Liffy's eyes shone.
Who? Who else but the good voice within us. God.
He laughed.
Yes. God speaking to Moses in the desert, describing the robe that the priests of life are to wear.
And beneath upon the hem of it thou shall make pomegranates of blue and of purple and of scarlet, round about the hem thereof, and bells of gold between them round about. A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe round about.
Liffy smiled.
And it has a special meaning for me that gives me hope so I can go on no matter how dark the way.
Can you share that special meaning, Liffy? Can you tell me what a golden bell is in this world? And a pomegranate?
Liffy lowered his eyes.
I am, he whispered. I'm both of them at once. And you are, and every human being is. For we are strange and wonderful creations and the sounds within our souls are as clear and haunting as the ring of a golden bell. And yet the taste on our tongues is always of the dusty earth, the sweet dusty taste of the pomegranate rich with seeds in the hot sun.
Liffy looked up. He smiled.
So you see, I haven't really wandered too much, nor have I played too many roles. Life is an awesome blessing and the more we know of it the richer we are. The more we know of its dust, no less than the golden toll of its bell. The two of them always together, inseparable upon our hearts.
***
Suddenly Liffy sat up and laughed, flashing two perfect rows of brilliant white teeth. Then his fingers flickered in front of his mouth and his shoulders sagged and all at once he was a shrunken little man, toothless and decrepit. He held up the two dental plates he had removed from his mouth and gazed at them, moving one and then the other in the manner of a puppeteer.
Up went the upper plate. Laughter.
Down went the lower plate. Tragedy.
He slipped the plates back into his mouth and stared at Joe.
Teeth, he said. They're false. Some time ago I formulated a theorem to cover my situation, which I've always referred to privately as Liffy's First Law. To wit, Good teeth suggest mindlessness. Do a little surreptitious checking around and you'll see I'm right, although it's also true we try very hard to justify ourselves. Naturally, since we can never escape the fact we're somebody's child. Even the wisest old man in the world, in his thoughts at least, is still a little boy to someone. But none of that's my problem.
I'm neither wise nor old and my problem is a bad lower back.
You're practical, Liffy.
No not really, as you'll find out soon enough. I understand practicality but it has never appealed to me. In fact when I examine myself, I come to the conclusion that fantasy has meant more to me than positive knowledge. And all of that's a quote. Do you know who said it?
Some dreamer?
Yes, Einstein. And do you also know Cynthia won't sleep with me these nights? She's upset because I got her into trouble with Bletchley.
I'm sorry to hear that.
Oh she'll get over it. Her only trouble seems to be she thinks the Middle East is romantic, so she always wants me to be someone different when I come to call. One evening I have to be a long thin Bombay Lancer charging the Khyber Pass, a randy brown fellow who never takes off his boots. Then the next night I have to be a short slimy sheik rolling around on the rug, obsessed with my greyhound.
Liffy frowned, his mood changing.
Romanticism? Imagination? But hasn't it always been the human enigma? Has anything ever been so circular and contradictory, right from the beginning? It spins from sublime to harmless, from Einstein to Cynthia, and so around the circle to the horrors that Zarathustra also spake, sadly for all of us.
Liffy groaned.
That's right. I'm talking about the lowest of the low now, German supermen. Before the war the Germans used to get very excited over the idea of a mud pit filled with muscular naked blond women, viciously wrestling with each other. After the regular evening entertainments were over in the provinces, that was often the special show put on backstage for an extra fee. A discreet side entrance for couples, single ladies invited free of charge. The mud flying and the slime oozing and naked grunting women sinking in primordial muck to the accompaniment of Bach and Mozart, the phonograph blaring, with a dramatic switch to Wagner and on-the-spot promotions to Panzergroupcommander for those who grunted the loudest, after one of the hulking combatants had managed to squash all the other heads under the mud. . .
. Bliss and more. Yes.
Liffy choked and sputtered for air, wheezing painfully.
The truth always takes a little bit out of me, he rasped. And have you noticed that when Rommel is wearing civilian clothes, he looks like some small-time hoodlum? Surly little Swabian fellow with a snarl on his face and his felt hat mashed down on his head? And he's supposed to be the good German general. Well if he's so good, how did he get to be the commandant of Hitler's personal headquarters before the war? Must have ingratiated himself, wouldn't you say? And Hitler must have liked what he saw, which says a good deal more about our Desert Fox than any amount of racing around in an African desert ever will. . . . Hitler likes him? That's good?
Liffy gripped his throat. For a moment he seemed unable to breathe.
And I also imagine that to someone from the New World, I may seem unduly sensitive to the loping images I find in that simple Germanic term, Panzergroupcommander. Well I can only say that it's much worse than you think. Much worse. Frankly, it's a howling nightmare of a word to me and you might as well scream COSSACK in my ear. The one conjures up the same primeval blackness as the other ?
Liffy shuddered, as if shaking off a mood.
***
More of Rommel's wine was opened as the night deepened and the talk swirled in the little room in the Hotel Babylon, as Liffy learned more about Joe and his interest in Stern, and Joe learned more about Ahmad and Bletchley and the British intelligence units known as the Monks and the Waterboys, the one with its headquarters in the desert, the other in the Irrigation Works in Cairo itself.
Of course Liffy knew Joe had been brought to Cairo by the Monks, since Bletchley was a Monk. And he was also friendly with Stern, as it turned out, although he had no professional connection with Stern and knew almost nothing about what Stern did.
We met through work, said Liffy, but that's not how we're friends and we never talk about work. With a war on, who'd want to? Mostly we just sit in one dim Arab bar or another and talk.
What do you talk about? asked Joe.
Oh, empty railway stations, living at night, Europe before the war. Stern was a student in Europe when he was young and he likes my imitations. They make him laugh, or at least they used to. Nothing much makes him laugh these days.
Have you met any of his other friends then?
Well there's the American woman, Maud, who works for the Waterboys. Translations, I think, not operations. I've met her with him once or twice. And of course there's Ahmad, they used to be friends.
But you know how it is out here these days, Joe. People tend to keep the different parts of their lives separate, very much so.
Joe nodded.
But what about these Monks and Waterboys, Liffy? What can you tell me about them?
Liffy's mouth worked silently, nibbling and chewing over his thoughts.
Well they have their different areas of interest, naturally, but the areas don't seem to have anything to do with geography. It's more a matter of the kinds of intelligence involved, or the levels, I guess you could say. The things the Monks do always seem more obscure, and they're fanatical about keeping their affairs to themselves. They take things from the Waterboys all right, information and support and so forth, but it never works the other way. The Monks are always careful to keep an outsider on the periphery of things.
Do the two groups compete with each other then?
Liffy shook his head.
You couldn't say that really. I suppose there's some
overlap in their operations sometimes, there'd have to be. But in the end their goals are different, their levels of interest again. The deeper you go, the more likely you are to find it's the Monks who are involved, not the Waterboys. The more regular aspects of the business, that's what concerns the Waterboys. And the Monks . . . well something more, but I couldn't begin to define it exactly. . . . By the way, just out of curiosity I checked to see if the Waterboys know anything about you, and they don't. They've never even heard of you.
No? But why would the Waterboys tell you something like that, one way or the other?
Liffy smiled.
Oh they wouldn't, so I didn't bother to ask them. There's a file clerk on the graveyard shift who's a friend of mine, and . . . well, and so forth.
I see. And Stern? Which group is he with?
Liffy hesitated. He frowned.
Stern's an exception in many ways, isn't he? He seems to have done a lot of work for both the Monks and the Waterboys, which is so dangerous I don't even like to think about it. . . . But look here, Joe, I'm sure you realize by now how little I understand these things. I'm just a prop out here as I told you, and I only work on the fringes, and who knows, anyway, what to make of people called Monks and Waterboys? These days intelligence groups seem to pop up out here the way religions once did. In fact it's enough to make you wonder sometimes whether it's not our modern way of doing things, although God knows I'd certainly prefer to believe the Monastery is some kind of wartime aberration out there in the desert, rather than a permanent anything.
You speak of the Monks in a curious way, Liffy.
Well they're a curious bunch, and Bletchley with his grim business-is-business attitude is just the beginning of it. One of the more bizarre assignments I've had with the Monks is being taken on drives at night out to the pyramids, Bletchley acting as a silent chauffeur in front while some stranger sits in back with me talking inscrutably, while I fiddle around with a cigarette holder and occasionally toss off a prearranged question I don't understand. . . . Come on, Joe. A businesslike Cyclops who simply enjoys a nighttime spin at the wheel and a glimpse of the Sphinx by moonlight? Is this the spy trade, then, or some convention of myths, or both? . . . But if you think Bletchley's odd, just wait until you meet Whatley.
Who's he?
The end of the line. The man in charge out at that parched and pitiless center of nowhere. The abbot, I guess you'd have to call him. Or simply, Your Grace. He seems to like that. And he's really peculiar. I know it's human nature to prefer to fight the last war, yesterday being easier to understand than today, but Whatley seems to overdo it. Excessive in his obsessions, you know. So much so that sometimes I wonder if he's aware what century he's in. Of course everybody's born at the wrong time in the wrong era, and it's also true that madness doesn't age, that it's simply ageless. But all the same, you see some strange things in the inner cells of the Monastery, cancerous things perhaps. Life living and growing, but living and growing the wrong way and coming out deformed somehow, destructive somehow. . . .
Liffy's voice drifted off.
Or so it seemed to Joe as he sat listening to Liffy's darkly shifting visions of the Monastery. Joe's mind blurring then and slowly sinking in the uneasy shadows of a restless sleep.
-6-
Sphinx
It was late when Joe looked at his watch, no more than an hour or two before dawn. He realized he must have dozed off in the chair beside the table, but he had no idea how long he had been asleep. Liffy was still stretched out on Joe's narrow cot, wheezing softly. Joe glanced at the table littered with empty wine bottles and chicken bones and frowned. Liffy was watching him with concern.
Awake again? And are you all right? Do you feel feverish at all? You seemed to be doing battle with yourself last night while I was briefly recounting the history of the world.
As a matter of fact I don't feel too well, said Joe, easing himself forward and holding his head in his hands.
Perfectly understandable, murmured Liffy. A concise history of the world would have that effect on anyone. There's nothing more disquieting than memory. And I know exactly how you must feel this morning because I know exactly how I felt the first time I awoke in this world. When I was born, I mean.
Not many people can remember that far back, but I can.
Joe moaned, holding his head more tightly.
And how did I feel at that moment? asked Liffy. Outraged. Appalled. Utterly stunned by what lay ahead of me now that I had been expelled from my tropical sealike Eden, that warm and fluid and rhythmic womb where I'd been happy and safe. And I was only seconds old, mind you, a mere tiny red-raw bundle of quivering impressions. And then all at once this huge figure in white, who was wearing a mask, naturally, snatched me up high into the air and viciously slapped me on the back. Slap, just like that. And I screamed my way into the world then, just screamed, Joe. And I understood it all at that moment, just everything, and I said to myself,
Oh shit, you're in for it now.
Suddenly Liffy sat up on the bed, intensely alert.
Well? I was right about that, wasn't I? It was one of those rare cases of a man being right from the very beginning. The very beginning.
Liffy laughed, then frowned.
But are you all right this morning, Joe? Our bodies are but shoddy armor for the soul, after all. . . . And why are you wearing that hat?
What hat?
That faded red wool thing. Your Irish disguise. You look like some sort of sickly elf in need of a handout.
I told you I'm not feeling too well, muttered Joe.
Then we must get out of here immediately, said Liffy, rising. Dawn is about to break over Egypt, so why wouldn't a glimpse of the pyramids at sunrise be just the thing? Come on, Joe, why not? Fresh air at least, and aren't we a race of fearless hunters when all's said and done? Daring adventurers fated with the need to know and to seek?
Joe cleared his sticky lungs, his mind still a blur. Liffy snorted.
Of course we are, Joe, don't argue. Adventure is everything to men like us. It's in our very blood, along with chicken fat and the sour residue of Rommel's wine. Just consider my clandestine orders, the real secret orders I was given in London when I was being sent out here as a spy. Didn't I tell, you what they said?
No, muttered Joe. What?
Head east, my child, ever east.
They did?
Precisely. And after that general introduction, they got down to specifics.
A. Yes, my child, a leisurely journey is what we have in mind for you, so stop look and listen.
B. Mingle, eat the local mush.
C. Tarry in caves and open spaces and mark well the local aphorisms.
D. Even graze a goat or two, if there's time.
E. But above all head ever east, for these are your orders in life, my child. For now anyway.
F. Good luck.
G. Have a nice trip.
Liffy laughed.
A trifle vague perhaps, but no more so than most things having to do with intelligence. In fact it wouldn't surprise me if your orders were secretly the same, so come along then. Come.
Liffy helped Joe to his feet and removed his hat. Gently he steered Joe toward the door, murmuring in a soothing voice all the while.
Fresh air, yes, I know how you feel . . . you need to escape from this room and from the Hotel Babylon in general, which unfortunately has changed very little from the time when a detachment of Napoleon's camel corps was bivouacked here. . . . Ahmad tells the story. Apparently there used to be a plaque in the lobby commemorating the event. . . . Napoleon's camels slept here. With their eyes open . . . Of course, Joe, it's that kind of place. Come along now. . .
Liffy locked the door behind them.
Easy does it, he whispered. In this quarter the darkness has ears, and as spies, we must lurk without a sound.
They tiptoed down the stairs and the pianola on the ground floor came into view. Ahmad was asleep at the counter, sitting on his high sto
ol with his head resting on an open newspaper. Next to his elbow were several large round sesame wafers, apparently left over from a midnight snack. Liffy scooped them up.
Survival rations for the dawn patrol, he whispered. The home front has all the luck. But have you ever noticed that all the spies in Cairo always read newspapers while waiting for their next clandestine strike?
While he whispered, Liffy was making a show of leaning over the counter to hang up Joe's key. But at one point he suddenly reached under the counter and grabbed for something, which he then hid behind his back. And a none too skillful maneuver at that, thought Joe.
They tiptoed toward the door.
I thought everybody in Cairo always did nothing but read newspapers? whispered Joe.
That's true, they do, but that's only because everybody in Cairo is a spy. Out here a man has no choice.
Spy and be spied upon—it's the real secret of the pyramids.
They tiptoed through the open door into the darkness and made their way up the rue Clapsius.
What we obviously need this morning, whispered Liffy, is a dramatic breakthrough. Now I'm going to fetch the van while you turn left at the next corner and follow your nose to a little square where there's a fragment of a Roman fountain, a pained marble face with an alarmed mouth spouting water. You can't miss it and it's also a chance for a quick wash-up. I'll meet you there.
Liffy trotted off, a long cylindrical leather case and a bundle of what looked like laundry tucked under his arm.
He must have left those things under Ahmad's counter when he arrived last night, thought Joe, wondering why Liffy had bothered to hide them behind his back in such a halfhearted way.
***
In an upstairs window at the end of the alley, in the dilapidated building owned by the former belly dancer who now roasted chickens for a living, a young man laid aside his newspaper and dialed a telephone number.
They've left the hotel, he whispered. Just the two of them.
Most of the young man's fingers were missing. He listened carefully.
All right, he whispered. Yes . . . I'll be here.
He hung up the phone and smiled.
And now for a real old-fashioned English breakfast, he thought, banging twice on the floor so the woman downstairs would hear him.
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