Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

The tower room he had entered might have served once as a lookout for the ancient place, for it was small and round with tall narrow slits cut through the thick masonry at regular intervals, giving a view or the desert in every direction. Tiny shafts of brilliant sunshine pierced the heavy shadows of the little room, which was still gloomy at that early hour despite the blinding light outside.

A man with only one arm, immaculately dressed in starched khakis, stood close to one of the slits in the far wall. His back was turned but he appeared to be studying the desert to the west, the direction of the advancing Germans. The man held himself rigidly erect at parade rest, his one hand tucked stiffly into the small of his back. The orderly waited. After a moment a dim strain of organ music rose from somewhere below in the ancient fortress. The man with one arm swung around to face the orderly.

Oh it's you. What is it?

The orderly held out a sheet of paper to his superior, who read the message at a glance and turned to gaze out again at the desert.

Well well, he murmured. So our new Purple Seven is finally in place and ready to begin. .

He smiled, his face hidden from the orderly.

Who met the Armenian at the airport?

The actor, sir. The man called Liffy. He knows nothing. He met the plane and took the Armenian directly to the Hotel Babylon.

The man with one arm laughed.

For the Armenian, a bizarre introduction to Cairo, no doubt. And also perhaps a trifle misleading. .

Well he has much to learn but not much time to do it in. Are the maps laid out for the briefing?

Yes, sir.

I'll be down in ten minutes. Have the shutters closed and everything ready.

Yes, sir.

That's all.

Yes, sir.

The orderly clicked his heels and left, quietly closing the door behind him. From the depths of the Monastery the organ music soared and swelled more loudly, filling the small tower room with its booming echoes.

Stern, muttered the man with one arm, his face hard. And now we'll finally be done with this traitor and Rommel won't know our every move before we make it. . But we must be meticulous, without a mistake.

Without a mistake, he repeated, his eyes narrow as he sensuously stroked the thick medieval masonry protecting him from the merciless glare of the desert sun.

— 5-

Liffy

Several nights later Joe was sitting alone in his tiny hotel room, perched on the windowsill gazing out at the darkness, when all at once a light rapping fell on the door, so soft he almost didn't hear it.

Two knocks for food and three for drink, although he hadn't asked Ahmad for anything. With one hand in his pocket, Joe crossed to the door and opened it.

A slight man faced him from the middle of the corridor, a nondescript figure neither young nor old, his nationality impossible to place. The man's eyes darted back and forth and he kept moving his lips, a twitch here and a nibble there, his face abruptly smiling and somber and uneasy by turns.

Joe stared in wonder.

Most amazing mouth I've ever seen, he thought. Just never stops at all.

A wild gleam suddenly flashed in the stranger's eyes, an eerie play of colors and lusters and depths. He shuffled his feet and shifted his weight, his height shooting up and down as he did so. Then his gaze cast about in panic and he retreated even farther away down the corridor, never once looking at Joe, staring down at the floor in defeat.

Bundle of nerves all right, thought Joe.

The stranger sputtered and grinned, shaking his head as if some overwhelming doubt had seized him.

Even his size seemed to expand and contract as Joe watched him moving back and forth in the corridor, now large and looming as he worked his elbows and thrust his head forward, then small and shrinking as he subsided back into himself, not a part of him ever still, his entire presence constantly changing.

To and fro, thought Joe, like a wee boat tossing on the shadowy nighttides of the Nile. But what's it supposed to mean and who is he anyway?

The stranger's arms were heaped with shopping bags, which he was having trouble holding together. He took a step forward and attempted what might have been meant as a smile, but the smile abruptly faded and a gargling sound rose in his throat, an effort to speak gone wrong.

Arghh?

Graaa. .

Joe was reminded of a shy lion cub fitfully rolling its head and muttering to itself.

Can I help you? asked Joe, reaching for the bags before they fell. He scooped up several and carried them back inside the room. The stranger still stood in the hallway, nervously shifting his weight back and forth.

Don't you want to come in?

Two if for food and three if for drink, muttered the stranger. Paul Revere said that.

The stranger reluctantly shuffled forward, avoiding Joe's eyes. There was a wistful sadness in his voice.

The hell with Paul Revere, who cares about him. You don't recognize me, do you?

I don't think so, said Joe. Should I?

I suppose not. I suppose there's no reason why anybody should ever recognize me. That's my problem.

Excuse me?

Being recognized as myself, when I'm myself. Nobody ever does. Wouldn't you find that a problem too?

Joe had to resist an urge to wrap his arms around the stranger, so forlorn did he seem. Instead he eased the last paper bag out of the man's arms and put it safely down on the table.

They're heavy. What's in them?

The stranger shuffled his feet in embarrassment and said nothing. Joe touched the man's arm.

Who are you?

The stranger stole a timid glance at Joe and lowered his eyes.

I'm the official tourist guide for this street, he whispered, although frankly business has been terrible since the war started. The last war, that is, not this one. But nonetheless. .

Yes?

The stranger took a deep breath.

. . but nonetheless, the rue Clapsius was once world-famous among those who knew the secret of life.

In fact this little rue used to be considered the ultimate oasis of the soul by many, many philosophers.

There was even a popular saying acknowledging the fact. See the rue Clapsius and leave the world humming. And do you know why this little rue used to be considered more significant, finally, than the Sphinx and the pyramids and even the Nile?

Why?

Because of its hum-jobs. History is really very simple, isn't it?

Joe's eyes widened. He stared at the stranger, who continued to move nervously back and forth, his mouth working all the while, never still.

Hum-jobs, you say?

That's right, muttered the stranger, and I'm talking now about the ultimate in good vibrations. The whores on this little rue, you see, were once spectacularly clever at humming off their customers. So much so that it wasn't at all unusual to find philosophers from every corner of the globe, strong men, determined men, simply curled up and gurgling on the cobblestones at all hours of the day and night, unable even to drool, not even a hint of a syllogism in their heads, mere husks of their former selves. . But what do I mean? I mean drained.

The stranger flashed a smile, which immediately faded.

I'm talking about the best, he muttered. Europeans like to think hum-jobs were discovered in Bologna around the beginning of the Renaissance, what really got the Renaissance going, so to speak. But they go much further back in time than is generally suspected, like most things having to do with people. In fact the hum-job tradition on this street goes back to what Europeans call the Dark Ages, when things weren't nearly as dark in the East as in the West. In the East scholars were still studying the Thousand and One Nights and passing on nibbles of their erudite findings to selected acquaintances. . Are you familiar, perhaps, with this classical piece of literature?