Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

You decided not to rebuild?

I wasn't given the choice. It happened during the war, the last one, and tastes were changing and everything was changing and my interior decorating business was going from bad to worse. In fact I could no longer earn a penny. New people were coming along and I was out of fashion.

Joe jumped.

Ahmad's head, just his head, had appeared above the counter. He gazed solemnly at Joe for a moment from beneath his battered flat straw hat, then sank out of sight again, his voice drifting up from behind the counter.

I know it must be difficult to imagine when you look at me today, he called up, but I was quite fashionable before my troubles began. For a while I managed to keep up appearances with the help of friends, but life was changing drastically for them too, as it was for everybody. Some of them took up something new while others just wandered away and were never heard from again. While a few, like myself, could be seen still haunting the old spots, hoping to see a familiar face. . It's like that in wartime, even when the battles are thousands of miles away. Suddenly the world you knew is no longer there and you find yourself off in some little corner where nothing is quite right, not quite what it used to be, and a sad loneliness steals over your heart. . Sad, because you always thought your little world would go on forever. Because you never really understood how fragile it was. . how fragile anything important is, because so much of it always exists only in your own imagination. But then all at once the dream is shattered and you're left with little bits and pieces in your hand, and an emptiness as vast as the night creeps into your soul. .

A sigh rose from down behind the counter.

I used to have long talks about it with a friend named Stern. . Quite simply, I'd failed in life and I didn't know what to do. A lonely time and long ago. .

***

Silence for a moment down behind the counter, then Ahmad began again, a lighter tone to his voice.

And what did I do? Well briefly I tried my hand at no-nonsense capitalism. Loot was my goal, nothing else mattered. Orphans and starving widows be damned. Let those whining misfits grub for their keep like the rest of us. If Carnegie could choke the poor and make ten million a year while throwing dimes to the mobs and being revered for it, why couldn't I?. .

Instinctively, Joe jerked away from the counter. All at once the top of Ahmad's head had loomed up into view and was just sitting there, his enormous nose resting on the edge of the counter. He had removed his straw hat and was holding it aloft in some kind of salute only the upper part of his head showing.

Fish and chips was the business, said Ahmad. Greasy fish and Levantine chips. Have you ever seen that old van Liffy drives sometimes?

Of course, said Joe. The Ahmadmobile.

Exactly. Well that van belonged to me before it was acquired by an unnamed secret service. Originally it had been an ambulance in the First World War, cheap to buy because it was war surplus, as I was myself. Well I had the van cleverly fitted out with a vat for deep-frying and an icebox for fish, and my goal was to be a self-made success. Strictly one man alone oozing his way to the top, the Carnegie of greasy fish and greasier chips. And when all was ready, off I drove through the rutted back streets of greater Cairo, merrily clanging my ambulance bell, ready to relieve the housewife's dinnertime burdens with tasty orders cooked on the spot. I was the originator, you see, of the modern fast-food business in the Middle East.

That's amazing, said Joe.

And I was also the instigator, from a religious point of view, of what might be called the Moslem movable feast of the contemporary era.

That's even more amazing, said Joe.

Well it seemed so to me, and for a time I thought the Ahmadmobile might become a household word in the back streets of greater Cairo. But what's that famous Latin expression for the inevitable changes of fate? Sic semper Ahmadus?

A look of profound disdain came over the upper half of Ahmad's face, the part that was showing above the counter. His huge nose twitched, as if assaulted by some disgusting smell.

What a greasy way to make a living, he said. In fact when you really put your nose in it, capitalism is a very greasy concept. Poetry and boiling oil just don't mix. But I suppose you Europeans must have already discovered that at least by the time of the Inquisition.

You mean you didn't have much luck? asked Joe.

Well I went around clanging my ambulance bell, making every effort to think of myself as an irresistible Pied Piper, and I tried every conceivable trick to cut expenses. I even lived in that smelly van for weeks on end, sleeping in the stretcher rack like any victim from the battlefield, hoping to get a better feel for capitalism. But all I ever felt was greasy, and between the rack and the fumes, my spirit was broken.

Choked. Even though I oozed grease from every pore, I just had to accept the fact that I'd never be another Carnegie.

Weakly Ahmad waved his straw hat a final time and dropped out of sight below the counter. Joe breathed deeply several times, clearing his lungs. The large reddish cat was still staring at him from the cobblestones.

My visionary instincts were right, Ahmad shouted up, but since they were visionary they were ahead of the times, which meant I was wrong. People are comfortable with the way things were done yesterday, but uneasy about whatever may be done tomorrow. Which is why vision never pays off, and why poetry never brings in any money. If you want to make money, the best thing to do is to repeat after others.

Whatever they say, just keep repeating it. Others like that and they pay you for it.

Or better yet, said Ahmad, muttering to himself down below, repeat something that was done a very long time ago. Three or four thousand years ago, for example, the way Crazy Cohen did. That can really bring in the money.

Excuse me? Joe called down.

I was saying, shouted Ahmad, that my real problem with fish and chips was that I wasn't able to master the secret of capitalist success in this part of the world.

What's that? asked Joe. The secret?

Slimy suspicion, boomed Ahmad. Subterfuge as the supreme code of conduct.

Again a part of Ahmad's head abruptly reared into view. He rested his nose on the counter, his glasses bouncing up and down. He seemed to be laughing silently.

Because in his heart, every true Levantine knows that if the rest of the world is half as devious as he is, then the rest of the world bears very careful watching. In other words, we have much in common with the great leaders of the world, both those of the West and of the East. Hitler, Stalin, Genghis Khan. .

Ahmad sank out of sight, chuckling as he descended.

***

Joe was moving restlessly back and forth in the shadowy hallway, wondering why this strange conversation seemed to go on and on with Ahmad down below the counter. Certainly Ahmad seemed talkative enough, surprisingly so. But why was he hiding down there? Was he really so shy he could only talk with someone if he stayed out of sight most of the time?

What happened after that greasy failure? Joe called down.

Very little, Ahmad shouted up. I was in debt and there was no money coming in, and it didn't take long for me to realize there was no future in that. Specifically, I knew it one evening when I walked into a café where I used to go, and not a soul there recognized me. It had always been our special place and Cohen and I and Stern had always gone there, surrounded by our circle. And then not to be recognized by even one person?. . I wasn't only embarrassed, I was ashamed and humiliated. I was nothing and I knew I was nothing.