Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

Singing their songs to the stars and caressing the night with sensual laughter?

Oh yes, the four of them had been famous friends once, yet there came a time when my father stopped going out and refused to see even them. .

Ahmad lowered his eyes.

Underwear had always been my father's trademark in his professional life, the finest erotic underwear imported from Europe. But when he stopped leaving his rooms, he also stopped wearing underwear. At home, with just me around, he refused to wear any at all. The fantasy's gone, he used to say. My illusions have departed like an ancient scroll rolled up.

Ahmad hung his head.

And it was all because he felt the Movement had betrayed him. It's grown fat, he used to say. It's just not the same anymore, it's not what it used to be. And in his bitterness he began smoking more and more hemp, which increased his appetite so that he ate more and more, which made him fat.

Ahmad glowered.

Bloat. Revolting. The dragoman's anathema.

Ahmad's scowl deepened.

My father had worn a beard all his life, ever since he was a sleek young man. But when he rashly decided to shave it off thirty years later, what did he find lurking beneath his beard, time's cruel reward for his decades of selfless sacrifice on behalf of the Movement?

My God, said Joe, what did he find?

Wattles, thundered Ahmad. Deplorable. I have wattles, he confided to me one evening, his face all bandaged up to hide the fact, so heavily bandaged he looked like a mummy. In those later years people got into the habit of referring to him as Ahmad the Fat, and quite naturally they called me Ahmad the Thin. And since everyone else was using those names, we picked up the habit ourselves.

How is the fat one today? I would ask. Bitter and lonely, he would answer, and how is the thin one?. .

Meaning me.

Ahmad shook his head sadly.

Sometimes when you feel defeated the world just seems to bear down on you, insulting you and humiliating you. I saw that happen to my father and it was terrible. He became a recluse and there was nothing I could do to make it any better for him. He played solitaire and read old newspapers and kept his face bandaged like a mummy, and he smoked hemp and never wore underwear and never stirred from his rooms. At least a game of solitaire can't betray me, he used to say. At least thirty-year-old newspapers can't lie.

Ahmad sagged heavily against the counter, his voice sinking.

Toward the end, the only thing that gave him any pleasure was listening to donkey bells. There were donkeys everywhere in Cairo in those days and he loved listening to the gay tinkling sounds of their bells.

Nothing else could ease his terrible loneliness.

Ahmad looked away.

The end came in the autumn. The Nile was still red with the topsoil of the Ethiopian highlands, and the nights were cool and no longer filled with desert grit. But the great river was ebbing swiftly and with it my father, a lonely beaten man with the life going out of him. He'd had an operation on his throat by then and he couldn't speak, so he penciled notes for me on a pad of paper he kept by his hand.

Raise me up off the pillows, he wrote that last evening. Let me hear the lovely bells one final time. .

.

And that was the end. He died in my arms.

Slowly Ahmad raised his eyes and looked at Joe, his huge boyish face tormented, his voice a whisper.

Don't you see? I only pretend the Movement was important in order to honor my father's memory, even though in my heart I know it was nothing more than a farcical oddity once used by someone to justify his life. . Every life has its Movement, of course it does. But what does it matter in the end? Who cares? .

. But what I really can't understand is why my father didn't spend his life with donkey bells? Why didn't he make them or sell them or do anything while riding around on a donkey, when he loved those gay tinkling sounds more than anything in the world?

Ahmad's lips quivered. Pain creased his massive face.

Why don't people do what would make them happy? Why do they let themselves get trapped into things? Why don't they just?. .

But Ahmad was unable to go on. His whole body sagged and he covered his face with his hands, softly beginning to weep.

***

Noisily, Ahmad blew his nose.

Please forgive me that outburst of realism, he muttered. I try to keep them down to a minimum, given the way things are.

Ahmad blew his nose again and drew himself up on his high stool. His face brightened.

But see here, may I offer you an aperitif in some interesting attractive place, by way of apology?

You must be able to read minds, said Joe. Are you going off-duty then?

No, not exactly. But my town house is so conveniently situated, duty is no problem at all, said Ahmad, slipping off his high stool and disappearing down behind the counter. Joe thought Ahmad was retrieving his sandals, so he raised his voice.

A town house, you say? Does that mean there's a country house too?

Not now, Ahmad called up. But before the war I had a little cottage on the edge of the desert. The last war, that is, not this one. My war. The cottage was a delightful little hideaway where I could replenish my soul on weekends. In those days I not only wrote poetry and played tennis, I was also a champion cross-country tricyclist. I owned one of the first racing tricycles in Cairo, one of those swift machines you don't see anymore, the front wheel almost as tall as a man. And there I would be in my sleek racing goggles tearing down some road by the river at all hours of the day and night, the two white discs of my goggles reflecting the sun or the moon as I sped along laughing, a regular Sphinx on three wheels, just flying . . Oh yes, I was speed itself in those days. Hold on to your hats, they used to say, here comes Ahmad.

Is that what they used to say? Joe called out.

Always. Down by the river. But you have to picture the holiday crowds eating their grilled pigeons and their tehina salads in those cafés you find in limp gardens along the Nile, where clumsy birds of blue and gray hop along the red earth in front of you, taking flight at the very last moment with angry cries. Where kites and crows wheel black and slowly in the polished skies, the scarlet flamboyants in bloom and the sacred white herons dead still on the branches of the sagging trees. A holiday race, in other words, from the pyramids to the Nile. And picture the excitement rippling through the crowds by the river, and every head in every café turning, and a triumphant cry going up as the first tricycle came looming out of the desert. And screams and more cries as the thundering chant was taken up by one and all.

Hold on to your hats. . here comes Ahmad.

I can see it, said Joe.

Speed, muttered Ahmad. Power. More and more speed and more and more power, I could never get enough of it.

He paused.

I also took great care with my clothes in those days. My appearance was important because I was not only an interior decorator but a leader of café society, which meant all kinds of people were always coming to me for advice and counsel. There used to be a saying in Cairo in those days. When in doubt, ask Ahmad.

Ahmad was still down behind the counter, apparently having trouble finding his sandals. While Joe listened he watched a large scruffy cat which had taken up a position just outside the front door on the cobblestones. The reddish cat was licking its paws and sunning itself. Suddenly it stopped and stared directly at Joe.

Your desert retreat must have been lovely, Joe called down.

Oh yes, Ahmad called up, his voice muffled. Cool nights and hot days, just like that song Liffy sings. But then a freak sandstorm came along and blew everything away, and I arrived at my hideaway one weekend to find there was no there there.