Thin ice
By
Nigel Ryan
It is 1am, perhaps a little later. Standing in front of the main entrance to Groppi's flagship Talaat Harb shop, a sad place if ever there was one -- the perfect venue to end a relationship over a cup of bitter coffee, perhaps, but not for much else beyond admiring the secessionist inspired light fittings that have miraculously yet to be sold off -- and you have a perfect view of the square, and of the statue of the financier at its centre. Recently renovated, the pavements now resemble an ice-skating rink: covered in polished granite they are a little too slippery for comfort. The buildings that front the square have also received a lick of paint. Indeed, there has been an attempt to colour coordinate, in cream with details of mouldings and shutters picked out in an awkward, lurid green. And now there are bollards, little cast iron posts jutting from the pavement and linked together with chains, presumably to prevent those pedestrians nervous of venturing across the dangerously polished surface from escaping into the less treacherously surfaced road.
This little bit of city centre refurbishment was completed less than two months ago. It boasts, in addition to the bollards, a set of curiously constructed lampposts. These are multi lanterned, irredeemably kitsch versions of the carriage lamp: like so much that is implanted in the centre of this city of 17 million they are determined to ignore anything that might be construed as an urban aesthetic in favour of something much more suburban. Just think of the recently constructed statue, complete with pedestals built from reconstructed stone on which rest more carriage lamps, intended to honour Abdel- Moniem Riyad, at one time Egypt's most decorated soldier. It would be hard to conceive of a more inappropriate monument, in a more incongruous location. The intention, it sometimes seems, is to force the impression that you are standing not in a city square, but on a patio in the garden of a house on an estate. It is an odd aesthetic to attempt to impose in the heart of downtown Cairo, but in such incongruities lies a certain amount of charm. Someone, somewhere, you can console yourself, is having fun.
Thankfully, Cairo is old enough to know that nothing is permanent. Urban renovation schemes have a remarkably short life here: no sooner is something complete than it is once again being ripped up and redesigned. The wires that snake their way up the hollow posts that support the carriage lamps will, and sooner rather than later, once again be exposed, tangled webs of electric cables, gordian knots woven into tortured arabesques waiting to be untied and inserted in yet another bit of metal tubing. Do not be fooled by the seeming permanence of granite. Pavements, especially those covered in polished stone, are not really intended for walking. They are there to be ripped up at some point in the not too distant future and then relaid in some other, perhaps even shinier material.
Take comfort in the fact that several of the light bulbs installed in the top of these newly erected bollards barely eight weeks ago are now broken and unlikely to be replaced. Find solace, too, in the fact that several of the elongated carriage lamps now cast no light.
Nothing lasts. Remember the four metre high mosaic urns that several years ago appeared overnight on the pavements? Where are they now? Remember, too, the metal baskets, several metres high, that for a time served as containers for straggling and forlorn plants? They, too, have virtually disappeared, except in a few forgotten locations. To my certain knowledge at least one remains, in front of Helmiya police station. The plants it contains are as bedraggled as ever, but there sits the basket on its tiny traffic island, a reminder of earlier attempts to adorn the city with inappropriate knick knacks.
Helmiya police station occupies a stunning art nouveau villa, a concoction of fantastical serpentine details all painted a remarkably unpolice station-like chewing gum pink. It was once, so I have been told -- though I have to confess I have yet to verify this piece of information -- the family home of Hassan El-Banna, and I am often happy to think of him playing, as a child, amid its extravagant details. In many capitals of the world the building would be listed and preserved. In Cairo it is allowed to fall into a state of ever greater decay: a sad memory of the time when this particular district of Cairo comprised pieces of sought after real estate. The villa, of course, is a piece of the city's history: as such it has been ignored. But the metal basket, too, is a piece of that history. One or two examples should be preserved. A forward-looking Supreme Council of Antiquities should, perhaps, consider slapping a preservation order on them, if only for the amusement of future generations. It would be a pity if they were to slip into an unrecorded oblivion alongside the mosaic pots.
1.30am and still in Talaat Harb Square. The broken lights are surprisingly reassuring. The lack of maintenance can come to seem very close to a lack of conviction. And that, with regard to schemes such as the renovation of this particular square, is no bad thing. It leaves hope for the future. Some contractor, somewhere, is probably wringing his hands at the thought of the soon to be issued contract to once again refurbish this space with objects yet more outlandish.
