Nile Shadows jq-3

by Edward Whittemore

  In answer, Liffy merely nodded. He was staring straight ahead as they moved along, withdrawn in a way that wasn't like him. A thought struck Joe.

  It doesn't seem to be news to you, Liffy. Did you already know Stern was back in Cairo?

  Liffy said nothing. For some moments they walked in silence.

  I didn't know it for a fact, whispered Liffy at last.

  Oh God, thought Joe. . . . Listen, he said quietly, I don't have to tell you Bletchley's been holding out on me from the very beginning, and now Bletchley's got to find out pretty soon that Stern isn't where he's supposed to be, and that's going to start all kinds of trouble. It makes things seem hopeless all of a sudden, because there's no time anymore and I'm nowhere and I can't help Stern this way. So if you can tell me anything. . . .

  Liffy groaned. He turned.

  Oh look, Joe, I feel very close to you and I feel very close to Stern, but this just isn't my kind of work. I don't really understand any of it and I don't really want to. I'm only a prop here, I told you that.

  I know you did. And I respect the fact that you don't want to get pulled into Stern's affairs, and mine.

  Only because I'd make a mess of it for both of you, said Liffy, because I know I'm no good at this sort of thing. You'd think I would be after all the time I've spent with disguises and playacting, but that's just it.

  What the Monks and the Waterboys do just isn't real to me and I can't take it seriously. Playing at it or laughing about it is fine, but no matter how hard I try I can't really convince myself that any of it makes any sense. Maybe that's because so much of the time I'm wearing some ridiculous costume in some ridiculous role. It's strange, but to me it's like being with Cynthia.

  In what way, Liffy?

  Well, you know when I go to see her she likes me to pretend this or that, because she thinks it's romantic, and I don't mind because it's still a game in the end, and I know that and so does she.

  And this isn't? Is that it?

  Well that's the point. This is a game to me but it doesn't seem to be to other people. Other people seem to take it seriously. To me, Cynthia is real. When we're holding each other late at night, that's real. But not the red cloak I might be twirling around in front of her earlier in the evening. That was just fun, nothing, a game.

  I know, said Joe. I feel the same way.

  You do?

  Of course, Liffy. Nothing in this world is ever as real as a woman you hold in your arms. That's as close as we ever come to the truth of being alive, knowing it and not just thinking about it, which is always a second-rate activity.

  But how can you manage it then? Doing this?

  I can't very well, said Joe. And I know I can't and that's why I gave it up a long time ago. But I came here because I believe in Stern, and someone has to find out the truth about him for his sake, so he won't die thinking it's all been for nothing. Someone has to bear witness now and it doesn't matter whether it's you or me or Maud or somebody else, but I do know it has to be now if it's going to be. Now, God help us.

  They were sitting on the bank of the river, gazing at the reflections of light on the water. Liffy was trembling, and when he spoke his voice was so weak Joe could hardly hear him.

  . . . someone implied, yesterday, that Stern had just returned to Cairo . . . someone who trusts me, who would never imagine I'd say anything about it to anyone.

  This man's involved with clandestine work?

  Yes, whispered Liffy, but not the way we are, not with ours. At least that's what I think, I'm not really sure of anything.

  This man knows what you do? Whom you work for?

  Yes.

  He knows Stern well?

  Yes. That's how I met him originally. Through Stern.

  Why does he believe you wouldn't say anything?

  Liffy looked at Joe.

  Because I'm a Jew and he knows me. Does that surprise you?

  No, I thought it was probably that. He works for the Jewish Agency then?

  Liffy made a nervous gesture with his hand, as if brushing something away from his face.

  I don't think that's supposed to be known. I'm sure it's not.

  Joe nodded.

  Do you know which section he reports to? Is it the political section?

  Some part of it, I imagine. Would Stern be involved with that?

  It's likely, said Joe.

  Once more Liffy made the nervous gesture, passing his hand over the side of his face.

  Joe? I don't know what's right anymore, I have no idea what's right. . . . Oh why can't things be simple?

  Why can't they be the way they are on the war posters? This is the job, let's get the job done. Why can't life be like that? . . . Oh I just don't know what to do. Can't you tell me there's this and there's that, so I can choose and try to do what's right?

  Sadly, Joe shook his head.

  I wish I could, Liffy, but you know as well as I do that nobody can do that for us, not when the stakes are so important. Our decisions are always our own, and it begins and ends there. The clamor of the world just goes on and won't let up and still we have to find ourselves in it and find our name in the book of life, as impossible as that is, and nobody can do it for us and if we don't do it it's as if our name had never been there, as if we'd never existed at all. And meanwhile the clamor goes right on all around us and it always says the same thing, that nothing matters, so why decide anything? Stern, me, you . . . what difference does it make? How can one person ever matter? . . . But you know that's not true, Liffy. You know the two of us, right here, now, are the whole world. There's nobody here but us and that's the way it is and we're all of it. . . . But I don't have to tell you that. You know it better than I do.

  Silence again between the two of them. Another long moment of silence as Liffy's mouth worked and he stared down at the river.

  The man's name is Cohen, whispered Liffy. You could try to see him tonight. He's quite young. I'll tell you what I can about him.

  And then Liffy turned and gripped Joe's arm, the anguish in his face so moving Joe would never forget it.

  Long after the two of them had parted for the last time that image of Liffy would still be with him, a reminder of a moment on the shores of the Nile, a memory of a terrible war and many things.

  Joe? . . . O God have mercy.

  Yes Liffy, I know, and truly I wish I didn't have to find out anything at all about Cohen and what he does, and I pray it will turn out all right for him and for all of us.

  Liffy shook his head. His hands fell away. There were tears in his eyes.

  But it won't be all right, it can't be. We're in too deeply now and I don't mean just Stern and you and me, or Cohen or Ahmad or any of the others. There are too many little spots of light on this vast river suddenly, too many reflections of the stars broken by these immense currents of time at our feet. Too many little sounds in the world that will be lost in the whirlwind forever, too many little echoes that will be removed from the book of life. This time it's not just Stern who won't survive. . . . Many of us won't, and many things.

  I know it, he whispered, burying his face in his hands.

  Joe said nothing. He put his arms around Liffy and held on to the flesh and bone with all his strength as Liffy wept in the shadows.

  PART THREE

  -13-

  Cohen

  It was a dark cobblestone lane with tiny shops squeezed one next to the other, the narrow alley barely lit by weak lights casting a feeble glow. The upper stories of the buildings overhung the alley to provide shade during the day, but at night they obscured the sky and closed in the alley, giving it the oppressive appearance of a tunnel.

  The alley was deserted at that late hour, the storefronts dark. Most of the shops in the little quarter dealt in antique coins and semiprecious gems and various artifacts from antiquity. Here and there a thin line of yellow light showed between the locked shutters overhead, shining dimly from the bedrooms that fronted on the alley.

  Joe pi
cked his way carefully over the uneven cobblestones. It was an eerie feeling moving through the darkness there, knowing so many people were nearby and hearing the sounds they made, yet without a visible sign of life anywhere.

  A pot striking stone. A muffled voice. A bolt sliding into place.

  And his own footsteps surprisingly loud in the narrow alley and echoing in the darkness. A hundred eyes could have been watching him and there was no way he could ever have known it. But then all at once he was standing in front of a narrow shop with an old wooden sign overhead in the shape of a giant pair of eyeglasses, the gold lettering chipped and faded.

  COHEN'S OPTIKS

  He leaned forward and peered into the small shopwindow where a long brass spyglass was suspended on invisible wires, a printed legend beneath it.

  Lenses made to order. Fine lenses for all purposes.

  To the left was a thick wooden door, not the entrance to the shop but the separate entrance to the living quarters upstairs. Joe raised the bronze hand of Fatima attached to the middle of the door and let it fall three times, causing echoes to boom up and down the alley. He intended to wait several minutes before knocking again, and he was already reaching out for the graceful bronze hand when he suddenly realized a little panel had been opened in the door in front of his eyes.

  What is it? whispered a woman's voice in Arabic through the panel.

  Joe couldn't see anyone in the darkness. He leaned forward.

  I have to see Mr Cohen, he whispered in English.

  Come to the shop tomorrow, whispered the woman, this time in English. It was a young woman's voice, he thought.

  This concerns something else, he said. Please tell him Liffy sent me.

  The panel closed silently, and in another moment the door opened just as silently. Bolt and lock and hinges all carefully greased, thought Joe. A thorough gent, as Liffy said, and this would be his younger sister.

  He stepped inside and the door closed behind him. Vaguely, in the darkness, he could make out the upper half of a face.

  Wearing a scarf? he wondered. Been out and only just returned?

  I don't know anyone named Liffy, whispered the young woman. Who are you and what do you want?

  I have some special business with your brother, Miss Cohen. The name's Gulbenkian. I'm soliciting charitable contributions on behalf of Armenian refugees from the massacres in Asia Minor.

  You're twenty years too late then, whispered the young woman.

  And that's exactly what I would have said until an hour or two ago, whispered Joe, when Liffy told me otherwise. That slaughter is already a couple of decades gone in the past, I was saying to Liffy, and the world has moved on to bigger and more impressive slaughters, so how can your friend Mr Cohen or anyone else be expected to remember the Armenians today? But Liffy smiled and shrugged, you know how he does, and he said your brother's concern for refugees has a way of transcending time, so to speak. He said your brother has a long memory when it comes to just causes, like all the Cairo Cohens.

  So please, Miss Cohen, if you could just tell him Liffy sent me I'm sure he'd agree that Liffy's not one to be sending idle visitors around to call at this dark hour of the night, not unless it was important.

  I told you, we don't know anyone named Liffy.

  That's what I mean. If you don't even know him, his visitors aren't likely to be idle. Of course I could also go rushing ahead and say I'm an old friend of Stern's, but that would be getting down to business straight off and I'm told that's not the way to go about things in the Levant. So now. I'll just stand here and wait in the dark until you have a word with him, if you don't mind.

  He could hear her breathing. He was also beginning to be able to see her. She was a tall young woman who stood very straight, her hair falling down from beneath her scarf. She looked as if she had just returned from somewhere.

  It's quite all right, he added, it's what I've been doing for most of my life. Waiting in the dark, I mean, for some kind of answer to come to me. Once I even spent seven years in a desert in Arizona, a good half of it in darkness, thinking about Stern and the many sides to the man. Amazing when you get into it, how many sides he does have. Do you mind if I smoke while I'm waiting?

  Joe took out a cigarette and struck a match so she would be able to see his face. He was careful not to glance at her. She hesitated only a moment.

  Good, he thought. Take the look you're given and come down on one side or the other. Has to be that way when you work alone.

  I'll just be a moment, she said.

  And I appreciate it.

  He blew out the match.

  ***

  The two of them sat in a back room on the ground floor, in the small workshop where fine lenses were ground for all purposes, as the sign out front said.

  Cohen was tall and lean and angular, a generation younger than Stern. A dark lock of hair slipped over his forehead and he pushed it back. There was an unmistakable air of elegance about him, even when he was in shirtsleeves and worn slippers, surrounded by the buffers and trays and grinding wheels of his profession. Part of it was the graceful way he held himself, especially the way he moved his hands. He himself was so handsome women would have probably said he was beautiful.

  Cohen smiled pleasantly, touching a long thin forefinger to his brow. Now that, thought Joe, would be devastating to the young ladies in the cafés, if he ever had time for cafés.

  Well well, said Cohen. Here we are past midnight and at last I have a chance to meet a man called Gulbenkian. My sister tells me you're the new chief of the British Secret Service in the Middle East, or of Section A.M. for Asia Minor or After Midnight or whatever it is. Who can possibly stay current with all the vague intelligence units that keep popping up in this part of the world? I certainly can't. As your friend Liffy says, it seems to be a case of distorted images and refractions receding into infinity. All very mysterious and incomprehensible, according to Liffy.

  How's that, Mr Cohen? I don't believe Liffy has slipped that one by me yet.

  No? Well he was referring to the glare of the sun on the desert. It produces a multitude of little worlds, he says, which are all separate. Reflections, he calls them. But which world might yours be, and what might that have to do with me?

  Well if the truth be known, said Joe, I came to discuss a magnifying glass your great-grandfather made in the nineteenth century.

  Cohen laughed, relieved.

  Is that all?

  Yes. Only that, just imagine. But you see it was a very powerful magnifying glass, so powerful it has a way of letting us look right down through the years, from way back then when it was made, right up until the present. So powerful it can tell us who you are and who I am and why we're sitting here consulting together late on a clear Cairo night.

  I wasn't aware we were consulting.

  Oh yes, said Joe, no question about it. Now this magnifying glass I'm talking about is so powerful, mind you, that when a man puts it to his eye, his eye becomes a good two inches wide behind it, which is an eye so big it probably sees a good deal. Now your great-grandfather, who founded Cohen's Optiks right here where we sit, made this glass for a friend of his, an English botanist who happened to be skulking around these parts in the nineteenth century, one Strongbow by name. All right so far?

  Cohen smiled.

  Yes.

  Good. And this man Strongbow wasn't an everyday fellow by any means, no more than was his friend Cohen, but one at a time. Strongbow started out as a botanist all right, but before long his wanderings got the best of him and he became an explorer, exploring just about everything in this part of the world and using his powerful magnifying glass to get a better look at the sights along the way. Then after doing that for about forty years he decided it was time for a change and he became an Arab holy man, whereupon he gave away his worldly goods as holy men tend to do, having no use for them on the paths they travel.

  And since his magnifying glass had always been so precious to him, he decided t
o pass it along to another of his dearest friends, who was also a great friend of your greatgrandfather, a black Egyptologist by the name of Menelik Ziwar. Still all right?

  Yes.

  Fine. Now this Ziwar person was able to put the powerful glass to good use, using it to decipher the ancient mutterings in stone that he was always examining underground, hieroglyphs as they're called. And he did so until he died and the magnifying glass was laid to rest on his chest, in the sarcophagus where this Ziwar intended to pass the ages in a crypt beneath a public garden beside the Nile, right here in Cairo. This Ziwar you see, this old Menelik, was accustomed to talking to mummies as a result of his lifelong profession, but since his eyesight had been failing in his later years he thought it advisable to make his eternal voyage with a magnifying glass firmly in hand, the better to peer down through eternity without missing the details. So that's what he did and that's what lies on his chest today, that excellent and stirring device given to him long ago by his old friend Strongbow, which had originally been devised by another great friend to the both of them, a superior craftsman by the name of Cohen. . . . Your great-grandfather.

  Cohen smiled and touched the corner of his mouth. Right, thought Joe, devastating to the ladies if only he had time for them.

  Excellent and stirring? asked Cohen. Isn't that a peculiar way to describe a magnifying glass?

  It is, said Joe. But this magnifying glass was excellent because your great-grandfather, its first owner, had made it that way. And then it was stirring on top of that because its second owner, this botanist turned explorer turned Arab holy man, Strongbow, and its third owner, this black former slave turned archaeologist, Menelik Ziwar, because all three of these great friends had an uncommon way of stirring up time to savor a new result of their own making, which was an Irish stew of history so to speak, although none of them was Irish.

  But you're Irish, aren't you, Mr Gulbenkian?