Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

Joe gazed at the man, dumbfounded. At last he found his tongue.

I believe I've heard of it, yes.

The stranger flashed another smile, apparently less nervous than before.

Good. Then you probably know the Arabs borrowed the Nights a long time ago from the Persians, who in turn borrowed them much earlier than that from India. . But it's intriguing, isn't it, this notion of an enlightened East with the primitive buzz of hum-jobs echoing up through the mists of ancient India?

Frankly, before I knew the truth, the very idea of all those strange tongues down there in the subcontinent of our souls always used to exhaust me. But now that I know better, I can see what a truly brilliant innovation it was on the part of the Indians to connect hum-jobs with the civilizing impulse. . Fakirs indeed. Fiendish really. .

The stranger tossed his head and snorted, a kind of depraved mysticism creeping across his face.

But admit it, he suddenly roared in excitement. Didn't you always think Om was the important sound out of India? Didn't they fool you with that one too? And doesn't this new information mean, then, that the Hum and the Om may be far more closely entwined than anyone has ever suspected? That to chant the one is secretly to chant the other? That the Indian sages, in their wisdom, may long ago have discovered this astounding way to sound the bells of the soul and the flesh simultaneously? That the soul and the body, therefore, contrary to Western thought, are not only on secret speaking terms with one another, but are actually one and the same thing beneath it all? That the entire human story can thus be summed up in one profound phrase? That it's all a matter of man seeking his true home? From hummmm to ommmm, in other words, and so to home? And so at last to hommmme . .

Joe stared. The humming sound went on and on as the stranger shifted his weight back and forth, all the while vigorously nodding his head in encouragement, a shy maniacal grin on his face. Finally Joe was able to shake himself out of the trance he had fallen into.

But this is extraordinary, he murmured.

Is it? asked the stranger eagerly. You mean wonders never cease? Not even in an alley as shabby as the rue Clapsius?

Joe laughed.

What did you say your name was?

The man's smile instantly disappeared. All at once he was gazing at Joe with an immensely grave expression Solemnly, he cleared his throat.

Didn't say, did I. But my name's Vivian and I drove you in from the airport and I'm sorry about everything. Sorry.

Vivian blushed, his arms swinging in agitation. Joe laughed and warmly shook his hand, once more resisting the urge to embrace him.

Viv? It's really you without the wigs and tennis whites and leopardskins? Good to see you again.

Vivian shrank back a little, looking even more doubtful than he had when he first entered the room.

Is it? I know who you are, they told me a little about you. Not much, just a little. You're not angry with me?

No, of course not. Why should I be?

Because of my rank behavior at the airport. But I'm sorry, it was a part, a role. When picking up someone new I'm expected to play some kind of exotic role. . I think. . and sometimes I just lose hold and go blasting off in every direction. It's the madness of the times that does it to me.

Forget it, Viv. Anyway, you should be the one who's upset.

Vivian looked bewildered.

Me? What on earth for?

That business about Cynthia. I hope you realize it had nothing to do with you. It was Bletchley who was bothering me.

Vivian sighed.

Oh yes, the Bletch, none other. I understood that right away. Our local supply sergeant can be very unpleasant sometimes, especially when he adopts that business-is-business attitude of his. Don't take it personally, the Bletch likes to say, but what nonsense. Of course I'm going to take it personally. This is my life that's being tossed around out here in this Bletchedly dry business known as the Western Desert, and would you mind if I sat down immediately? My feet hurt.

Of course, Viv, take the chair or the bed. It's not much of a room.

Vivian pulled off his shoes and slumped down on the bed with grunts and sighs. When not playing a role he seemed to wheeze heavily. He moved the pillow down to the bottom of the bed, covered it with his jacket and lay down with his feet up. Briefly he gazed at the paint peeling off the ceiling, then closed his eyes.

Flaky, he murmured. But even so, when meeting someone in real life I always try to raise my feet above my head in order to increase the trickle of blood to my brain. Quite frankly, there's seldom a time when my brain couldn't use a little more oxygen. It's my asthma that slows me down and the odd thing is I never had it until I came to Egypt, can you imagine that? A desert climate is supposed to cure such things, not cause them, but there we are. Another performance of the blues.

Vivian smiled weakly from the bed.

Yes, the blues. For some reason life has always struck me as pretty much of a raffish rendition of the blues. Rhythmic intensity, a stressing of weak beats, riffs.

Vivian groaned. He felt his throat.

Oh this body, he muttered. This wheezing jazz band of the soul.

He opened his eyes and laughed.

Flaky, your ceiling, no question about it. But life as music aside, let me tell you straight off this visit has nothing to do with business. I'm here to apologize and I'm just me now, nothing more. Are you hungry at all?

Famished, Viv. I was just getting ready to go out when you knocked.

Good. I've brought some roast chicken along, and also some wine and loquats, to try to help you forget my body-block at the airport the other morning. The chicken's usually quite tasty, I get it from a retired belly dancer up the street whom Ahmad knows from another era. She's also the one who told me about the local hum-job tradition. And the wine should be good, if you can make do with German wine. One of our Long Range Desert Groups plucked it out of Rommel's personal supply van no more than a week ago.

Vivian frowned.

But perhaps you'd like to save the wine for a more important occasion. You wouldn't be hurting my feelings if you did. I'm used to slaps and kicks and punches.

Hold on, Viv, this is the important occasion. Just let me get to it.

Vivian smiled in relief and began singing a popular tune. Joe went to work opening one of the bottles.

Oh by the way, Viv, is your name really Vivian? I ask only because Ahmad chanced to mention he'd never seen or heard of a Vivian around here.

Vivian scowled. He groaned.

Oh he did, did he? Ahmad actually said that?

Yes.

Vivian rolled sideways and gazed sadly at Joe, his mouth nibbling and chewing, never still.

That's a heavy blow, he sighed. Why on earth would you ask me that?

Well I don't know, Viv, the thought just came drifting by. But no offense meant, let's forget it.

Forget it? My name? Please study me carefully and tell me the truth. Don't I look like a Vivian?

The cork popped out of the bottle.

Well maybe not, said Joe. Can't say you do, really.

Did I before? Coming in from the airport?

Yes, maybe so. I guess you did.

But I don't now?

No, maybe not.

Not even a little bit? Isn't there anything in this world but slaps and kicks and punches?

Wait, said Joe, I think I'm beginning to see it. Vivian, you say? Vivian? Of course, it's unmistakable.

There's a startling resemblance, Viv.

There is?

Oh yes, simply stunning. The only reason I missed it at first was because I'm not used to seeing a Vivian.

You don't come across one every day on an Indian reservation in Arizona.