by N E. David
“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?”
Lee Yong was forced to agree.
“Yes, that’s true – and I’m grateful for it. Although I could get my qualifications anywhere – I’ve even thought of staying in Cairo to finish my studies. You see, I have no need to work, Mr Blake – I could live on the money my father sends me. But I wanted to do something useful with my life. Of course my parents would think I was wonderful, their little girl gone out into the world and come back successful. Every time I go home they could roll out the red carpet. ‘Make way for the Great Professor’ my mother would say. I don’t think they’ve any idea of the truth – the fact is that despite all this achievement, my life is actually rather empty.”
It was a feeling with which Blake could sympathise.
“And you think that finding Reda will help you fill it? That’s a bit selfish, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is – I must admit I hadn’t thought of it that way. But they do say love is a selfish thing, don’t they, Mr Blake?”
This time he was unable to comment. What did he know about love? It was not a subject on which he felt competent to speak. All he knew was that as soon as she’d mentioned staying in Cairo, his heart had skipped a beat and that now she’d come to him, although it was only a few hours a day, he valued her visits above anything and would be reluctant to see her go.
She fell silent for a moment. Outside the apartment, the bustle of busy life filled the street as Cairo went about its business. Across the road, Mr Sayeed would be doing duty with his broom and before long the Mullahs would begin calling from the minarets, urging the people to midday prayer.
After what seemed like an age, she eased herself away from the shutters and returned to her wicker chair.
“Well, that’s more than enough about me for one day. Time’s getting on and we haven’t started our reading yet.”
“Hmm…”
Blake was torn. He would have liked to hear more, but perhaps Lee Yong was right and there was not much else they could say.
“Now, where had we got to?”
She retrieved the bird guide from the table where she’d abandoned it earlier.
“Purple Gallinule…”
“Ah yes, the big bird that lives in a marsh. What did you call it? A swamp hen?”
“That’s right.” He was genuinely impressed. “You’ve done well to remember.”
“You’ll find I pick things up quite quickly, Mr Blake.”
“I’m sure you do – except you’re supposed to be calling me Michael.”
“I’m sorry – Michael.”
Had she blushed again? If so, he would not make much of it. It had occurred to him that he might not have her for too much longer and he felt anxious to move on.
“So, what’s next?”
She thumbed quickly through the pages.
“Ah, here we are. See if you can guess this one. ‘A rather featureless bird, similar in size to Skylark. The bill is fairly heavy, with an orange-yellow base. Plumage varies depending on the local rock type, but is usually grey-buff with slight streaking on the breast and with an orange-brown tail …”
Desert Lark
And suddenly he was back to where they’d first met, standing on the approach to Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple, shivering in the cold of a January early morning. In front of him, a young Egyptian was lecturing on the wonders of his country, while a few feet behind, a beautiful Malaysian girl stared at him with a look of disapproval. As to the bird, he never had decided whether it was really Desert Lark – her intervention had put paid to that. How strange that she should choose it now – it was as if she were trying to remind him.
Soon they would get back on the bus and begin the ascent into the Valley of the Kings. There he might find Trumpeter Finch or African Rock Martin and in the burial chambers of the dead, pictures of geese and egrets and herons. Deep in the darkness of the tombs, they had lain undiscovered for over 3000 years.
Meanwhile, it was almost midday and the bright white light of Cairo was flooding into his room, searing across his face. Sitting next to him, barely an arm’s length away, Lee Yong continued her reading. Did he imagine it or had some shadowy form passed in front of him? Perhaps, if he focused exceptionally hard…
Acknowledgements
Firstly I would like to thank David Cottridge and Richard Porter for allowing me to quote from their book ‘A Photographic Guide to Birds of Egypt and the Middle East’ (published by New Holland Publishers (UK) Ltd). This was the guide I used myself when I visited Egypt.
I must also mention ‘Tweets from Tahrir’, edited by Nadia Idle and Alex Nunns (published by OR Books) which provides a first-hand account of the day-by-day action of the Egyptian Revolution as it unfolded. Besides giving me the historical background, I found it a compelling and moving narrative in its own right.
Lastly, I used ‘The Rough Guide to Egypt’, written and researched by Dan Richardson and Daniel Jacobs (published by Rough Guides), in an attempt to keep the names and descriptions of places as accurate as possible.
Author’s Note
The characters in this book are entirely fictional and are not intended to be a representation of any real person, alive or dead.
Biography
N.E. David is the pen name of York writer Nick David. Nick began writing at the age of 21 but like so many things in life, it did not work out first time round. Following this disappointment he was obliged to work for a living, firstly in industry and more recently in personal finance. 30 years later, with a lifetime of normal experiences behind him, he is able to approach things from a different perspective.
After the death of his father in 2005, Nick started writing again and has been successful in having a series of short novellas published. He maintains he has no personal or political message to convey but that his objective is merely to entertain the reader and he hopes this is reflected in his writing.
Birds of the Nile is his debut novel.
Other Works
Carol’s Christmas
Feria
A Day at the Races
For more information visit the author’s website at www.nedavid.com.
You can also follow N.E.David on Twitter @NEDavidAuthor.
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