ‘You must have it because I left it right here on the desk’ but they said no they didn’t. Well I knew from the look on their faces they weren’t telling the truth. And do you know what? Two days later it turned up in a downstairs trashcan, empty, not a thing left in it. They’d taken the lot.”

“Yup,” said Ira. “Clean as a whistle.”

“Well, we went straight to the American Embassy. The guy we spoke to was awful nice but he said he couldn’t do a thing about it.”

“Nope. Not a darned thing. Said anybody could have taken it.”

“But it wasn’t anybody, Ira. It was them, I know it.”

“Darned near spoiled our holiday.”

Ira’s final comment seemed to encapsulate the point of the tale so well that his wife was content to let him have the last word and she sat looking smugly round at the others as if to say
There! What do you think of that?

Blake’s heart sank. He was concerned that the conversation would develop into a competition to see who could tell the best ‘I was hard done by a foreigner’ story. It was not a happy prospect. All eyes now turned to the couple next to him as though they were expected to respond – but this was a game they had no intention of playing and they thankfully held their tongues. An embarrassed silence fell over the table.

Finally the man on Blake’s right, a gentleman in his late sixties with a craggy face, succumbed to the pressure.

“Well, as we’re obviously going to be spending some time together, I suppose we ought to introduce ourselves. I’m Keith and this is my wife Janet.” Janet dutifully nodded. “We’re from Coventry.”

They went round the table in turn. Mr and Mrs White were
David and Joan from West Berkshire while the large American lady referred to herself simply as Mrs Biltmore.

“You’ve already met Ira.”

They certainly had.

“We come from Baltimore,” she explained. “We’re the Biltmores from Baltimore! Ain’t that a hoot? It sure makes it easy to remember – you won’t forget us in a hurry!”

Blake had an inkling they would not be allowed to – although her joke was successful in that it provoked some welcome laughter.

He was the last to speak, and when his turn came he sensed the others looking at him with a degree of anticipation and he became self-conscious. He was not used to, and nor did he want, such attention and his inclination was to keep things short and simple.

“It’s Blake, Michael Blake. I’m from Cairo.”

With Mrs White’s eyes fixed firmly on him, he would have given anything to add
And I’m also an Egyptian
. But he could not and the opportunity to counter her prejudice was lost.

“Cairo?” said Keith, raising a wispy eyebrow. “You’ll know your way around then. You’re British though, I take it?”

Blake nodded – there was no point in denying it.

“Will your wife be joining us?” Keith probed gently, glancing at the eighth and empty seat.

“I’m not married.”

Blake’s reply was short and to the point. He knew full well it did not answer the intended question, and given what had gone before it gave him some pleasure to see them confused. Why should he bother to enlighten them?

As to the other member of their party, he had no idea and neither, it seemed, did anyone else. Someone would eventually arrive, that was certain – a place had been laid, a napkin provided and there was a room card with a number on it such as they all had. But who it belonged to and when they might appear
remained a mystery.

“In that case,” said Keith. “I think we should all go and get something to eat.”

He rose, and led the way across the dining room.

Once they’d queued, their selections provided them with an ideal topic for discussion. Keith, who’d already appointed himself as the elder statesman of the group, started them off.

“I’ve really been looking forward to the food on this trip. I’ve never eaten Middle Eastern cuisine and I quite fancy trying it.”

“You’ll need to watch out for the sheep’s eyes,” joked David.

“Sheep’s eyes!” exclaimed Mrs Biltmore. “Oh my, I don’t think I could cope with sheep’s eyes.”

“Just kidding,” said David.

“Well I sure hope you are,” said Mrs Biltmore, her hand at her throat. “Why, I feel quite ill just at the mention of sheep’s eyes. I don’t see how anyone could eat such a thing. We don’t do that back home, do we, Ira?”

“Nope,” said Ira, tucking into a second helping of fruit cocktail. “We sure don’t.”

Although whether he meant this for better or for worse wasn’t clear and much to everyone’s relief the subject of what they did eat at home, like anything else that resembled sheep’s eyes, was left untouched.

But the ice had been broken and the conversation, which had previously been no more than a trickle, soon became a flood.

Later on, over coffee, a discussion arose as to practicalities.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” asked David. “Is there a plan?”

“Haven’t you looked at the noticeboard?” said Keith.

“No, what noticeboard? I didn’t see one.”

“The one in the foyer. We’re going to the Valley of the Kings. It’s a six o’clock start apparently.”

“You’re joking!”

“That means I’ll have to be up at five,” interjected Joan. “I can’t possibly go anywhere without washing my hair.”

“Good God!” said David. “And I thought this was supposed to be a holiday…”

Blake inwardly smiled. For all their faults and prejudices, these were refreshingly ordinary people. Before long they would be showing each other photographs of their children and sharing family intimacies.

He knew them well. White, middle-class and British, their relatives staffed the Embassy and filled the ex-pats clubs. The Biltmores were of the same stock – they were only the Brits whose ancestors had escaped to the other side of the Atlantic. They could all sound crass and terribly bigoted, but when put to the test as a body they were ultimately reliable – even if they were a little dull. At one time the British had ruled the world. Twice in the previous century they’d saved it – and afterwards they’d immediately gone back home to tend their gardens. They had no interest in foreign affairs – and unless it impinged directly on them, the machinations of Middle Eastern politics and the struggle between the Israelis and the Arabs meant nothing to them. History, for the most part, left them cold. Predictable and solid, they would certainly not surprise him. Sometimes, he felt that all he had in common with his countrymen was a language…

He managed to suppress his smile, but could not stifle a yawn.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid. It’s been a long day and I’m rather tired.” He pulled back his chair and got up from the table. “I’ll bid you goodnight and see you all in the morning.”