THE REVELATION OF SAINT NIELSEN THE BANNED

In the last hour before dawn I arrive at the square, once a village square now the last square at the fringe of the city of Cairo. Beyond this square there is nothing. No History. Only desert. It is five to five, the night is still and cold, the square deserted, the houses around it sleeping. At my arrival a shadow slides out of a dark shop, shuddering in his frock. He stops and lights a cigarette. – I am looking for Dabscha, friend to Amr, I say. – What Dabscha, the shadow says, - there are two, brothers, one Ismail and one Mohammad. – Ismail Dabscha, I say. - Mr. Dabscha is on his way, says the shadow, - please have a seat. I remain standing, flag in hand, the hole in the centre hidden, veiled like a newborn child wrapped in white silk, dusty and grimy after the long journey through the city, the night. I watch the square. In the shadows of dry trees something is moving slightly, a camel or a lonely mule. Beyond the houses a cock crows. After a while a man appears out of the darkness leading three horses. He stops. The horses are old. – You are Dabscha, friend of Amr? – Yes sir, he says. – You will take me past the pyramids and into the desert? – Yes sir, I will, but not me, the boy. – What boy? I say. – The boy is on his way, please have a seat! He lights a cigarette. I remain standing. – I bring you three horses, the man says, - one for the boy, one for the lady, and one for you. – I walk, I say, - I am the Prophet. – Even a prophet one day needs a horse to carry him. – I walk, I say. – Even Isa entered the city of Jerusalem on an ass. – You are right, I say, - But I walk.

After a while the boy arrives. – I am Tamer, the boy says, - I will take you to the desert, you will be there before sun rise, when sun rise you will see the pyramids, or maybe you will not, maybe there is a mist, and you will see only desert and mist, please mount on your horses. – I walk, I say. – No, sir, the boy says and shakes his head, - you cannot walk, sir, it is the desert, it is long way. – I walk, I say, - I am the Prophet! The boy looks at me. Then he turns his head and looks at his boss. The boss shrugs. Or spits. Or reels of a prayer. The night is still and dark. – Let's go, says the boy and offers his hand to the film crew and helps her mount one of the tired old horses and then jumps upon the second. And whether I climb the third and ride through the night and into the desert like a prophet or stubbornly keep to the ground and walk the flag towards the dawn of a new day is up to those who may follow, to you.

And this is what I see as I leave you, peoples of Egypt, peoples of the world, and go before you back in time, past the first icons of civilization, the pyramids, and into the future: On my right hand I see a long wall separating time from eternity, city from desert, and on my left hand I see shadows of decaying houses and huts, and suddenly there is a thunder rolling, and out of the darkness before me a band of young boys standing in stirrups bend taut as bows almost flying, their forearms and right elbows lifted over the glistening backs of foaming horses, yelling and howling break the silence of night and vanish behind me leaving the night cracked open into the first grey of dawn, the long cloud of dust slowly sinking to the ground.

And then I see the dirt road bending away from the wall and leading us into a narrow passage between run-down houses, no lights, but sudden invisible waves of damp air, the sharp and deep smell of animals, - no peoples live here, the boy called Tamer says, - behind all these walls, in all these houses there is only animals, horses, camels, you ever ride a camel? – No, I say, - I walk.

Then the road takes a turn, past the last leaning house or shack of Cairo, and to my left I see a line of dry trees standing out of the grey of dawn, and to my right I see a graveyard, no flowers, no bushes, just big square stone tables lying like closed doors in the dust. As I pass a black bundle unfurls into a woman straightening up and looking up on me, her lips moving in prayer or curse. I see the path opening into a nowhere, an in-between, neither field, nor desert, the ground boggling with dung, burned straw and rubbish, the heat from hidden embers, veils of cold smoke moving in the rise of the desert wind, a lonely withered tree and under the tree an old couple, man and wife, older than History, stooping, shovelling the stinking remains of a burned out civilization into large plastic bags. And I see the path slowly rising out of the smouldering and into the desert, up along a fence vanishing into the dark grey now slowly turning into a light brown haze over the dunes. And I see another band of horses suddenly rolling out of the haze down along the fence towards us, the boys yelling wild as gypsies as they pass. And then nothing. The haze. The dunes, dirty and grimy, rising and falling before me. And I see the Prophet walking along the endless fence separating desert from desert holding the Law, a soft silken tabula unfurling, flapping in the desert wind, the hole moving like a mute mouth in the centre. I see three horses and three human beings, two men and one woman, and on the slope behind the desert path the carcass of a dark horse, a stray dog digging into the steaming entrails.

I see the long dune rising into a small desert mountain and on the soft peak a shack made of sheet metal, cardboard, remains of old rugs, and open to one side, and to the other, leaning against the rugs, an old armchair, imperial style, once pink now yellow from desert dust, surrounded by dark ashes, burned poles, old drums, soda cans and rubbish in a motionless rolling down the slopes. I stop before the dark opening and I see a human shape huddled-up in a dirty blanket on the ground inside, feet slightly protruding, wrapped in rags. The boy called Tamer dismounts his horse and bends over the huddled-up and calls a name and the shape grunts and vaguely moves. – What is it? I say. – A boy, the boy called Tamer says, - he lives here, alone, since he was seven, he left his family and went up here to live alone on the top of this mountain in the desert. Sometimes, if people pass by this mountain, they will stop and he will make tea for them. And I see the older boy bending over the younger and once again calling that name. And slowly the shape unwraps itself from the blankets and sits up rubbing its eyes with dirty hands, mumbling something neither words nor song. And later I see the young boy stooping, stirring up yesterday's embers into the pale and faint fire of a new day. And later again I see the two boys sitting side by side on a board in the opening of the shack, the older smoking a cigarette, the younger hunched over, forehead resting upon hands as if praying or crying or drowsing or mourning or pondering or deep in despair. And I go to the other side of the shack and stand for a while, and in the distance I see three triangular shapes slowly appearing out of and then again disappearing into the luminous haze. I have to go, I say to myself, and I turn towards the shack and suddenly I cry out, - Tamer! Tamer, it is time to go! And from behind the shack not Tamer, but the young boy appears and he stops before me and looks at me, and I look into his eyes, and I see that they are deep, an endless space opening into itself, and I look into that space and I see that there is mildness and no doubt, and I see that he is wise, wiser than Tamer, wiser than me, wiser than time and the peoples of Cairo, and he takes my hand and he looks at me and his hand is dry and old and warm. – I have to go, I say. And he slowly and patiently shakes his head. – I have to, I say, - it is time. – You must wait for the tea, the boy says. – Why? I say. – It is special tea, made from the fire. And then he lets go of my hand and disappears behind the shack, and I close my eyes and once again I see the three huge triangular shapes sinking out of and into and out of and into the luminous haze, and I realize that I don't know if they were there or if what I saw was just made out of my seeing, a vague breathing in the brain, the retina waving like a transparent curtain in the desert light. And I open my eyes and there right before me I see the shack made out of discarded sheet metal, torn up cardboard boxes, remains of old rugs silently moving in the desert wind, and I see that it is for real, it is there, and if it is the last remains of civilization or the beginning of a new I cannot say. And instead the boy reappears from behind the shack and stops before me and hands me the bottom of an old can, steam curling up into the sharp morning light. I look into his eyes, - thank you, I say. And I raise the can to my mouth and he watches me carefully as I blow onto the surface and then take a sip. And the taste is the taste of tea, it is, it is the taste of tea and yet there is more, there is the taste of the fire, the taste of this place, of the shack and the sheet metal, the cardboard, the rugs, they boy, his life and my death and the desert. – Thank you, I say and I hand him the can and I turn and pick up the flag and start walking slowly down the slope and then over the next dune and down behind it and into the desert.