Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

The other man, the one called Joe, was no problem at all. But unfortunately it was the constantly nibbling Liffy who had done most of the talking in the courtyard.

They won't like it at all, thought the observer, crawling backward with his binoculars.

Damn that bastard Liffy and his lips that never stop. .

***

Later, when Joe tried the door on the far side of the courtyard, he found it locked. He used a key Ahmad had given him and groped his way down the stairs in the darkness to the second door at the bottom.

The cellar was just as he remembered it. A cool oblong room with a ceiling so low he had to stoop. A table with a single naked light bulb overhead, a cord leading down from the fixture to an electric ring where a kettle was steaming. A teapot and a raised newspaper.

But Bletchley seemed to be in a better mood that day, even though Joe was late for their meeting. As soon as Joe walked in Bletchley put aside his newspaper and rose to shake hands, putting out his hand that wasn't crippled.

Now there's a first, thought Joe. He began to apologize for being late but Bletchley waved the apology aside.

No matter, he said, I was just having a second cup of tea. Care to join me?

Joe thanked him and Bletchley reached for the teapot, an ugly expression flashing across his face.

Jesus, thought Joe, he's trying to smile. That piece of ugliness is his way of smiling.

Bletchley was wearing an old set of khakis that day, which gave him quite a different appearance. In a business suit, at night anyway he looked both elegant and efficient despite his bulky black eye patch. But in baggy cotton trousers and a wrinkled open shirt, both badly worn and faded, there was a shabbier quality to the man. His belt was too big for him, gathering his trousers in clumsy folds around his waist, and his shoes were old and scuffed. One of his shirtsleeves was rolled up while the other flapped around without a button. There were even some roughly mended spots down the front of his shirt, rips repaired at home, it appeared. In all he was a much less impressive man than Joe remembered. Certainly not overbearing in any way, rather frail in fact. A slight weary figure with an attentive air about him.

For a moment Joe had the impression of a lonely recluse puttering around in a garden that wasn't his own, embarrassed at being out of place, painfully uncomfortable among plants and flowers he didn't recognize.

Bletchley poured tea.

I dropped in to say hello to Ahmad this morning, he said, and he mentioned that you must have gone out early for a walk. I'm an early riser myself, always have been. Of course I don't sleep much these days anyway. Still no sugar?

Right, thanks. Anything of interest in the newspapers today?

Mostly Rommel as usual, said Bletchley. He's only forty miles from Tobruk and nothing seems to be going right. It's almost as if Rommel knew beforehand every move we're going to make. Damn it, but that's exactly how it is.

Joe blew on the tea in the metal cup. And what if that were true about Rommel? he wondered. What if he did know every British move beforehand? Could anyone have intelligence sources as good as that?

Well what about the personal columns? he asked. Any better news there?

Not really. One man heard from, one not. It's odd but business aside, I've always been intrigued by the personal columns in local newspapers. They give you such a strangely intimate view of a place and people's lives in that place, or at least an illusion of it. Oh by the way, you haven't tried to get in touch with Maud yet, have you?

No. I'm following instructions.

Advice, murmured Bletchley. I'm sure they're not trying to control your every move, I'm sure they want you to go about it in your own way. But it's my impression they feel the more looking around you can do before Stern finds out you're here, the better off you'll be. Yes, that's it. Stern's going to find out soon enough anyway, once you begin moving around.

And when will that be, do you suppose?

Soon. Right away. They've gone slowly with you because of something to do with Stern's schedule, Stern's activities, but now I've been told Stern's leaving tonight on an assignment that will keep him out of Cairo for several weeks. Two weeks at the very least, that's it. So now you should have time for a good headstart.

He won't be in contact with anyone in Cairo?

Not with anyone who could tell him about you. I assume it was arranged that way.

Fair enough, said Joe, picking up his teacup and hesitating, not wanting to burn his lips again as he had the first time he came to the cellar. And he was also trying to decide what to say, because he felt it was important to try to move closer to Bletchley. He looked up now and made a gesture toward the black bulky patch over Bletchley's right eye. Most of the scars seemed old, although some of them, curiously, not that old.

Catch that trouble in the last war, did you?

Yes, replied Bletchley, surprised by the directness of the question.

How'd it happen? asked Joe, gazing over the rim of his cup.

Abruptly Bletchley dropped his stare and went perfectly still. For a long silent moment he looked down at the table, his single eye round and blank and uncomprehending. But when he spoke at last his voice was matter-of-fact, without emotion.

It was fairly early in the last war. I was using a spyglass when a bullet struck the thing and shattered the casing, driving metal and glass fragments into my eye and severing some muscles in my hand. A friend tried to pull out the metal bits in my eye but he couldn't manage it. Then he was killed and I had to lie there for five or six hours until help came. Later they were able to reconstruct the bridge of my nose and fix up the hand a little, but removing the fragments from the eye socket turned out to be a drawn-out process. Months, years, it just went on and on, that's it. For a long time I felt useless.

Joe shook his head sadly. Bletchley was still staring down at the table, his eye wide, uncomprehending.

The worst part about it, then, was that I'd been in the regular army, and of course there was no future in that. When you're young it's hard to accept the fact that you're never going to have the chance to do what you want in life. Most people may end up that way, but at least the disillusionment takes place over time.

It's not like knowing from the start that you don't have a chance.

Joe nodded.

Headaches too, I imagine.

Sometimes, but generally it's just an ugly itching sensation, something gnawing at your brain that's always there, that just won't go away.

Yes.

They sat some moments in silence. Bletchley still hadn't looked up at Joe. He was staring blankly down at the table, a frail figure in worn-out mended khakis. Then all at once he began blinking rapidly and covered his eye patch with a handkerchief, dabbing at something.

There are effusions from the socket, he said. I wanted to have a glass eye put in but the bones around the socket are shattered and there's nothing to hold one. They tried several times but it didn't work. It looked like a glass bead stuck in the corner of my face at an angle. Finally there was nothing more to be done, so I had to settle for a patch.

It covers most of it, said Joe.

Bletchley went on wiping with his handkerchief.

I hate the way it frightens children, especially in this part of the world where they believe in the evil eye.

Children can't stand it. One look and they begin to scream. It makes me feel like a monster.

Have you been out here long?

Not so long here, mostly in India. I grew up in India, we were an army family. After I'd gotten back on my feet I was offered this kind of work, and it seemed the closest I'd ever come to the army so I took it, that's it.