Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

You've seen a lot of hate, Liffy.

Naturally, I'm a Jew. When I'm not the king of merrie olde England, that is. Or a buffoon. Or the Holy Ghost in some timeless tale of life and death and resurrection.

And you speak in a very crowded way, Liffy.

That's only because I've wandered so much, and been so many people in so many places, that I can't pretend, to separate the sounds of the world easily. Or fool myself into thinking they're simple, rather than mysterious and complex. . Hate a Jew? What could be simpler than that? It's as simple as hating a tree or the wind or the sunrise.

Liffy raised his eyes and gazed at Joe, a soft expression. All at once he seemed very small and fragile.

But I can also hear simple sounds, Joe. You may think from what I've said that I'm a bitter man who sees only the harsh things in life, and that's not true at all. It's the good things, the kindly side of people, that interests me and concerns me. It's just that sometimes now, with the war and the Nazis. .

I understand, Liffy.

Do you? Do you? Can I tell you how I really feel, then?

Liffy smiled shyly.

Do you know what I really feel life is, deep down? A golden bell and a pomegranate.

Liffy smiled even more shyly.

Isn't that a beautiful way to describe it? Long ago I heard that and I've never forgotten it. And when life does seem bitter and cruel to me, I take those words into my heart and whisper them over and over, until I can manage again.

It is beautiful, said Joe. And who might have spoken such words, I wonder?

Liffy's eyes shone.

Who? Who else but the good voice within us. God.

He laughed.

Yes. God speaking to Moses in the desert, describing the robe that the priests of life are to wear.

And beneath upon the hem of it thou shall make pomegranates of blue and of purple and of scarlet, round about the hem thereof, and bells of gold between them round about. A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe round about.

Liffy smiled.

And it has a special meaning for me that gives me hope so I can go on no matter how dark the way.

Can you share that special meaning, Liffy? Can you tell me what a golden bell is in this world? And a pomegranate?

Liffy lowered his eyes.

I am, he whispered. I'm both of them at once. And you are, and every human being is. For we are strange and wonderful creations and the sounds within our souls are as clear and haunting as the ring of a golden bell. And yet the taste on our tongues is always of the dusty earth, the sweet dusty taste of the pomegranate rich with seeds in the hot sun.

Liffy looked up. He smiled.

So you see, I haven't really wandered too much, nor have I played too many roles. Life is an awesome blessing and the more we know of it the richer we are. The more we know of its dust, no less than the golden toll of its bell. The two of them always together, inseparable upon our hearts.

***

Suddenly Liffy sat up and laughed, flashing two perfect rows of brilliant white teeth. Then his fingers flickered in front of his mouth and his shoulders sagged and all at once he was a shrunken little man, toothless and decrepit. He held up the two dental plates he had removed from his mouth and gazed at them, moving one and then the other in the manner of a puppeteer.

Up went the upper plate. Laughter.

Down went the lower plate. Tragedy.

He slipped the plates back into his mouth and stared at Joe.

Teeth, he said. They're false. Some time ago I formulated a theorem to cover my situation, which I've always referred to privately as Liffy's First Law. To wit, Good teeth suggest mindlessness . Do a little surreptitious checking around and you'll see I'm right, although it's also true we try very hard to justify ourselves. Naturally, since we can never escape the fact we're somebody's child. Even the wisest old man in the world, in his thoughts at least, is still a little boy to someone. But none of that's my problem.

I'm neither wise nor old and my problem is a bad lower back.

You're practical, Liffy.

No not really, as you'll find out soon enough. I understand practicality but it has never appealed to me. In fact when I examine myself, I come to the conclusion that fantasy has meant more to me than positive knowledge. And all of that's a quote. Do you know who said it?

Some dreamer?

Yes, Einstein. And do you also know Cynthia won't sleep with me these nights? She's upset because I got her into trouble with Bletchley.

I'm sorry to hear that.

Oh she'll get over it. Her only trouble seems to be she thinks the Middle East is romantic, so she always wants me to be someone different when I come to call. One evening I have to be a long thin Bombay Lancer charging the Khyber Pass, a randy brown fellow who never takes off his boots. Then the next night I have to be a short slimy sheik rolling around on the rug, obsessed with my greyhound.

Liffy frowned, his mood changing.

Romanticism? Imagination? But hasn't it always been the human enigma? Has anything ever been so circular and contradictory, right from the beginning? It spins from sublime to harmless, from Einstein to Cynthia, and so around the circle to the horrors that Zarathustra also spake, sadly for all of us.

Liffy groaned.

That's right. I'm talking about the lowest of the low now, German supermen. Before the war the Germans used to get very excited over the idea of a mud pit filled with muscular naked blond women, viciously wrestling with each other. After the regular evening entertainments were over in the provinces, that was often the special show put on backstage for an extra fee. A discreet side entrance for couples, single ladies invited free of charge. The mud flying and the slime oozing and naked grunting women sinking in primordial muck to the accompaniment of Bach and Mozart, the phonograph blaring, with a dramatic switch to Wagner and on-the-spot promotions to Panzergroupcommander for those who grunted the loudest, after one of the hulking combatants had managed to squash all the other heads under the mud. .

Bliss and more. Yes.

Liffy choked and sputtered for air, wheezing painfully.

The truth always takes a little bit out of me, he rasped. And have you noticed that when Rommel is wearing civilian clothes, he looks like some small-time hoodlum? Surly little Swabian fellow with a snarl on his face and his felt hat mashed down on his head? And he's supposed to be the good German general. Well if he's so good, how did he get to be the commandant of Hitler's personal headquarters before the war? Must have ingratiated himself, wouldn't you say? And Hitler must have liked what he saw, which says a good deal more about our Desert Fox than any amount of racing around in an African desert ever will. . Hitler likes him? That's good?

Liffy gripped his throat. For a moment he seemed unable to breathe.

And I also imagine that to someone from the New World, I may seem unduly sensitive to the loping images I find in that simple Germanic term, Panzergroupcommander . Well I can only say that it's much worse than you think. Much worse. Frankly, it's a howling nightmare of a word to me and you might as well scream COSSACK in my ear. The one conjures up the same primeval blackness as the other?

Liffy shuddered, as if shaking off a mood.

***

More of Rommel's wine was opened as the night deepened and the talk swirled in the little room in the Hotel Babylon, as Liffy learned more about Joe and his interest in Stern, and Joe learned more about Ahmad and Bletchley and the British intelligence units known as the Monks and the Waterboys, the one with its headquarters in the desert, the other in the Irrigation Works in Cairo itself.