Nile Shadows jq-3

by Edward Whittemore

  Both Belle and Alice stared at him.

  What's that? asked Belle, startled.

  Joe looked confused, embarrassed. He had spoken as if from a trance. Now he passed his hand over the side of his face, a nervous gesture, as if he were brushing something away. Even as he made the movement with his hand, he realized it was something he had seen both Liffy and Cohen do in the last few days.

  Do you know about this? asked Belle.

  No, none of it, said Joe quickly. A thought just came to me, that's all. I'm sorry I interrupted you, I didn't mean to.

  Who knits? asked Belle, curious all at once.

  That third Englishman who was in the bunker, the one who was pretending to be a professor from Oxford. Actually he's a Scotsman.

  He is?

  Yes.

  How do you know that?

  The way he speaks.

  And he knits?

  Yes.

  How do you know?

  I've met him. He knits and listens and doesn't say much. And he smokes a strong brand of cigarettes, or rather, he inhales them without lighting them. He never lights his cigarettes. They call him Ming on the other side of the Atlantic, the American-Canadian side. He's a chief of some kind, high up, probably at the top, he has that way about him. When I saw him he was traveling with an American and a Canadian who must be equally high up, who go by the names of Big Bill and Little Bill.

  How do you know it's the same man?

  I don't, I just have this feeling it must be.

  Belle stared at Joe, curious and more.

  You're beginning to sound like Alice, she said in a quiet respectful voice. And where did you meet this Scotsman called Ming, who knits?

  On top of a mesa in Arizona, said Joe. Underground, in the sky. In a kiva.

  A what?

  The Hopi Indians call them a kiva. It's a sacred underground chamber. At the time I met him I joked with myself that they were the Three Fates come to call on me. One Fate spins the net of life, one measures it, one cuts it. I joked with myself that he was the one who spins, because he knitted and listened in the kiva and didn't say much. He gave me a shawl then that he'd knitted, a black shawl, it was a gift. They came to visit me in Arizona to get me to come to Cairo to find out about Stern.

  Before I left the mesa I gave the shawl away, added Joe for no reason. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you. Please go on.

  But Belle didn't go on. She was still staring at him, fascinated.

  You gave the shawl away before you left that place? To whom?

  A little Indian girl in the village. A little Indian girl.

  Yes, what happened?

  Nothing really, said Joe. I was sitting on the edge of the mesa one night and the sun was going down and a little girl came out of the shadows and stood beside me. I took her hand and the air was getting chilly so I gave her the shawl and she was there with me for a while. She didn't say anything, neither of us said anything, we were watching the last of the light. After it grew dark she went home and I went to the kiva for a meeting with the tribal elders.

  I gave her the shawl because it was cold, he added simply. It was my last night before I left the mesa, as it turned out. I was trying to decide whether to leave or not, whether to come to Cairo.

  You were thinking of Stern, said Belle, and of the dying little girl in Smyrna twenty years ago. The one whom Stern . . .

  Belle stopped. She stared at her lap.

  Yes, you're right, said Joe. I thought a lot about Stern that night.

  Nervously, Joe passed his hand over the side of his face again.

  Please, he said, I'm sorry to have interrupted. I'm terribly anxious to hear the rest of it. What happened at the secret meeting in the woods near Warsaw? The Poles agreed to turn over their Enigma to the British?

  Belle looked at him. She leaned back in her chair.

  Yes. Eventually the machine reached London and since then the British have been reading everything the Germans tell each other. The secret is truly priceless, and very few men in the British commands know of the existence of Enigma. But Stern knows, and the British have learned that he knows, and how can they possibly allow that to be when Stern lives the kind of life he does? The secret is far too important, the danger far too great. And then there's also the future and Stern's Zionist connections to be considered. Today, British and Zionist interests coincide, but they didn't before the war and they may not again. So with everything taken together, it's a situation the British would feel they would have to bring to an end.

  A cry escaped Little Alice.

  An end, she whispered, gazing out at the river.

  Oh an end, an end. . . .

  ***

  Joe got to his feet. He walked quickly over to the open French doors and turned, restlessly beginning to pace around the room.

  It's clear enough now, he said. Bletchley's been having me trace people down to see what he has to worry about. He didn't have time himself to do the follow-up work so he had me called in to do the excavating for him, to find out which of Stern's friends might know what. A natural precaution for a professional like him. He didn't want to make his move against Stern until he was sure he could finish things once and for all. You can't afford loose ends when the secret's as big as this one, so he had me out gathering the bits and pieces, and then when he felt he had enough of the picture. . . .

  Oh my God, cried Joe, I've been digging Stern's grave. I've been digging into Stern's past so Bletchley can get ahold of it and . . .

  Joe sank into a chair, appalled at what he had done. He gripped his hands together, trying to get some control over himself, and suddenly he remembered where he was. He looked up, staring wildly at one sister and then the other.

  There's danger, he said. There's danger to all the people I've talked to, I can't say it strongly enough.

  Obviously Bletchley's been watching me much more closely than I imagined, since that was the whole point of the thing. And there's danger to the two of you, and we've got to . . .

  Belle shook her head.

  No.

  But there is, I tell you. If Bletchley suspects . . .

  No, repeated Belle. We understood this situation before you came here, Joe, that's why we asked how important it was for you to learn the truth about Stern's trip to Poland. We've known all along what the implications of that were, as has Stern. So nothing has changed for him tonight, or for us, but much has changed for you and those you've been in touch with. For unfortunately we never act alone, do we? The colors and threads of the tapestry are too closely interwoven for that, so no matter what we do, we always act for others as well, although generally without their knowledge, and often without even knowing it ourselves. But that's the nature of souls and strivings, isn't it, Joe? None of them is ever separate and every act casts echoes in many places, through many lives.

  Joe jumped to his feet.

  But the two of you, he began. We must . . .

  Belle stopped him again. She shook her head.

  No, not us, Joe. There's nothing for us to fear. Just look around you and you can see that for yourself.

  Alice and I are from another time altogether. We've lived our lives and there's nothing anyone can do to us that matters, surely you understand that. And even if there were, I doubt Bletchley would dare to take a decision like that upon himself. In fact, I'm quite certain he wouldn't.

  Belle nodded slowly and went on in her quiet voice.

  But even that's not the point. Alice and I aren't really a part of any of this, don't you see that? At the beginning I told you that what we were going to say had only to do with Stern, not with the war, not with this war or any war. And I said we would tell you for his sake, Joe, because we love him and because you wanted to know the truth about him for your own reasons. Your own personal reasons. Isn't that so?

  Yes . . . yes it is.

  And we believe in those reasons of yours, Joe, and so we went on and spoke to you.

  Joe had collapsed in
a chair. He looked up and found both Belle and Alice watching him.

  I'm sorry. I'm sorry but I . . .

  It's all right, whispered Little Alice suddenly. Don't take so much on yourself, Joe, just let Belle finish.

  Joe turned from one of them to the other.

  Yes, I'm sorry. Please go on.

  Belle nodded.

  This may sound strange to you, but the truth is Stern is more important to us than the war, this war or any war. His life means more to us, quite simply, than all the clamor of all the great armies which are ravaging the world for the sake of a noble cause, bless them, and for the sake of an evil cause, damn them. And that's true even though vast numbers of innocent people are suffering and dying, and even though many more will suffer and die before it's over one way or the other, if it ever is.

  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.

  O worthy Cairenes. Is it right for this secret agent to say the great General Rommel puts his nose into little fellahs first thing every morning? Is it right to say such wicked things about a great generalissimo panzer liberator? Can't the great General Rommel eat what he wants for breakfast?

  Angry mutterings ran through the crowd. Hisses. Groans. Again Joe waved his arms and shouted.

  And verily I say unto you, a great field-marshal generalissimo panzer savior, our very own Rommel, can eat what he wants for breakfast and British imperialism be damned. And I've said it before and I'll say it again, and I'll keep on saying it no matter what they do to me.

  Rommel eats what he wants for breakfast.

  Eats what he wants,

  Eats what he wants. . . .

  To the hungry masses thronging the crossroads that morning, the visceral appeal of Joe's booming message was immense and immediate. In only a few words Joe had managed to express the first principle of every poor Egyptian's dream for a better future, food, the dream disguised as usual as homage for a savior, the first principle disguised as the first meal of the day, breakfast. So it was no surprise to Joe when several daring voices took up the revolutionary cry out of hunger, and in another moment the entire hungry mob had broken into a thunderous chant secretly demanding an adequate breakfast, hundreds of clenched fists raised against the clear blue morning sky.

  We've said it before and we'll say it again.

  Rommel eats what he wants for breakfast.

  Eats what he wants,

  Eats what he wants. . . .

  Joe noticed some policemen forming across the way, getting ready to charge into the crowds before a riot broke out. Already the mobs were surging back and forth in a fierce din of shrieks and sirens and horns. Joe winked at Bletchley's small Monk, who was still trapped in front of him, and slipped away into the crowds. A block up the street, the shouts and horns behind him, Joe suddenly stopped and leaned against a building. All at once he felt dizzy, as if he had been running for hours.