AND NOW JUST THAT LITTLE FURTHER TOO FAR (The illegalized Walk - part 2)

There I go, white shirt, grey suit, black tie and boots, carrying the gaping hole in the world of meaning through a chaotic world of matter called Cairo, that is: the universe imploding, civilisation torn down and swept aside on a dustpan, the nineteenth and twentieth century collapsed into an arid gutter, a shoe trodden down and thrown at the laughing God lounging high up there in his heavenly Jacuzzi drawing caricatures of his own Prophet on small sheets of paper that he releases lazily and one by one into a slowly descend on the upturned faces of his ridiculed creatures in the dark.

Oh, no, God isn't dead, he just smells funny. So, there I go, having already gone too far, already beyond the End, but being a caricature of the imperial man I am drawing more and more attention, step by step I am having more and more followers, natives in white uniforms and natives in black uniforms and secret serving officers I just haven't noticed, being the avant-garde, the one that just looks ahead and already far too far into the future. And then, having just crossed the obscured Tala'at Harb Square and reappeared in the white lights of the Friday night, having just passed smilingly by a white uniformed police officer sitting in his shack I suddenly feel the soft hand of a lover nestle into mine leading me into a swift U-turn and walking me back into my own past while the rest of the loveable body dressed in white as a marine, shining black boots, black beret, black machine gun hanging from the one-starred shoulder leans a heavy reek of rot upon me mumbling oral hieroglyphs while pointing with his finger into the dark past before us. And suddenly, like ants from a collapsed anthill, they swarm around us, the normal police officers, one-starred, two-starred, three-starred up to three-starred-with-an-eagle, in their marine-like white uniforms, and the black Central Security officers, one- two- and three-starred black, having finally left their armed car that has been hovering on a corner of the square since I arrived in this city, even some of the sandcoloured traffic police officers has joined the gang, and worst of all men on earth, the National Security officers disguised as their own poor selves in dusty shirts and shitcoloured trousers, worn-out loafers, and not even daring to look directly through you, but like hyenas letting their restless glance glide in the in-betweens. They grab me and drag me here and there and out into the gutter between two parked cars, and while another four appear dragging the camera crew out into the light the other twenty make me produce my passport and grab it and like ants turn their swarming backs upon me and huddle together over the passport placed on the bonnet of a car, the owner right behind the windscreen in a deep open-mouthed sleep unnoticed by the swarm huddling over the opened passport studying the Robert Mapplethorpe-1985-portrait of Andy Warhol that I have given the Danish authorities as a stand-in in the void of my lack of identity. The passing by citizens look surprisingly freely at the scene, a distinguished quite strong and intellectual looking man even stops and takes a step out on the kerb and asks me if I'm having any kind of political problems here in Egypt? - Well, yeah, I'm afraid so, I say in a wry smile. Meanwhile the camera crew in polite obedience has turned off her camera and, seemingly unseen by any other than me, instead turned on the micro camera hanging as a talisman in a fake-silver chain around her young neck. Suddenly the youngest of the white mariners, a two-starred Second Lieutenant cut out of a Hollywood romantic teenage comedy, well-trained and self-absorbed, put up his hand holding the two passports like a trophy and escapes the swarm, which instead again turns upon me and then the hour-long interrogation begins.

Each of the more than twenty all-kinds-of-officers has his personal cell-phone, and each of them constantly calls or are being called by his seemingly personal superior, his personal Him, the forever Unseen. And as the questioning proceeds the swarm slowly unfold into countless minor and these few major characters: the young ambitious Second Lieutenant constantly marching forth and back holding the aubergine-coloured European double-trophy in his hand-of-the-Egyptian-future; his only present superior, the distinguished elderly three-stars-and-eagle brigadier with a strong touch of grey in his hair; the iron-pumped, but over-fed Central Security Second Lieutenant constantly referring to his American equivalences, SWAT, the Special Weapons Sometingsomething; and always only partly visible behind their backs, the worst of them all: the dried-up and withered mummy of a National Security unofficer, a human Gollum, with big dark purple shades under his sunken eyes, rotten teeth, constantly moving while looking exactly not at me. I try to greet him, make him notice me, but in vain, he is a used battery leaking hate that silently poisons me. - Name! says the old brigadier, - first name, and second name, and third name! And for the fourth and fifth and sixth time I slowly repeat the three cover names written in my passport that the young second lieutenant holds in his hand just beside his superior. And the superior repeats or tries and fails to repeat the names and then asks me to spell them, and I spell them, and again he tries and fails to repeat, and then calls his unseen superior, and instead of looking into the passport he asks his subordinate to spell the three names, and then, letter by letter, repeats them to the unseen superior. And so on and so on and: - Where you come from? - Why have you come here to Egypt? - What are you doing? - What does this flag meaning? - Is it something connected to the Prophet of Muhammad? - No, it is the Flag of Friendship, alam el Sadakam, I say, and he translates to the superior Him, the big Unseen. And the big Unseen speaks, and the old brigadier translates His questions: - Is it an apology? - An apology for what? - Is it an apology from the peoples of Denmark? - An apology for what? I say, - It is the Flag of Friendship! And I wonder if the Big Unseen is maybe connected to some Egyptian state media? Am I tomorrows Messenger from the North, the carrier of the Flag of Apology, the white flag with a hole in the centre that is on it's way to becoming the new and permanent Flag of Denmark waving in Al Jazeera? The young Second Lieutenant has shifted his aubergine-coloured trophy to the other hand, and pressing his cell phone between shoulder and ear, he, with his freed hand, unfolds the flag and inspects it. - Do you like the flag? I say smiling. - What? he says. - Do you like my flag? - Oh, yes, is ... nice, he says. - Thanksalot, I say.

But then they take me by the sweatdarkened collar and drag us over the Tala'at Harb Square and towards our hotel, the starless Lotus, and, oh god! I think, and as I stumble head-long in their grip I imagine them rummage through my bags producing first the big A-3-posters showing colour-photos of the naked and supposed Muhammad Statue that right now lies unseen by the Egyptian people in his custody-kept coffin in the airport; and then the black box which they open finding on a white silk cloth a pair of black silk gloves covering the little hammer that I have been given an brought here to the land of Egypt to complete my mission: the destruction of the supposed statue of the Prophet Muhammad, my god!            

To be continued?

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