Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

said, his back to the world, See here, Viv, C here.

Vivian guffawed.

Or perhaps our secret chief said, C here, Viv, C here. Or he might have said, See here, Viv, see here.

Or in other words, who in God's name has any idea what he said? No doubt a secret C has to be unknowable by nature, a regular Delphic oracle when it comes to garbled meanings and ambiguous messages.

Vivian nodded eagerly.

You're beginning to smile, sir, so it's obvious we agree as to the essentials. Now then, to continue.

Viv? muttered C, addressing the wall, please listen carefully because I can only say this once. The Suez Canal is in danger, the very lifeline of the Empire, and we need a reliable man down there to keep an eye on the locks. So just pick up that black pill on the desk behind me, that thing that looks like a jelly bean, regulation potassium cyanide in case life ever seems as black as all that, and head for the Nile and may the best team win.

And there you have it, sir, and all the time while C had his back to me, he seemed to be knitting.

Knitting? asked Joe.

Vivian chuckled.

Right, sir. The knitting needles of fate, I suppose. Then after that I was given intensive training in silence and exile and cunning, and a quick course in forgery with emphasis on forging the uncreated conscience of the race, and here I am. Vivian of Arabia . . Now then.

***

Vivian hummed a music-hall tune and started the engine. A thunderous roar crashed around them. Vivian grinned, shouting to be heard above the deafening noise.

Sorry about that, sir. Hole in the exhaust somewhere, only happened yesterday. Haven't had time to let the maintenance apes get their paws on it.

I see.

What?

It's a nice day, shouted Joe, leaning into Vivian in order to be heard. When Joe sat back again he seemed more at ease. He reached under his jacket, apparently to scratch himself somewhere, but actually to tuck away Vivian's wallet, newly stolen, in an inside pocket.

That's better, shouted Joe. Carry on.

Very good, sir. Off we go then.

There was a fierce grinding noise and the small delivery van went careening away down the runway at full speed, the heavy tread of its soft desert tires screeching wildly. Vivian laughed and swerved back and forth, assuming a racing position. Joe stared. The impressive walrus moustache had come loose in the wind, revealing a cloth backing to it and a thin line of glue above Vivian's upper lip. One end of the waxed moustache had climbed up his face, giving him a permanently crooked smile. And when he bared his teeth at a spot of grease on the runway and careened around it, snarling as he whipped the wheel to and fro, the expression on his face seemed dangerously close to delirium.

A gate with a sentry box came into view. Vivian began to slow down.

Security check coming up, he yelled. Just play dumb, sir. I'll handle these sun-crazed dolts.

They stopped. Several military policemen were standing around in front of the sentry box, metal cups in their hands. When one of them came over to the van, Vivian leaned out and sniffed at the man's cup.

Tea, he yelled to Joe, and turned back to the military policeman.

This shabbily dressed fellow, he screamed, is a Yank who's come over to win the war for us. But see here, lance corporal or battle-ax corporal or whatever you are, you look like you could use a stiff one this morning, right?

Vivian guffawed.

Am I right? Right?

The military policeman studied the card Vivian had given him.

What's this? he asked in wonder.

What's what, my dear fellow?

The military policeman read out loud.

This coupon good for all the bearer can drink at the Kit Kat Kabaret. Just say Ahmad sent you and you'll never be sorry. But remember, AHMAD SENT ME. Those are always the magic words in the ancient land of the pyramids.

(And Ahmad also has other coupons, if you are interested. See him today and make your dreams come true. Mummies available by special appointment.)

The military policeman stared down at Vivian, who laughed happily.

Wrong pocket, what? Have to keep a tight rein on before breakfast. But look here, my dear fellow, why don't you keep that bit of cheer as a gift from the management? Now then, this is what we're looking for when there's a war on.

Vivian fumbled in another pocket and came up with a pass. The military policeman waved them through.

They left the airport and worked their way into a long line of military traffic moving in the direction of the city. Before they had gone very far Vivian began screaming again.

Now I know what you're dying to ask me, sir. What about the locals, is that it? The other fellows can loll over their gin and beer when they're not giving it a go in their tanks, but a spy has to move through the desert the way a fish swims through water, right? As the old saying goes?

So what about the locals, you say, sir? Well as history tells us, the casts of thousands who built the pyramids were fed exclusively on onions and garlic and radishes.

Vivian belched noisily.

Got the picture, sir? Stink's the word I had in mind. No doubt onions and garlic and radishes must have fired up those extras who built the pyramids, but the truth is, five thousand years of history haven't made your average Gippo's breath any sweeter. Brings us up to date, does it?

They turned off the highway and drove through crowded streets. Vivian was continually honking the horn and waving and smiling at the masses of people.

Bloody wogs, he shrieked out of the corner of his mouth. They look a fruitless bunch but they're cunning, cunning's the word.

Joe's eyes widened. They had been inching along more and more slowly through the crowds until they had to stop altogether. While Vivian was turned toward Joe, the gaunt solemn face of an Arab had suddenly appeared in the window right behind Vivian. At first the Arab didn't seem to be begging, merely curious. He studied the interior of the van, a piece of chalk between his teeth. Then he stared hard at the back of Vivian's head, pulled his own head out of the window and took the chalk from between his teeth.

He seemed to be writing something, and sure enough, a small blackboard appeared outside the window a moment later.

I AM A MARXIST MOSLEM MUTE.

GIVE ME ONE LARGE FREE ORDER OF GREASY

CHIPS BUT PLEASE HOLD THE SALT. I'M

ON A SALT-FREE DIET BECAUSE IT IS WRITTEN,

LIKE DESTINY AND HISTORY.

PRAISE BE TO ALLAH AND MARX, ALL POWER

TO MOHAMMED AND STALIN.

THANKS. HAVE A NICE DAY.

A slatternly people, screamed Vivian, unaware of the blackboard wagging a few inches behind his head.

Just plain slack, he shrieked. Fingers always on the move, sir, never forget that for a moment.

The blackboard disappeared. A hard wipe of the Arab's arm across the slate and he was writing again.

The blackboard bobbed up.

ARE YOU REFUSING TO SERVE ME BECAUSE I'M DARK-SKINNED?

I've said it before and I'll say it again, screamed Vivian. You can never be too careful when you're rubbing shoulders out here.

The Arab looked murderous. Down went the blackboard, up it came again.

BUGGER YOUR CHIPS, YOU GREASY CAPITALIST FISH.

Vivian stared hard at Joe.

In other words, watch out for wogs. Got it, sir?

***

They drove awhile longer and finally pulled up on a quiet back street with the engine off. Joe sat entranced, listening to the squeals and cries of the city.

Here we are, sir.

Fine, Viv. Where?

A time-dishonored area, sir, well known to romantic travelers before the war as the Coptic Quarter and also as Old Cairo, but known to its residents, now as then, as simply a slum. Once infamous, now merely famous. This alley you will be going to is legally called the rue Lepsius, but popularly remembered as the rue Clapsius. It's said that a good part of nineteenth-century Cairo acquired an incurable dose of nostalgia in these shadowy byways, and certainly the byways do give that impression. So if I do say so myself, sir, it seems an appropriate setting for your poetic Irish reveries between passes at the bottle.