Diabolic Digest
Episode VIII –
Clearing the mists
Place: Airport
runway
Date: 14th
December 2000
Time: Late
evening
“There's no place like home!” An old
and worn adage indeed, but being cooped up on an aeroplane for nine weeks as a
hostjacker makes one pine for those little creature comforts, such as a decent
bathroom where I can think, relax and relieve myself, restoring my metabolism
and soul to a state of harmony with my surroundings.
On my months of travel around the
world, I have failed dismally. I have failed my beloved Luna, the illustrious
Kahka, the downtrodden Palestinians and the aspiring Kaydee. And so I return to
the homeland, in the hull of a 747, broken-winged. Such resounding failures have a far-reaching
resonance on a budding intellect (dare I say, ego).
The newspaper catches my eyes. A council of elders has just chosen a new
king for the people in distant Camelot. He is the retarded son of a deposed
king who, with the help of Merlin, was able magically to extract the sword of
(W)ictory out of the stone of popular defeat.
Empty-handed, despite my luggage,
without my Luna, I wave down a passing cab.
Place: The
grey outdoors
Date: 14th
December
Time: Later
still in the evening
The taxi swims through the acrid,
musky mists enveloping the city. We make our irregular progress through the
hubbub of the city’s roads. We glide and crawl along endless flyovers. The
scarcity of space pushes the city up towards outer space. The wealthy attain
ever more impressive heights, not only out of loftiness, but also out of the
necessity to escape the suffocating atmosphere beneath.
Place: Toun House
Date: 15th December
Time: The early hours
The house is a complete mess. It
looks as if there was a break-in while I was away. Where are Otter and
Double-Click? Could my near-blind Siamese and his cheeky guide-mouse have been
petnapped? I find Double-Click pushing the last of the evidence, in the form of
a fat mouse that couldn’t climb the wall, over the windowsill. “Double-Click!”
I shout. She turns sheepishly and flashes me a smile of pretend innocence. This
is clearly a case of ‘when the prat’s away, the mice will play’.
Finding Otter isn’t quite so easy. I
search in all his regular little corners, behind the couch, in the wardrobe, in
the washing machine. After almost giving up hope, I finally unearth him in the
air conditioner. How a cat who can barely see got in there, I don’t know. But I
do have my suspicions and they come in the form of the mischievous
Double-Click.
Place: Seasonal gathering
Date: 27th December 2000
Time: Mid-afternoon
I, the errant and prodigal son,
return to the loving embraces (or clutches, depending on my mood) of the
extended fold during festivities. I am in the midst of my loving family
enjoying an Eid get-together.
The admiral of the merry fleet,
Gramps Hartala, sits at the helm of his merry ship. He rises from his slumbers
occasionally to welcome the assembled company for the umpteenth time. Like any
good predator, he always sleeps with one eye open and wakes to reprimand the
rabble of grandchildren for making a commotion. In attendance are the first
line of command, the uncles and aunts. They are buffered by platoons of
cousins, nephews and nieces.
Food and drink, for the first time
since Ramadan, appear, at first sheepishly, and then more boldly, during daylight.
There is merry making and jollity unhindered by the numbness of food
deprivation. Jovial reproaches are exchanged between the members of the family
for not visiting more often, comfortable in the knowledge that such a
frightening outcome will never come about to test their tolerance level of
blood relations. Blood is thicker than water and, hence, harder to swallow.
Uncle Nokta walks in with a fishing
pole and a bag slung over his shoulder filled with tins of sardine and smoked
salmon, to play a prank on his innocent, unsuspecting niece.
“Have you been fishing, uncle?” asks
young Habla.
“Yes, sweetie, and I caught some
tasty salmon,” he carries on the illusion.
The nearest Habla has ever come to
nature is when she went fishing with me. Sadly, I only managed to catch an old
shoe. Now she believes shoes are ocean dwellers that start life as young sole
and grow into fully-fledged footwear. Meanwhile, her brother can't understand
how they get such big cartons out of cows.
“Why didn't you catch me a pair of
Bally's for Eid!?” she complains. My uncle laughs off her ignorance.
Suddenly, the lights go out. There
is excited agitation while helpful uncles laughingly knock into each other as
they fumble to find the secret hoard of candles. I feel a soft and wet presence
crawling up my leg, then something clamps painfully onto my goatee.
Mercifully, my wristwatch bleeps to
warn me of important incoming news as my nephew, Ghetit, hangs suspended from
my goatee. I dislodge the crying babe and return him to the frowning,
candle-lit apparition of my cousin. I excuse myself, amidst protests to stay,
to attend to important business.
I dash into the house, past a
startled Otter, to the bathroom. He squints at me in blind disapproval. “Why
does he have to keep it held in till the last minute? He'll give himself a
hernia!” his eyes say. I get into the bathroom just as the bidet-top fax
machine deposits two white sheets. One is from CLEAN (the Co-operative Lobby
for Environmental Anti-Negligence). The other is from the government. The
government blames CLEAN for the interruption to the power supply. CLEAN
contra-rebels deny, much as they would have liked not to, any connection with
the incident. They attribute it, in fact, to the new US president buying up
some of Egypt's pollution quota.
Although the move will mean less
pollution, CLEAN view it cynically because it does nothing for people’s health
and quality of life – the city air is still as nasty as ever.
They are planning a daring campaign
of sabotage on New Year’s Day. What could it be? I must find out. I’ve heard
rumours around the corridors of power to the effect that Egypt’s high road
accident rate has been directly traced to CLEAN rebels who uproot street
lights, plant pot holes and remove road signs by canals. Could that be their
devilish plan?
Place: 26th
July Street, Zamalek
Date: 1st
January 2001
Time: Early
hours of New Year
I have spent
an unfruitful week trying to figure out what those CLEAN, green, vegetable lovers
are planning to do, but my time is up. How will I ever get to them in time?
The road is
gridlocked. I check the time. Then I realise it can’t be the mad dash home for
Iftar because Ramadan is over. I get out of the taxi and look over the roofs of
the paralysed traffic. I see a group of protestors wearing gas masks and
marching around in a circle. They carry signs that read, “It ain’t fair! So
beware! Don’t dare take away our air!”
They are
being ringed in by a group of stern-looking riot police who also boast head
garments in the form of helmets and visors.
As I watch these bizarre New Year's
festivities in bewilderment, something catches my eye. On the roof of a
building is a powerful beam light directed at the 15th May flyover.
I wonder to myself if they are shooting a movie up on the bridge. I investigate
and find no cameras rolling or actors on the bridge. Suddenly, I hear a screech
of brakes and a car mounts the pavement that divides the lanes.
I leap off the bridge onto the
street beneath. I mount the stairs of the building and head for the roof. I
find a group of men embracing each other ecstatically as the screech of more
brakes resonates around us. One of the men turn to face me. It's... It's...
It's Uncle Nokta. What’s he doing
here?
“Haflatoun!” he says surprised to
see me.
“Uncle, I didn't know you were a
CLEAN activist,” I say, intrigued, as we sip our tea.
“Would you want your kids to grow up
in an environment like this?” he asks rhetorically.
“I don’t have any kids,” I answer literally.
Despite my interruption, he warms to
his theme and becomes wistful. “I dream of a brave new world where everyone
travels on horseback or donkeyback, with wide, green spaces that are safe for
our children to play in. I dream of a place where the air doesn’t need a health
warning and where the elements are basic and uncontaminated.”
“Oh Uncle,” I say, moved. “Take me with you.” Tears come involuntarily to my eyes. I can hardly see as my eyes mist over. I start coughing violently.
There is a bright and blinding flash
as the beam light explodes. Have I been touched by a phenomenon? No, the plot
here is much too fast for that comatose production.
“Haflatoun, we’re pulling out,”
yells my uncle as he pulls me forcefully away. Another tear gas canister lands
on the rooftop. “Come on,” he slaps me out of my daze, “We must get away.
They’ve come to get us.”
As the mysterious, unknown forces close in, we
head for a CLEAN safe-house.
This piece appeared in the January 2001 issue
of Egypt’s Insight magazine.
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