by N E. David
First published by Roundfire Books, 2013
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Text copyright: N.E. David 2012
ISBN: 978 1 78279 158 4
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Chapter One
There were times when he thought he could see the light – or at least sense it – a faint blur amidst the general darkness. He knew it was there, for each morning when he shuffled across the bare boards of his room and threw open the shutters to let in the day he remembered how it would come flooding in, great long shafts of it slicing into the space between the window and his bed, the covers turned back, the sheet still warm from whatever rest he had managed the night before. Then he would feel it too, the heat of it on his hands and feet, and for a minute or two he would bathe his face in it, slanting his chin upwards toward the sun which even at that hour still had the capacity to burn. It would strike him how pleasurable this was, and rather than go to the bathroom and take the risk of boiling a kettle and pouring scalding water into a sink, he would remain by the window and wash himself in a brightness he knew but could not see. And so another day would slowly but surely begin.
On this particular morning he had woken with a jolt. The dream which had continually afflicted his sleep had returned and was plaguing him once more. He had thought himself free of it, but it was back and with it the suspicion that it would never truly leave him.
And yet it always began so well. He would find himself running in the midst of a large crowd, almost like a herd of buffalo charging across an open plain. He was filled with a feeling of joy and light-headedness and he imagined he was carrying something in his hand (a flag perhaps?) which he seemed to hold aloft as if in triumph. Then he would become aware of the noise, the raised voices of the tumult surrounding him, the shouts and cries of the crowd and the deep rumble of stones landing on corrugated sheeting. And somewhere at the back of his throat he could taste the bitterness of gunsmoke.
Then the dreaded moment would arrive, preceded as if it were a herald’s trumpet by the loud whinnying of a horse. The massive beast and its rider would suddenly appear out of the confusion and rear up before him. He would find himself staring at its hooves and a moment would pass in which he could hear nothing save a strange rattle as though a tin can were being kicked down the street. Then it would fall silent again for a second before everything erupted in a deafening roar and the searing pain would begin.
Here he would jerk himself awake and sit bolt upright in the bed, his upper body drenched in sweat and his breath coming in short, sharp gasps like those of a panting dog. He would stay there, his arms pushed back against the sheets behind him until he had calmed down and told himself it was only a dream. But after a while, as if hoping that all life since had been part of his imagination too, he would gradually prise his eyelids apart to test the reality. Yet still there would be nothing…
Eventually he would swing his legs over the edge of the bed and instead of trying to fall back to sleep and risk a repeat of the same painful journey, he would make his way across to the window where he would open the shutters once more.
It was as well that he’d already stopped working. Had he still been at the Embassy he could imagine what his colleagues would have said about it. Ever the butt of their humour, they would doubtless have joked at his expense.
What? A blind man who shutters his windows at night? That’s a bit pointless isn’t it? He must be crazy.
And they’d have been right – in a sense it was pointless. But they’d never understood him any more than they’d understood the country they worked in. To them Egypt was just another paragraph on their CV, Cairo another dot on the map that charted their progress to better things. Although there was probably some truth in their gripe – it was not the glamorous and sought-after posting it had once been. It no longer ranked with Paris, Washington or Rome, places where diplomacy was conducted in an atmosphere of wealth and style. These days, there was no comfort in Cairo, what with the heat and the dust and the flies.
The politics had moved on too. For many years Egypt had been a country of continuous change and excitement. After declaring itself a Republic there’d been Nasser, the Suez crisis, the patronage of the Russians and then their expulsion. Prior to his assassination Sadat had taken the country to war and although Arab-Israeli relations would always be an issue, under the prolonged regime of Mubarak things appeared to have quietened down. Beyond its boundaries no-one seemed to take much notice of Egypt anymore.
If you want to get on, I wouldn’t get too settled if I were you, said Carpenter. Nothing much happens here these days.
How wrong they’d been! Even without the revolution Egypt was still a country whose history was to be treasured, a place where everything happened – all manner of human life was there. It was all on their doorstep if only they’d taken the trouble to look. Then they might have discovered the real Egypt, the Egypt that he knew rather than the stifling confines of the social round and the inevitable ex-pat’s clubs. Yes, it was a crazy country and the Egyptians were a crazy people – but that was what made it so beautiful.
And so when the time came and his tour of duty was over, rather than seek the promotion and move on as he could so easily have done, he’d deliberately flunked his exams. He’d no desire to leave. Those with ambition deserted him, taking coveted posts elsewhere. Others elected to go back to ‘the old country’ but he’d stayed on and chosen to see out his service there, much to his colleagues’ derision.
Michael Blake? He’s a strange one. I think the heat must have got to him – the bugger’s gone native, if you ask me.
But there’d really been nothing for him to go back for. He had no ties.
Over the years the shuttering of windows had become a habit. And now he’d grown older and sightless such habits were important. This simple daily ceremony was ingrained in his routine and for him it marked the moment that separated night from day, rest from consciousness. In his diminished condition how else was he to know the difference? How else could he keep track of time?
Sometimes he’d reach the openness of the balcony and find himself grasping at the solid metal rail as a means of reassurance. It was something he could cling to, something he could count on in the darkness. There was comfort in the touch of such objects. But he needed more than that and in the absence of sight he’d come to rely heavily on sound and smell to guide him through each day. And in truth, things would begin much earlier than his habitual trip to the window. At 6am the call to dawn prayers, delivered from a dozen different mosques around the city, would ring through the room. With their summons to remind him he’d no need of an alarm and yet he would still lie there, slowly coming round, before getting up out of bed.
Once the first buzz of traffic had subsided, the smell of fresh bread from Mr Sa
yeed’s shop on the corner opposite and fuul, cooked at the kiosk outside, would excite his appetite and tell him it was time to take breakfast. He’d retreat into the room, carefully fold back his covers and slowly get dressed, then find his way into the small galley kitchen. There he’d find something to eat and return to the window where he’d measure out his waking hours with the cries of the street vendors and the honks of passing taxis.
As time progressed he learnt to distinguish every noise. He could tell the bark of a car from the growl of a truck or the roar of a lorry and soon he could identify each vehicle just by sound –the laundry van, the baker’s cart. In the concert of the street they each played their part.
You’ll find that you’ll develop your other senses to compensate, said Dr. Aziz. In time, they’ll come to replace most of what you’ve lost.
What I’ve lost? So what are you saying? said Blake. Are you telling me I’m never going to see again?
I’m afraid so, Mr. Blake. The nerve endings are completely burnt away. There’s no chance of recovery.
And it was true – there was so much you could discover through the use of your nose and your ears. If you paid enough attention they could tell you everything. For instance, he knew for a fact that the lady in the next apartment, Mrs Ibrahim, regularly went out to meet her lover at three o’clock in the afternoon. The sharp scent of her perfume and the throaty cough of the waiting car engine told him as much – he didn’t need eyes to see that. All it wanted was focus and a little imagination.
He found himself particularly blessed in this way and he had an unerring ability to ascribe an action to a sound. He attributed this happy knack to his lifelong study of birds. He’d known them ever since he was a child. At first, in the garden of his parents’ home there had been robins, blackbirds and dunnocks. Then, as he’d grown and roamed further afield, he’d discovered the birds of the countryside – pigeons, larks, crows and finches. Over the years he’d come to know them all – their size, their shape, their colours and most importantly, their call.
To define a bird by its song was to him the most satisfying of skills – and as he’d come to realise, the most efficient. He’d soon learnt it was far easier to come to judgement as to species by spending a few moments listening rather than thrashing around in the base of a thicket in the hopes of a sighting. So even if he’d caught no more than a glimpse of the bird, he’d still know he was right. By the age of eleven he could tell a hawk from a falcon purely on sound, never mind flight, and no longer needed to look.
But all that had been before the darkness had come and his sight had been taken, so now it was only the hearing. The tragedy was that, after a lifetime of freedom to explore the world and its avian life, with his movements restricted to the confines of his flat all that was left was the plaintive coo of Palm Doves and the incessant chirruping of sparrows.
In the street outside there was a lull in the traffic – it must be nearing ten. Soon, his visitor would arrive. He would know her coming by the creak of the street door and the scrape of an upturned crate as Abdu, the ancient doorkeeper, would rise from his makeshift seat and nod his greeting. Then he would hear their voices echo in the hollow of the stairwell.
Good morning.
Good morning, Abdu.
Blessings be upon you.
And upon you…
By way of preparation he’d have already cleared the small occasional table that stood between the two wicker chairs facing into the room. He always dressed for this appointment – a clean white shirt, a light linen jacket. With the addition of a tie, this had been his uniform at the Embassy. Then he’d take his place in the seat he’d defined as his own, its shape rounded to his form. This was his domain, the point from which he surveyed the world and all that lay within it. He’d no need of going out and facing all its dangers for as he’d already discovered, he’d only to open the shutters and he let all of Cairo in. And if that were not enough to occupy him and fill up his time, then there was always memory and the studied recollection of what he already knew.
Day by day, hour by hour, he relived his life, each moment treasured or reviled according to its worth. But this next hour, this coming hour, of all of them was now the most precious. This was what he lived for, this was what he valued most, for in this next hour he would revisit a world beyond anything he could find in his room, a world beyond the social round and the expat’s clubs, a world beyond even Cairo. For in this next hour there would come to him a world he had once thought lost to him forever as, with the help of Lee Yong, he would once again see the fabulous birds of the Nile.
Chapter Two
She’d been coming to him for just over a month now. Her visits had been sporadic at first but as their relationship had gradually re-established itself, they’d become more regular. She’d only ever meant to call the once, just to say hello and to see if he had news, but she’d immediately taken pity on him and felt compelled to return. When it became clear that they shared a mutual interest, she would make the journey daily if there was something to report. Even if not, he knew that she’d not leave it long before boarding a cross-town bus and mounting the stairs to his flat to give that precious hour that meant so much to him.
Their first meeting was filled with emotion. She’d turned up entirely unannounced and that was a surprise in itself. Even before he’d left the Embassy he’d been unused to receiving visitors. True, Carpenter would occasionally drop by, lumbering up the stairway armed with his usual bottle of whisky (‘the quinine of the desert’ as he called it) and insist on a couple of drinks – but beyond the routine calls of the cleaner and the laundryman, he passed his days alone. Who wanted to spend time with him, now he’d so little offer? The fact that it was her of all people to break the mould only seemed to heighten his strength of feeling.
I never thought I’d see you again…
Strictly speaking, he couldn’t, but what he meant was her presence, her touch, her feel. He could tell that she’d changed. She no longer wore jeans (he could hear the swish of her skirt as she came in at the door) and the clump of her Cuban heels had been replaced by the scuff of soft-soled shoes. Her voice had mellowed as if in the year since they’d last met, her youthful confidence had been squeezed out of her and the girl he remembered (she’d been no more than that at the time) had become a woman. Her hair would be different now and he imagined she’d let it grow long. Sometimes, all he wanted was to reach out and touch it…
His condition had come as a shock to her. She wasn’t prepared for it and there had been tears, hot on her cheek and the back of his hand.
She’d brushed them off saying, “Sorry, I had no idea…”
“…that I was blind? Did no-one tell you?”
You’d have thought someone at the Embassy would have made her aware and explained it to her (why hadn’t Carpenter done so for God’s sake?) – but apparently not, so she’d been forced to find out for herself. To see him so reduced had brought out an overwhelming sense of compassion in her. So despite her intention to make just the one visit, when that first meeting ended and she began to take her leave, she’d accepted his invitation straight away.
“You will come back, won’t you?” he’d said.
“Yes, yes, I will,” she’d responded instead of a perfunctory Of course.
A few days later she’d returned and their newfound friendship began.
At first they’d filled their time with small talk. There’d been much to catch up on – his enforced retirement and loss of sight, her experiences in America and the reasons for her return – all had to be talked through. But he knew there’d come a point when these topics would be exhausted, there’d be a lull in the conversation and she’d ask the inevitable question. Although when she did, it was couched in the most general of terms.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen any of the others, since?”
He braced himself for her reaction, knowing he’d have to contend with her disappointment when he told her, no, she’d been the
first. There’d been a protracted silence while she’d digested the news, then they’d resumed where they’d left off, politely, as if to cover over the point.
After two or three of these get-togethers she made a suggestion. She’d clearly thought about it in advance as she introduced it carefully into the conversation. She must have felt that she wanted to be of service to him in some way and had realised how inappropriate it would be for her to offer to cook or clean or wash his shirts. Besides, these were matters that were already taken care of.
“Why don’t you let me read to you?”
“I’d be pleased if you would,” he’d replied.
As opposed to chores, this was a pleasure she could readily provide.
To begin with, she came armed with a newspaper and gave him snippets of the latest events. But he was already up to date with affairs, the small radio in the corner of the room tuned permanently to the BBC. He clearly wanted more than that and when she’d gone on to ask him his favourite author so she could bring a copy on her next visit, he’d immediately pushed himself up out of his wicker chair and tapped his way across to the bookcase on the other side of the room (he used a thin cane in the flat rather than the stout white stick he took outdoors). He reached up and took down a small volume before returning to his seat and handing it to her.
“Here, this will be fine.”
She’d expected something classical, Dickens perhaps, or Austen – or in the case of poetry, Shelley or Keats, but she was presented with a complete surprise. The work he’d given her was a small reference book, filled with a mixture of text and coloured plates. On closer inspection she could see it was worn and well-thumbed, but even then she thought that in his blindness he’d made a mistake. She read out the title to confirm his choice.
“‘A Photographic Guide to Birds of Egypt and the Middle East’ by Cottridge and Porter. Is that really what you meant?”
“Exactly.”