Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

No, he added, I haven't been in the Middle East very long, only since the war started. India is what I know.

I've never been there, said Joe. I'd like to go someday.

At last Bletchley raised his eye from the table and looked at Joe.

Oh yes, it's a beautiful country, the land and the people, all of it. I know the desert appeals to some, but I'll never feel that way about it. To me, India is home and always will be. There's just no other place like it in the world.

Bletchley's face lighted up and he smiled at the thought of his homeland and the memories of his early years there.

At least it was meant to be a smile, but because of the missing bones and the severed muscles in his face, it came out differently. His good eye widened and stared grotesquely in what appeared to be a harsh cold expression, arrogant and disdainful.

The agony it must cause him, thought Joe. He tries to be friendly and his own face mocks him. It's no wonder children scream and run away. He looks cruel and it's not his fault, and they think he's sneering at them and it's not their fault.

But Bletchley's thoughts were far away in his beloved India at that moment, and he was smiling and pushing back his chair and getting to his feet, humming to himself, happy with his beautiful memories of a homeland that he probably already knew would never be his home again.

Well then, said Bletchley, shall we be on our way?

Right, to the Monastery at last, said Joe. And you have to admit that is a curious name for an intelligence unit, even one hidden away in the Egyptian desert. Rather human, isn't it, how we like to make things sound mysterious. . And when you finally get to the Monastery in the desert, my child. .

Bletchley laughed.

I know, he said. No matter how dull reality is, we do try hard to make it sound exotic. A natural inclination, I suppose, to add a touch of grandeur to our drab little lives. A romantic tendency in all of us, that's it.

So it seems, said Joe. And whether it's to be called romantic or not, I wouldn't know, but surely we do have to dream. If we didn't, where would we be? That much is evident just on the face of things. But of course there are all kinds of dreams, which is what can confuse a man.

***

When he looked back on it, Joe realized he should have known something was wrong with him long before he and Bletchley left the cellar. As they climbed the stairs, Joe missed a step and nearly lost his balance. He might have fallen if Bletchley hadn't rushed up to catch him from behind.

Are you all right?

I'm not sure. I feel a little out of touch.

They stepped into the bright sunlight. Joe's legs were heavy and he didn't seem to have any command over them. As they walked up the alley Joe sneaked a glance at his own hand, mildly curious about its shape, not quite sure it was the way he remembered it.

It may be exhaustion left over from the trip, he said. It's a long way from Arizona to Cairo and I don't know that I've caught up yet.

Your stopovers were short? asked Bletchley.

Yes, after the training camp near Toronto. I crawled into the ball turret of a bomber and crawled out again in Scotland. . Fetal position. I don't know how those gunners can manage for any length of time.

Then London was just one briefing after another and it was straight over here.

That's it, said Bletchley, a delayed reaction to all your time in the air.

And that ball turret was terrible, muttered Joe. . I just can't seem to get ahold of anything today.

***

Joe's sense of unreality grew more profound as they drove out of Cairo. He sat in a daze, a dream, gazing out the open side of the small desert car, watching the city drop away. Several times he noticed Bletchley sneaking glances at him.

What's worrying him? he wondered.

He wasn't sure whether he'd spoken since the drive started, or even how long they'd been on the road.

He knew he could check his watch but somehow it didn't seem important. They'd left the city behind and now everything was the same, sand and more sand and the hot sun and the glare, Bletchley shifting gears as they drove more deeply into the desert, Bletchley's good eye flickering toward him every so often.

Ever east, my child, thought Joe. Stop look and listen. Mingle.

Ought to mingle and say something, he thought, and was immediately surprised to hear his own voice asking Bletchley a question.

Do you have a family?

Bletchley shifted gears.

What do you mean? A wife and children?

Yes.

No, I don't. I've never been married. I was too young before we went to war the last time, and after that there were those years spent getting patched up. By then I was too accustomed to living alone to be of much use to anyone.

You weren't though.

Weren't what?

Too old to get married.

When?

After you'd been patched up. When was that, a couple of years after the last war? You must have still been in your early twenties.

Chronologically, but in other ways I didn't feel that young. Nothing very chronological about life, after all, it doesn't always follow a logical sequence the way we like to pretend. Some people stop growing in their early twenties. Just stop, say that's enough for me, and get off and sit down beside the road for the duration.

Ever east, my child, thought Joe. And when you finally reach. .

Besides, continued Bletchley, I still had hopes. I was trying to have a glass eye put in and when they couldn't do it in one place, I'd try another. Paris, Johannesburg, Zurich, I kept making the rounds. The last operation wasn't that long ago.

Oh.

Just three years ago, in fact. They'd done all the rebuilding they could by then, and the glass bead stuck in at an angle was the result.

The glass bead game, thought Joe. That has to be one of the worst.

So I finally gave it up and accepted the fact that I'd have to be a monster.

Children don't understand things, said Joe. You can't expect them to.

No that's true, you can't. But what about mature men and women? What can you expect from them?

Joe gazed at the desert. The glare off the sand hurt his eyes and he pressed them shut. Bletchley was shifting gears, not waiting for an answer to his question because there was no answer.

On the mesa in Arizona there had been an old woman with a badly deformed face, born that way, so severely deformed she had been hidden away since she was a baby. Throughout her entire life she had never been known to leave the little room where she had come into the world. Many nights Joe had sat up with her in her little room, listening to her sing in the most beautiful voice he had ever heard, a startling voice filled with wonder for all the things she had never seen or known. She sang for hours and when she ended they would sit together in silence for a time, then the old woman would turn her back and Joe would get up and leave without a word. To have said anything would have been cruel beyond belief, for her singing was all she had of the world, her song the flight of her soul.

Hungry? asked Bletchley. I brought some things. I thought we might stop for a bite along the way.

***

They sat on the sand, squeezed into the shade beside the small desert car, Joe with his back against one of the warm tires. Bletchley opened some tins of marmalade and biscuits. There was also a thermos and two battered cups.

Joe took a few bites and all the food tasted exactly the same, a harsh metallic flavor. He fumbled with a cup and finally let Bletchley fill it for him. The liquid, cold tea or whatever it was, also had a harsh metallic flavor. Dully he watched Bletchley spreading marmalade on a biscuit, an action that seemed to go on forever.