A silly trick, he thought. There would only be more anonymous Monks waiting for him near the hotel, the first telephone call from the surveillance team would have seen to that. So why had he done it? Why had he lost control so quickly?
It was more than exhaustion, he knew that. The night had been filled with many things but the excitement was gone now. For the first time since leaving the houseboat, he felt he could see things clearly. And then he listened to the animal cries behind him and realized what had happened.
Joe choked and groped for the wall, violently beginning to vomit.
As he hurried along he thought of the young man he had just humiliated, a small man with a limp, with a bad leg or no leg, a false one in its place. Had he lost the leg in a tank? There wasn't much room in a tank and small men managed better, so that's where they were often assigned.
The boy hadn't done very well at the bus stop, thought Joe, but of course he was new to the game.
Probably he'd learned about tanks first, then how to walk again, then a quick course with the Monks before he was sent out to walk the streets for Bletchley. . . . He could imagine the boy's file being sent to Bletchley and Bletchley going through it and seeing his own life laid out in front of him. The boy patched up and out of the hospital and able to walk, an earnest young soldier who still wanted to help, could Bletchley use him? And Bletchley looking at the file and seeing his own life twenty-five years ago, everybody gets his own war. For Bletchley had also wanted to stay on in the army back then, it was just that they hadn't been keeping men with only half a face, no more than one leg would do it today. So Bletchley had known exactly how the boy felt and had taken pity and made him an offer.
God help us, thought Joe, but that's exactly how it works. Sign on as a war hero and lose a leg and if you're lucky you get promoted to streetwalker, simple as that.
And the kid was just doing his job back there, thought Joe. He doesn't know who I am and he's never heard of Stern and he's got nothing to do with any of us, but I put hatred into his eyes, I did that. And he'll pass it along all right but the worst part is I was enjoying myself, I wanted to wound, and laughing I was because I was so clever. . . . Clever for sure, whipping a crippled kid like that in front of a lot of people.
He stopped, exhausted again, feeling empty and ashamed. It seemed so futile sometimes. All these years and something like that could happen so quickly. It was frightening.
But he didn't have time to think about it. He had to keep moving now. There was just so little time left for anything.
***
The alleys of Old Cairo, as always, looked as if they had been gnawed by rats during the night. Joe was near the hotel. He turned a corner.
A haggard Arab figure suddenly loomed up in front of him, blocking his way, the man's hair long and matted, his filthy cloak a patchwork of faded rags. Desperately the Arab clawed at the air in front of Joe's face, his eyes burning as he ripped at the sunshine. But it was the creature's mouth that horrified Joe, snapping and gnawing at the sunlight. Joe tried to back away but a flaying claw came slashing down and hooked him, the Arab's bony fingers burning into his skin. Joe winced at the shock. The Arab's face was only inches away . . . a wild vision of some hermit who had lost his way in the centuries and come staggering in from the desert to haunt the byways of the city. But then all at once the Arab's eyes seemed strangely familiar.
Liffy?
For a moment the frantic burning eyes held Joe, then the claw slipped away and the mysterious gaze was broken.
Me, gasped Liffy . . . an asthma attack . . . in here.
He pulled Joe sideways into an alley and dragged him along.
Are you all right?
. . . better now . . . can't go back to the hotel. . . . Here.
He pulled Joe into a dark room off the alley, separated from the alley by a shabby curtain. There were small bare tables in the room and a counter with bottles in a row, stacked chairs, a mirror behind the counter. An Egyptian faced the mirror, his back turned. The floor glistened from water splashed around to lay the dust.
The Egyptian behind the counter glanced into the mirror to see them and went on wiping glasses. The mirror was old and cracked and deeply grained with time, its edges blackened in the gloom. Joe guessed the place was some kind of cheap bar used by laborers, probably mostly at night, empty now save for its owner. Liffy wheezed and sputtered and ordered coffee.
Joe found himself gazing into the mirror, fascinated by the odd distortions floating in its hazy interiors. A peculiar thought flashed through his mind. What if Stern were to sit with him looking into that mirror? . . .
Liffy dragged him along to a table at the back, away from the shabby curtain separating the room from the alley. Liffy was still pale and gasping for breath. Joe held his arm.
Are you all right? Can I do anything?
Liffy closed his eyes, chewing at the air.
. . . better now . . . passing . . . an attack.
Joe glanced over his shoulder at the counter, where the owner of the bar was putting a tiny metal pot to boil, removing it when the froth bubbled up and letting the froth subside before returning it to the flame, boiling the mixture of coffee and sugar three times in all. The color was coming back into Liffy's face.
Finally he opened his eyes and stared at Joe.
Better?
Yes, whispered Liffy. I was beginning to think you were never going to show up.
What's this costume you're wearing?
Nothing, just something left over from last night. I was doing a job for the Waterboys and didn't have time to change. Wait.
Joe heard the movement behind him. The owner brought over the two little cups of coffee and placed them on the table, a disheveled man with puffy eyes. As soon as he had left them, Liffy leaned forward.
I was afraid I'd missed you. Something's happened.
What?
Ahmad, whispered Liffy. I came to see you late last night when I finished work. I didn't think you'd be all night and I was going to wait in your room, but I never got there. Ahmad wasn't at his desk when I walked in and there was something wrong, I could feel it. There didn't seem to be anybody there.
Joe gripped his hands together under the table.
You looked around?
Not inside, I didn't like it. Then I thought he might be out back in the courtyard and I went around and climbed up to look in.
Liffy's hands were trembling. He lowered his eyes. Joe stared.
Ahmad, whispered Liffy. He was lying there all crumpled up. It looked as if he had fallen off the roof. His spyglass was still in his hand and his trombone was beside him.
A spasm jerked in Joe's stomach.
Dead?
He was lying the wrong way. His legs and his head were all twisted around but his straw hat wasn't there.
I didn't stay, I left and came to wait for you. I've been waiting for hours, I didn't go back. I have no idea what's going on there.
What was he wearing, Liffy?
His faded lavender nightshirt. That old thing he always wears when he's on duty.
Liffy hung his head. He pulled his hands off the table and hid them, his voice trembling.
I know what you're thinking. Ahmad never went up there without putting on his suit, it was his special place after all. And where was his hat, Joe? What happened to his old straw hat?
Liffy's voice cracked. He clutched Joe's arm, begging him, imploring him.
He went up there on a whim? Just decided to do it and leaned out too far . . . lost his balance?
Joe closed his hand over Liffy's.
An accident? pleaded Liffy in desperation.
No, said Joe, squeezing Liffy's hand more tightly.
No? Liffy almost shrieked. Just this one time? No?
Joe gripped Liffy's shoulder. Tears were streaming down Liffy's face.
He was pushed? shrieked Liffy in a whisper. A harmless man like Ahmad? But what's the sense of that, Joe? What's the sense of it?
/> Joe was on his feet. He dropped some coins on the table.
There's no time, I have to leave.
Liffy's head jerked back.
Where are you going?
I have to see someone.
Who?
There was terror in Liffy's eyes.
Who? Say it. I know anyway.
David, whispered Joe.
Liffy leapt to his feet.
I'm going with you, then. I am.
You shouldn't, Liffy, not now. It would be better if you didn't.
Better? David? . . . Better?
All right but we have to hurry, whispered Joe, and started down the room toward the shabby curtain separating them from the alley, a sudden image catching Joe's eye as they rushed past the mirror, the vision of a ghostlike figure drifting through the half-light behind him, wild hair streaming and a billowing cloak and a tormented face glowing in the dimness. . . . Liffy in flight through time. The unworldly figure of Liffy whirling through one of the last of his mysterious incarnations. . . .
***
The door to Cohen's Optiks was ajar. A bell tinkled when Joe pushed it open. There was no one in the shop.
Another door, half open, led to the workshop in the back where Joe had talked to Cohen. The workshop was also empty, the door at the rear of the workshop closed. Joe knocked, waited, turned the handle.
It was a storeroom, the place where Anna had listened to Joe's conversation with her brother. There were boxes and dusty trays, discarded grinding wheels, a clock on the wall which no longer worked.
Anna sat on a box, staring at the floor. She looked up, bewildered.
I only just heard. . . . Were you there?
She stared at Joe blankly and he shook his head. She stared at Liffy.
You weren't there? . . . Wasn't anybody with him?
No, said Joe softly. What happened?
Oh. Oh a lorry struck him. The police just told me. He was crossing a street. They said it was nobody's fault.
Her face was empty. She stared at the floor. Joe heard a muffled cry beside him and all at once Liffy was on his knees beside Anna, gathering her up in his arms, the two of them rocking back and forth and wailing and crying out . . . crying and crying.
Joe looked at the motionless clock on the wall and felt himself sinking. He pressed his eyes shut, too weak to stand, his heart crushed by the eternal sound of their weeping.
***
The tiny Greek church they had sought for refuge was deserted save for the two of them, the floor of the nave bare as was the custom, the few high-backed wooden chairs pushed back against the walls like thrones at a convocation of wary medieval kings. Shouts from playing children pierced the cool darkness.
Liffy sat on his throne with his hands in his lap, the life drained out of him since they had left Anna. Beside him Joe moved uneasily on his throne, thinking how stark the tiny church was without its priest and worshipers, its canticles and incense, with only vanished chants to fill the shadows. Liffy stirred, whispered.
Joe? What are you going to do now?
Well I'm going to try to see Stern tonight, one way or another, but in the meantime I need a sanctuary. In another era this little cave would have been fine, but the concept's no longer honored, sadly. Seems holy places have a way of getting lost over time, don't they, so you always have to be seeking new ones. . . .
Can you think of a place, Liffy?
A refuge, you mean?
Yes.
Liffy was gazing up at the low dome, at the fresco there depicting the austere figure of Christ as Pantokrator, the Paraclete or Intercessor, the stylized face expressionless, the enormous powerful eyes staring down at them.
You could try old Menelik's mausoleum, whispered Liffy. That would probably be as safe as anywhere.
It might be at that, thought Joe.
But Ahmad kept his forgery equipment there, he whispered. Won't Bletchley think of that?
Liffy stirred.
There's no reason for him to bother with it. There's nothing but a small printing press which runs by hand, so old and battered no one but Ahmad could ever work it. I imagine they'd just leave the place locked and forget about it. It doesn't mean anything to any of them.
Seems likely, thought Joe.
But how could I get in then?
I have a key, murmured Liffy.
You do?
Yes. I had a duplicate made of Ahmad's once. He used to let me borrow his and I was always afraid of losing it.
You used to go there by yourself, you mean?
Sometimes, to get away from everything. Ahmad took pity on me and let me use it. I used to go there to read.
Joe looked at him, surprised.
What did you read down there?
Buber, mostly. It was very quiet and I could feel at peace.
Joe nodded. I've been thinking about the Waterboys, he whispered, wondering if they could help in some way.
Liffy moved on his throne, still gazing up at the dome.
Why them?
Because I doubt they know anything about this, security being what it is. And because there'd have to be some sense of rivalry between them and the Monastery, human nature being what it is. And also because Stern's done work for them in the past, which means they'd have a high opinion of him. And because Maud works there. I know she only does translations, but that still means they'd trust her. Is there any officer there you know particularly well?
The Major, murmured Liffy. He'd be the one to contact. We get along and I think he reports directly to the Colonel, Bletchley's equivalent. In fact I think he's the Colonel's personal assistant. I can give you his private phone number and you could pretend you were me, asking for an emergency meeting. I've never had to set one up in the clear over the phone, but you could do it. We have the arrangement.
I couldn't imitate your voice, whispered Joe.
You wouldn't have to. Whenever I call him I use a different voice. It's a kind of game between the two of us.
Joe nodded. Liffy's gaze was still fixed on the fresco overhead.
Joe? What will you do if Menelik's crypt doesn't work out? If you have to find another place to hide?
Where will you go?
I've been thinking about it and I suppose I might have to try the houseboat. The Sisters would take me in all right, the trouble is Bletchley would think of it. I know no harm will come to them, I'm sure they're right about that, Bletchley wouldn't dare. But the houseboat just sits there on the water and if Bletchley's men came looking, well, they'd find me soon enough.
And so?
And so I'll just have to hope old Menelik can keep me hidden down there in his five thousand years of murky history.
Liffy looked at him.
I know, whispered Joe, it's a hope that doesn't make much sense. History doesn't hide you, just the opposite. Gives away your hiding place, if anything. But what other hope is there?
Liffy didn't answer.
And when they question you, added Joe, remember, just tell them the truth. You know I talked a lot with Ahmad, and that I talked with David once, and that I went to see the Sisters last night. But you don't know anyone else I might have seen and you don't know what the Sisters might have told me, and that's the truth. You don't know, Liffy, that's all. It's not your affair. This business is between Stern and me, and Stern and me and Bletchley, and that's the way it's been from the beginning. So just tell them the truth and Bletchley's not going to give you any trouble when he understands how things are. There's nothing wrong with Bletchley, it's just that he's got his own job to do and we're sitting in different places. So just the truth, Liffy, and it'll be all right.
Liffy nodded, distracted. He opened a little leather pouch which was hanging from his neck and placed a key in Joe's hand.
Menelik's crypt?
Yes.
Liffy stared at Joe, then whispered again.
There's one thing I have to know. Is Stern . . . did it turn out to be . . . is it all right? Did
he know in the end, Joe, did he have it right? You have to tell me the truth for Ahmad's sake, for David's . . . ours.
Joe smiled.
We never doubted that, Liffy. Deep inside, neither one of us ever doubted that. Stern's on the only side there is, the right side. Life. Hope. The right side. And we knew that, Liffy, we knew it. Do you remember what you told me about Stern the first time you ever mentioned him? How the two of you used to go to poor Arab bars late at night and just sit and talk about nothing, and in particular, never about the war? And you said he liked your imitations, they made him laugh. And you said that meant a great deal to you, bringing laughter to a man like Stern, knowing the life he's had. It made you happy, you said. Do you remember?
Yes.
And then you said something else, Liffy. Do you remember?
Yes. I said it was an unusual kind of laughter. I said it was gentle, and I said his eyes were gentle.
That's right, said Joe, and so they are. And so there's nothing to be afraid about now because it's going to be all right.
Joe smiled. Liffy looked at him. And, of course, there was that last question lingering between the two of them, when would they meet again, and where? But they understood each other too well to bother with that, and instead they made their final arrangements and sat a few minutes in silence, gazing around the tiny church with its little dome and its darkened fresco of the Paraclete, the Intercessor, sharing the coolness and the quiet of the place, a moment of calm for both of them.
Finally, reluctantly, Joe squeezed Liffy's arm and slipped off his throne.
I have to be going now, he whispered.
Liffy drifted along with him toward the door. There was a small stand for prayer candles and Liffy stopped to light two of them, one for Ahmad and one for David, and they stood looking down at the candles before they embraced. And that was where they parted and where Joe left him, a frail man in a tattered cloak with his matted hair streaming around his face, a sorrowing hermit from the wilderness crouched over the flickering candles of memory, of love.
Liffy silently weeping for Ahmad and David in the somber light of that little cave. Liffy once more the haunted prophet of old, a frail man stricken with the terrible knowledge of the names of things . . . his ancient dusty face running with tears that glistened like tiny rivers come to water the desert.
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