The Book of the Dead (22 page)

“Liz, why did Henry come to Egypt?” I couldn’t imagine him getting all New-Agey or anything, but we were definitely heading towards mid-30s. No kids. Some sort of personal crisis? Liz was holding it together, but I was afraid even she would snap, seven thousand miles away with no information about her husband’s death, except what his friend he hadn’t seen in years could relay at £1.10/minute over a sketchy mobile line.

“The revolution, Tom. He said... He said it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime things. Like Kwame Nkrumah. He just had to see it, help out somehow. Be part of it. He thought it could be the key that would unlock Israel and Palestine, end terrorism, if only the west could keep their hands out of it, but then he wanted to go in, to see it, to help out, like Orwell in the Spanish civil war. History in the making, I don’t know. You know what he was like.”

I did. It made sense.

Henry was a debater. Could convince a plastic bag to biodegrade like paper. He could convince you that gun control would save lives, then turn around and convince you that only an armed populace can prosper, all in fifteen minutes.

I clicked through the albums. Every photo of me was in the Kebenshef album. I’m a bird. Funny, Henry. Thanks for that. I wandered through those photos for a while, and it was... I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was like Henry’s close friends, Mike and Jason and me figured heavily, from school. From Yale, there was Rob. We’d had a few nights talking, up late, sipping Hennessey and just talking. Rob had been reading Ayn Rand and was freaked out by how powerful the call was, even though he could see how crap it was. He was solid, Rob. He’d been best man at Henry’s wedding.

The Dumtef album: all pictures from Henry with politicians. He’d met people from both sides of the blue/red divide, happy to meet each of them and critical of all of them. He could have been so good at it, but he was too clever. Hated the divisiveness of American politics. He could just see the other side’s point, even when it was extreme. He’d told me once, stoned late night when I was taking a break from university and he was sailing the summa cum laude sea at Yale, that he was really worried. It was around the “Contract with America” and the Federal Shutdown. He’d said, and I remember it every time I see US news, “This kind of divisive, point-scoring politics is what’s going to end the American Empire, Tom. It’ll all come crashing down. The Brits had two World Wars through which to give up their empire, and they did a decent job of it, they realised how bad they’d been and they were ashamed. America’s going to deadlock at some point, and it’s going to crash, hard.” He’d gone on how the west was in the descendent, and he’d wondered if it would be Asia, Africa, or Latin America that would shape the world next, he was betting on Latin America. They were the underdog. These pictures, though, Bill Clinton, shaking his hand. A sly wink at the camera while George Bush was talking to him. Obama, when he was a state Senator. Tip O’Neill. I wondered if any of them remembered him.

There was some logic here, but I couldn’t work it out.

The monkey album – Hapy. I couldn’t work it out at first, Family? It had Henry’s parents and grandparents in it, but not his sister. Not Liz. Then it went on. Our friend Max was there. What on earth was this one?

Then it hit me. They were all dead.

When I got to the Mesti album, it came almost at once. These were all the people Henry’d saved over the years. All the drug-addled friends, those who’d been bailed out of jail. The people he’d gotten jobs for, written references for, even though they’d screwed him over. Everyone deserved a second chance, thought Henry. I think he could see the thin line separating the lucky from the unlucky. Here was every single person that Henry’d protected over the years.

Clicking through his other albums: every picture that didn’t contain Liz had been removed, apparently shuffled to one of those four other albums. There was a photo of the three of us: Henry & Liz had come to London three years ago, when we’d gotten back in touch. We’d wandered ‘round, me proud as a church mouse about my new city, showing off all the great bits, the history. The London Stone. The intersection outside of a Marks & Spencer where the Roman Forum had been. Liz was tagged, but neither Henry nor I were. I went to tag us, to comment on the story, tell about the Forum and the trip, my memoriam, but the site wouldn’t let me.

It was like the photo albums were on an archive or something. I couldn’t tag them, couldn’t comment. They were calcifying there and then.

Back to Henry’s profile. Loads of people were commenting on the wall, tributes, stories, commenting on his photos in the four new albums, but nothing on the old albums. Nothing at all. They were to be preserved, exactly as they were.

The four new albums were just a couple of days old, from right around when Henry died.

The social media news sites might have something, some new blunder, screwing up privacy settings or as there usually seemed to be, nothing. Just the usual conspiracy theories: Facebook knows when you’re pregnant, monitors and reports to the government, all that. Boring marketing stuff, making Facebook execs’ wet dreams come true.

Shit. The phone. “Liz? You still there?”

“You see it, Tom?”

“Yes, Liz. I see it. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to deal with the Egyptian authorities and get done whatever you need me to do. This... this is weird, but maybe there’s... there’d got to be an explanation. Hackers by coincidence or... something. Let me just...” I didn’t want to say “body” or anything like that. “Just... get everything sorted. Maybe this’ll clear up. It’s coming up on 9AM, so surely the government offices will be opening up soon. I’ll call you back, OK?”

“OK. I’ll write to Facebook and see what I can see from here. God. I wish I was there. Except that I don’t. Thanks, Tom. This is all just...”

“Don’t mention it, Liz. Not once. Not ever. I know. I...”

We sat there for a moment, silence across the line.

“OK. Later. Soon.” She hung up.

Stasis. Comfort. Safety. The self is split, and assigned guardians, and now the waiting. Taxonomised. Categorised. Clarified – the scratch of the polyester against your arm during your first kiss, the smell of gorse blooms under wee hiding behind that memorable hangover in Edinburgh. Recorded. Calcified. Under guard. Waiting.

The next days were... exhausting, but pretty much the same as they’d be most places. No matter what the government, where in the world, people die, and there is a carefully orchestrated bureaucracy defending their position to create paperwork out of death.

It would have been better had I arrived before sundown the previous day, of course. A body sitting past two days wasn’t the norm here. Henry’d been prepared in the Muslim fashion, unembalmed, washed, and wound in a winding sheet, prepared for burial. He was sitting in cold storage.

The Americans were less helpful. He’d have to be embalmed to be transported, but they couldn’t seem to work out how to do it, they were used to getting the body earlier, but the Egyptians hadn’t known who to give him to, so he was left in cold storage ready to go to the Coptic section of town.

No one could tell me how he’d died. He apparently hadn’t been autopsied.

All this was done in a haze. It was good to be busy, to have tasks to get to and queues to join, but I felt bad for Liz, calling her at the end of the day my time, at the beginning of the day her time, giving her random bits of the puzzle. I wished I could give her a clear picture.

Henry’d dropped dead on the street outside of the hotel. The nearest person was about 10 feet away. No clutching of the heart or anything, he’d apparently just looked up, then fell to his knees, with a funny look on his face. Then he smiled and fell flat on his face.

This is what was in the police report. I found one of the witnesses, who told me about the smile.
Inshallah
, she’d said, Henry had been seeing a better place.

Facebook stayed the same. We got a set of stock replies from their customer service department offering their condolences and saying that they were “working on” their “offer” to their “members who had passed on”. There were forms to fill out and we were to send them a copy of the death certificate, and, once they’d figured out what they were doing, they’d offered to turn Henry’s profile into a “Memorial wall” if we’d like. Liz was invited to fill out an online survey about the new product feature.

I was packing to go before I opened Henry’s bags. The stuff he was wearing, the clothes from the hospital, needed to go in them. There shouldn’t have been anything dodgy in them, but I didn’t want to fly into Heathrow without checking. His wallet had clearly been emptied of cash. It’d hopefully gone to charity, but it was more likely in the pocket of a bent cop. Credit cards were there, his driver’s licence, and a few bits of paper – ATM receipts, the card of a place called Tahrir Khosheri, a flyer advertising a local art gallery and a business card. A Facebook business card, in the name of one Edward Bellingham, PhD. Head of Artificial Intelligence and Big Data. An email address, and a local number handwritten in under the long list of names and titles.

I looked through the rest then called Dr. Bellingham.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Bellingham? You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Henry Blodgett’s. He’s... could I come and chat with you?”

“I’m sorry? Henry Blodgett? I’m not sure who you’re talking about...” His accent was Proper British, very old-fashioned. I could hear him trying to place the mishmash that I spoke.

“Dr. Bellingham, forgive my directness. My friend Henry passed away suddenly. No one can tell me much about what happened, and he hadn’t emailed or spoken to his wife for a couple of weeks before he... He had your card in his wallet, with this number. Middle height, American, dark hair? Pleasant smile? Rather intelligent?”

“Oh, my, yes, Henry – I’m terrible with names, you see, but... Has he passed away? I’m terribly sorry for your loss, sir. Of course I can, would be happy to... If there’s anything I can do...”

“I’m just looking to get a sense of what he was up to here, what he was thinking, that sort of thing. Anything you could tell me...” Nothing but platitudes came down the line. Words of vague kindness. Remarks on Henry’s intelligence and general character. Bellingham hadn’t known Henry, not really. They’d have met, once or twice, at most. Talked about Cairo, being an expatriate here, the revolution, Facebook’s interest. Henry’d questioned why Facebook had wanted to be here.

Typical Henry.

I googled Bellingham and found LinkedIn and a bland Facebook page, open but without much on it. I guessed he was in his early forties, based on his University dates. Post-doc from Cambridge, focussed on Artificial intelligence. Joined Facebook, apparently, at Zuckerberg’s personal invitation 3 years ago. Responsible for, I suppose, for working out what ads to sell to which people. I thought he was doing a really bad job at it - just today, Facebook had suggested just today that I ‘Like’ Justin Bieber and the Black Eyed Peas.

Another dead end.

Enquiry. Awareness. Calm. Dreams of the past: favourite lunchboxes. Dreams of firsts: the first time your mother let you use a knife and you didn’t cut yourself, though you did drop it on the floor, breaking the tip. Dreams of desire: waking after the first time with her, a little embarrassed, but wanting her again.

Dreams of dreamless sleep.

It took just a few more days for things to wind down. I had a few decent meals and finalised paperwork, an endless procession of queues and stamps and official documents, managing to pretend, to myself, to be a tourist. A pleasant if stodgy meal of rice, pasta, and tomato sauce, called Khosheri, came just off Tahrir Square in the Tahrir Khosheri, the card in Henry’s wallet. It was just a tiny bit of money. You could see Henry there, almost, eating and chatting with random people. Egypt in the midst of revolution was... hard to understand. Everything worked, but tourism was down 90%. It seemed like there was a sense of the possible, though no one knew if that meant selling China-made colourful souvenir tat, Islamic art, or badly carved pyramids. The future, apparently, was everyone selling something. I did manage to see the Pyramids. I spent a pound in roaming data charges to check in on FourSquare and Facebook at the Great Pyramid,
in
memoriam Henricum
.

Liz found a working fax machine, and I got a copy of the death certificate and a certified translation faxed. Henry’s will specified that he be buried or cremated “or whatever” locally, “so there wouldn’t be any fuss, just a shell”, so I found a local, coptic funerary to bury him in Egypt. Henry’s last contribution: supporting small local businesses.

I even tried to meet Dr. Bellingham before leaving, but he couldn’t find the time. My bags filled up with revolution t-shirts and pyramids made of local chocolates that came home with me.

Egypt was nice, but I didn’t think I’d be back. Too many sad memories.

Dream of desiccation. Sleep you could roll up and smoke. Dream. Dreams of your friends, their loves and likes and hates. Dreams of speaking to them, your memories of them. Though your voice is muted, you can see their love and testimonies towards you. Rubbed with honey and perfumed oils, enveloped carefully in baby soft garments, wrapped with care and love, without seam or fold, perfectly enclosed, perfectly safe.

But you remember her.

You dream of holding her, protecting her, in silent moments between queries.

Everything was quiet for a few weeks. I caught up with work, met a lady who I thought I wanted to see, and ruined it by having a spectacular breakdown into shuddering tears that first night. She was nice, and she did just the right thing and held me all night. Sunday morning at the café, she suggested that, whilst I was a lovely person, we “probably weren’t right for each other right now”, which was fair enough. A careful pile of coins and notes, her half of the breakfast bill, waited on the table when I came back from the toilet.