It was a procession, not his own wish but of the insistence of the people. The Bulaq district street was a river of people, and he was the reluctant current within it. They had come in answer to the headline in the paper, to the TV debates, a tidal wave of desperate expectation crashing against the columns of his own declining anonymity. They called his name—Al-Munsif! Al-Mujaddid!—so much so that the very air seemed to vibrate with it. Sarah and two guards from the camp who had offered to be his bodyguards stood on either side of him, their bodies stiff barriers against the applause. Sarah's hand was always a gentle, insistent pressure against his back, urging him forward, her eyes sweeping the crowd with a sniper's intensity. She had protested this. Passionately. But the entreaties had b
