YOU ARE NOW LEAVING SAINT LOUIS – VOUS ÊTES DE QUITTER SAINT-LOUIS
The big metal sign curves overhead as we cross the line between west and east.
Sunset in the Sinai and it still feels hotter than Hades. My helmet’s like an oven, and I’m sweating more salt into my uniform.
“Stay loose, kids,” Big Sarge mutters. Everything he says sounds like it’s coming out of a garbage disposal – too many cigarettes’ll do that to you. “No need to get stressed and stiff tonight. You look like a bunch of robots.” A beat. “Except you, Bourcier, you’re too damn ugly to be a robot.”
“What’s that even mean?” Bourcier mutters.
Good question.
Then we’re leaving the blue zone behind. Going in, going east, it’s smooth sailing.
The other way, into Saint Louis, it’s the exodus. Three hundred thousand Copts and Latins in the east, and almost every damn one of them left already. These are the stragglers... and there’s a lot of them. The line must be a mile long. A mile of human misery.
I can’t help but glance at Melik. His family lived north of the city – had for three hundred years. They left months ago.
Whatever he’s feeling, he’s not showing it.
We head north on Avenue des Chevaliers (sorry, Jadd al-Tahrir), and the banter, such as it was, stops. It’s still ours until midnight, but they’re already changing Élisabethville into Dar al-Adl.
The statues are gone off their pedestals. St. Louis, King Renaud, Charles Dequenne, all of them, probably smashed to bits.
The flags are green and white instead of blue and gold. The only fleur-de-lis left is over the governor’s house. Check my watch... three hours until that goes down for the last time.
The signs are in Arabic here instead of French, which isn’t entirely new. What’s new is that all the signs are Arabic.
Everyone is smiling and laughing at us. We’re like whipped dogs about to go running home.
I can’t help but think what if... what if we’d just fought harder, what if we’d caught the Lion before he went from a whisper to a whirlwind, what if Naples had stuck with us...
What if... what if... what if...
Eight centuries and it all ends tonight.
No wonder they’re happy.
“Melik, move your team across the boulevard,” Big Sarge suddenly says.
Sergeant Pierre nods and me, Digne and Giroud scoot our way to the far side of the street. It’s wide, as far as it goes in the east, but not too wide we’re out of sight of Team A.
“Nour, you’re on point. Then me, then Digne, then Fat Albert.”
Nods all around as we readjust our line. My bad luck to be lead gun tonight of all nights.
We’re moving past a cross street, a narrow little thing that leads into one of the mazes of alleys and back streets and side streets that give grunts nightmares. If anything went bad when we were wandering around the maze,
you’d be lighting candles for us tomorrow night.
That’s when the evening silence is broken. Every muezzin in every minaret of every mosque in the city starts chanting, calling out the faithful to Muslim vespers.
Not just that, but since it’s Muslim Lent, the daily fast is over. Hell of a combination.
We could have picked a better day, couldn’t we? Couldn’t we even win one last little thing?
Don’t think about it. Life goes on, right?
Think about home. Yeah. Home’s good.
Back home in Alexandria, the St. John’s Eve bonfires are probably going full blast by now. I can picture mom and dad and everyone else out front of Abu Faransis waiting for the priest and the retinue to process up.
In Saint Louis, they’re probably just about lighting the bonfires.
Not here in the peninsula. The only blazes are trash can fires in the alleys. Congregations of derelicts worshiping the great god – Alcohol, not Allah.
The good Muslims are starting to take to the streets and head for their neighborhood mosque.
The not-so-good ones are probably sipping at Greek wine they bought in the west and snuck home in the bottom of their bags. Good luck keeping that up, guys.
“Stay alert,” Sergeant Pierre warns as the streets begin to fill. Our bad luck – we’re just a quarter mile from al-Ayyub Mosque, the spiritual heart of the Sinaï. The place holds thousands of people, and it looks like every single one of them is taking Cheval – al-Tahrir – to get there.
“We should have trucks for this shit,” Digne grumbles.
Man’s got a point. This vest, this helmet, it’s fine for rocks, but if anybody gets really wild, I’m going to be bleeding all over this crappy old street.
“Zip it,” Sergeant Pierre says.
He does.
We all start quick-timing it without being told. The locals give us lots of clearance, but it’s still a mess. Anybody could do anything right now and we’d have no idea what or where.
Keep going, just keep going.
Hail Mary, please don’t let them hurl rocks at us tonight. Let that all be over with.
Some stupid part of my brain says that once we draw even with al-Ayyub (it’s east of us) that the crowds will thin out.
Then I remember people will come from the other direction, too, and want to kick myself in the head.
(TBC)