Nile Shadows jq-3

by Edward Whittemore

  There's only one way to change history. Organize.

  Straight ahead through the centuries, said Joe. But was old Menelik really so interested in politics as a young man? I'd always heard he was only a dragoman for a winter or so, to make ends meet while he was getting his hieroglyphs together. Do I have it wrong?

  Abruptly Ahmad's face darkened.

  Menelik went underground, that's all. Down into tombs. But he continued the struggle there.

  Oh I see.

  And his heart was always aboveground with my father and the cause, said Ahmad, who then began offering up a host of elaborate excuses to explain Menelik's speedy departure from the Movement which made it clear Joe hadn't been wrong at all.

  In fact although the idea for a dragomen's benevolent society had originally been Menelik's, the black scholar had lost interest in café agitation almost at once, due to his increasing fascination with buried graffiti and forgotten facts and subterranean reality in general the everyday spadework of Egyptology.

  What Ahmad had been referring to when he admitted that the black scholar had gone underground.

  But it was also apparent that Ahmad didn't like to dwell on this subterranean aspect of Menelik's life.

  And the reason Ahmad couldn't accept these underground truths, refusing even to acknowledge their existence beneath the shifting sands of Egypt, was because he wanted so desperately to believe the founding of a dragomen's benevolent society in Cairo had been the most dramatic event of the nineteenth century, and therefore the most significant cause that anyone could have taken part in then.

  And all because that was what his father had done.

  Democracy in action, boomed Ahmad, all his old enthusiasm returning. My father and his fellow dragomen discussed everything under the sun as they lounged away the hours in cafés, and there were superb speeches and vivid manifestos, not to mention all the poignant true-life stories that were constantly being retold and retold. The times were alive then, and there was even talk of founding a new nation or a new world-order dedicated to pure dragomanly ideals.

  And so we had verandaism, thundered Ahmad. And we had radical nocturnalism and revolutionary hotel-lobby restructuralism, and a revisionist humanist wing with no furniture, and the inevitable backroom lobby filled with cigar smoke, for the disabled. . . . Oh it was all there. And each faction had its hour of shrill ascendency as the final truth took shape, and then finally the enraged shouts erupted and the fighting slogans were unwound, and the downtrodden dragomen of Cairo rose up as one angry man and marched out of the cafés and into the streets. They just weren't going to take it anymore, and thus was born the International Brotherhood of Dragomen and Touts. Or simply the Brotherhood, as they were known to their supporters. Or the DTs, as their detractors so viciously referred to them.

  There's never been any respect for minorities, said Joe.

  Ahmad's massive nose flared. He sighed, gripping his powerful fists together.

  I have to tell you things didn't turn out well for my father, he said in a quiet voice. In his later years my father became increasingly bitter and eventually refused to see anyone at all, even Cohen and the Sisters, and that's shocking when you think of it. For hadn't their midnight sails on the Nile once been the very talk of Cairo? Those bawdy tender nights when the four of them had dressed up in costumes and drifted riotously on the currents of the great river, drinking champagne from alabaster cups of pure moonlight?

  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.

  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 thou
gh 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?