Concrete blocks closed the street where the Israeli embassy stood at the end. General Security policemen kept guard on the pavement. Two guys in suits were slumped on plastic chairs, VHF radios on their hips and machine pistols over their shoulders. I spotted a boy coming out of a building nearby.

“Hey, brother, can you help me?”

“What’s the matter, brother?”

“I’m not feeling very well, I need to go to the toilet.”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“Do you work for the embassy?”

“No, thank God! I’ve got nothing to do with those people, I’m Swiss.”

He smiled.

“Switzerland, land of peace. Ahlan wa sahlan (welcome)!”

I followed him up to the second floor. He went in first and I heard him talking to a woman, probably his mother. Then he reappeared and beckoned me in. I took off my shoes and followed him. The boy gave me some flip-flops and I locked myself in the toilet. I stayed in there for a while to allay suspicion.

“Are you all right?” he asked me when I came out.

“Erm, I’m feeling a bit tired. I think I’m ill. Can I have a rest here?”

“Il beet beetak” (the house is yours).

He led me into the living room. It was a small room with a shabby carpet on the floor and armchairs on three sides in a style reminiscent of nineteenth-century French furniture. Sacred images hung on the wall. My hosts were Coptic. I sat down by the window. It looked out onto the street. Just what I needed.