Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

A sad smile played on Belle's face.

That may sound narrow and selfish to you, Joe, and it may even offend you. But we're not philosophers, Alice and I, and that's the way it is for us. Certainly we would wish better for the world, and we know what a terrible tragedy it is when these bestial nightmares seize men. But the two of us are old, Joe.

We're old, and we've lived too long to embrace the entire earth and everyone on it. These times are a tragedy for man, but we're simply too small and our eyes are too old and dim to gather that grand sweep in. We've never been great empresses of all the somethings, or magnificent queens by the Nile. We're just two sisters who never married and never had children, who began by mopping floors and went on to find roles in an opera of life, who dreamed a few harmless dreams along the way and then ended somewhere, having done the best we could.

And in the end there's nothing more to say than that, nothing except one thing. We love Stern, our son.

We would do anything for him but there's nothing we can do for him now but weep, and so we do that.

With the darkness closing around us, in our hearts, we weep for him and we weep. For him . .

***

Joe sat with his head in his hands, listening to the words of the Sisters and thinking of many things. Of Ahmad and Liffy and David and Anna, of Bletchley and his desert fortress and his bands of anonymous Monks, of Maud and Stern and the quiet little Cairo square where the two of them had once passed evenings together. And of the young Stern years ago in this very room, standing in the open doors beside the great expanse of river and laughing, his eyes shining. . Stern laughing and feasting on the riches of life, giving joy and hope to all who knew him.

Joe felt two tiny hands on his shoulders, gestures by the Sisters in passing, the two of them stopping to touch him for a moment as they moved slowly across the room, Big Belle going stiffly on ahead, Little Alice lingering to speak to him softly.

We're in the habit of ending our evenings with music, she said. It's soothing to us and helps us to sleep, but mostly we do it because it brings back so many good memories of beautiful moments we have known. So please excuse us, Joe, and leave whenever you like. We know you have much that concerns you and much to consider. Young men always do. .

A mysterious blend of sounds then filled the shadowy sunroom in that strange houseboat anchored on the shores of the Nile, Little Alice brightly trilling on her harpsichord as Big Belle sounded the somber notes of her small bassoon, a twinkling haunting strain to their music as Joe gazed out at the river and listened to their elegy under the stars, their allusive recitation at the end of the long night.

— 16-

Two Candles

As soon as Joe left the houseboat he picked out one of the men who was following him. He waved to the man and began walking quickly.

Several buses later and he had also lost the second man. Of course it had to be obvious what he was doing and Bletchley would be getting telephone calls from the surveillance team, but that didn't matter to Joe. He was angry now, too angry to care if it showed as he worked his way deeper into the city, waiting, doubling back, looking for eyes that avoided his, a head that turned away.

Nothing. No one. Where was the third man, or was Bletchley using two-man teams to cover him?

No, not good enough. Using replacements, then? The men telephoning in and having someone take their place ahead of Joe? Waiting for him, keeping the trail alive that way?

No, Bletchley wouldn't have the manpower for that, not with all the demands there had to be on the Monastery these days. Bletchley might be willing to assign more men to him but not until he was sure Joe was really on the run. And Bletchley couldn't know that yet, despite the telephone calls coming in from his surveillance team that morning.

Monks, thought Joe. Bletchley's bloody Monks from the desert. A secret order of initiates with their own rules and their own hierarchy, looking like everybody else but not like anybody else at all. Solitaries who pursued their missions alone, silently conversing with their coreligionists through secret signs. . Even their vows had a monastic quality to them. Obedience and silence, and poverty in a way, chastity in a way. A secret brotherhood with secret goals, the anonymous Monks of war. . The bloody anonymous Monks of war.

So where was the third man then, the leader of the team?

Joe quickened his step and turned corners, angry that somewhere near a man was watching him, hunting him, one of Bletchley's anonymous Monks. And then all at once he saw him. A small man moving awkwardly on the other side of the crowded street.

Joe felt a sudden rush of blood. Now he was a hunter himself and he could strike, wound.

There was a café on the corner. He turned in and went to the back where the telephones were, slipped out the rear entrance of the café and moved behind a truck which was rolling forward to cross the street.

He walked slowly keeping pace with the truck, hidden by it. Only a minute or two had passed since he had first seen the man.

Joe was now across the street from the café, behind the small young man who had joined a group of people waiting at a bus stop. The small man had opened a newspaper and was pretending to read it as he watched the café. Joe moved up behind him and dropped his chin onto the small man's shoulder, rested his chin there, looked down at the newspaper open in front of both of them. The man's eyes flew sideways but no cry escaped him.

Too clever by half, thought Joe. I know they told you to look the enemy straight in the eye, but a lunatic resting his chin on your shoulder is something else.

Joe smiled, still looking down at the newspaper.

Gulbenkian's the name, he said. Do you mind if I sneak a quick glance at the headlines to see what Rommel had his nose into at breakfast this morning?

People at the bus stop turned to stare. The small man recovered and spoke with indignation.

Excuse me? Is there something you wanted?

Too late, little rabbit, thought Joe. Forget what they told you about showing no emotion. Madmen are disturbing to everybody.

Joe smiled more broadly.

All I wanted is the secret to Rommel's success, he said. Does it mention in the papers what he ate for breakfast?

Excuse me, said the young man forcefully, angrily. He had closed his newspaper and was trying to move away from Joe, but Joe held him tightly from behind and moved with him, his chin still on the young man's shoulder. Joe noticed for the first time that he had a limp. The people at the bus stop had formed a circle around them. Joe grinned sideways into the small man's face, only inches away.

Would you believe me, he said, if I told you I've just been up all night listening to Catherine the Great and Cleopatra explain what Rommel puts his nose into first thing in the morning? Maps or herring, most people might think, but it's not like that at all. Just shocking information, as a matter of fact.

The small man had finally pulled away from Joe and now stood facing him, his fists clenched, hatred in his eyes. A large crowd had gathered around them, pushing and pressing forward, trying to find out what was happening. Joe raised his arms and stepped back, shouting at the crowd.

O worthy Cairenes, O noble sons and daughters of the Nile. Today a great liberator moves ever closer to Cairo and oppression may soon be at an end. But what has this agent of British imperialism just whispered in my ear at this very bus stop? What manner of slander has he dared to whisper right here in broad daylight?

Silence fell over the crowds pressing in from every side. Joe waved his arms and shouted.