Nile Shadows jq-3

by Edward Whittemore

  The Major peered, seeing nothing. He gripped his carbine, staring intently, and all at once a booming sinister voice broke over him, a hollow inhuman voice which seemed to come echoing up from the very bowels of the earth.

  Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

  The Major whirled. He spun and kept on spinning, turning around once and twice and thrice under the great stone face, his loaded carbine at the ready. But there was nothing new to be seen no matter how hard he stared.

  The pyramids in the moonlight.

  The calm face of the Sphinx looming up behind him.

  And other than that only stars and the empty desert, a full moon and sand rippling distantly.

  Again the unearthly voice boomed and echoed briefly, thundering from nowhere and everywhere, hollow and deep and sinister in the night.

  Who knows? The Sphinx knows. . .

  The hideous voice broke into a cackle, a deluge of mocking laughter which seemed as if it would never end. Only to be followed at once by a clear human voice, a soft Irish voice gently calling out in the moonlight.

  Easy with the carbine, Major. Easy does it now, please.

  The Major stood rooted to his spot, struck dumb in the moonlight. He listened to his breathing and to the reassuring tinkle of goats' bells, and some minutes seemed to pass before he heard light trotting footsteps alongside the Sphinx behind him, coming from the direction of the mythical beast's hindquarters. And then a strange figure came trotting around the side of the Sphinx and began scrambling up one of its huge stone paws . . . a small man in an old baggy suit.

  The Major stared. The small man climbed nimbly up to the top of the stone paw and stood there with his hands in the air. He was smiling. He took a deep breath and nodded pleasantly.

  Nice night, Major. Lovely air out here.

  The Major recovered at once from his shock and edged forward, his carbine trained on the man's middle.

  Don't move, he shouted.

  Not a finger, came the answer.

  Not a hair, shouted the Major.

  That too, certainly.

  Hands over your head.

  Right you are. In our lowly way, we all try to reach for the stars.

  The man nodded, smiling, and the Major suddenly blushed behind his mask. In his excitement he had been screaming. He stopped for a moment to get a grip on himself.

  Tinkle.

  The small man in the baggy suit looked surprised. Are there goats around here? he asked.

  No, replied the Major, managing a normal tone of voice.

  Odd, I thought I heard goats, said the man. Didn't you hear the tinkling sound of goats' bells? I wonder where the goatherd is.

  My ammunition clips, said the Major.

  Oh.

  Who are you? screamed the Major. No evasions. Speak up.

  Oh. Well the name's Gulbenkian. Gulbenkian, I presume. At least that's what was on my papers the last time I looked at them. They also say I'm a dealer in Coptic artifacts by profession, which may well be true. As for my status in this war zone, that's down as in transit, but I suspect it doesn't tell us much because it's probably the status of most of us in this world. Just passing through, don't you know. They're a first-class forgery though, these papers of mine. So good you could even say Ahmad did them. You know that old Cairo saying, don't you? When in doubt, say Ahmad sent you?

  Don't move.

  Right, square one.

  The Major again made an effort to control his voice.

  Slowly now, he commanded, do exactly as I say. Lower your left hand to your jacket collar, slowly, and pull your jacket off. Slowly, now drop it.

  Clunk, said the man, why not. Never was anything very grand about it.

  Your shoes next. Don't bend over. Kick them off.

  Sure. Been doing it that way for years, actually.

  Now, left hand only. Undo your belt buckle.

  Ah yes, said the man. Life is trouble, only death is not. To be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble, as that old Greek saying has it. Ever come across that saying yourself, Major?

  Same hand, slowly. Unbutton your trousers.

  Ah, slow as slow for the sake of anticipation. And if I'm not mistaken, that's exactly what the old Greek saying had in mind. But I'm not so sure it was meant to apply to a cool night in the desert. More of an idea for lovely summer evenings on a deserted beach, maybe.

  Drop them. Kick them to the side.

  Right, a gentle kick maybe. My anticipation's waning in the general chilliness.

  Left hand, slowly. Unbutton your shirt.

  I'm getting there, Major, but it's also getting cold out here.

  Slowly. Do exactly as I say.

  The man smiled, nodded.

  Yes, and do you suppose that could have been an old pharaonic saying? Do exactly as I say, I mean. It sounds like it might have been some pharaoh's standing order from on high to the troops who were building the pyramids. Think so?

  Left hand only. Pull off your shirt. Drop it. Now raise one leg, slowly.

  Oh dear.

  Pull off your sock. Now the other one. Left hand only.

  Right. And I guess you've assumed all along I'm right-handed, which only goes to show it's a good thing I'm not Colly.

  The Major stared.

  What's that? Who?

  You know, the man who had this Armenian identity before me. The original Gulbenkian of clandestine obscurity, also known at one time as Our Colly of Champagne. As long as I can remember, Colly always used his left hand when he was taking a piss over the side of the boat.

  What?

  Yes. Colly was left-handed, in other words, so he always used his left hand when the time came to be sinister, to do something fast and unexpected.

  What? Don't move.

  Right. All I meant was that Colly's left hand was his shooting hand and his throwing hand, as well as his pissing hand don't you see, so it wouldn't have been a good idea to have him undressing with it. Fast on the draw, Colly was. But of course that's just by way of being of historical interest and it doesn't matter tonight, because I'm not Colly and I use both hands for things. Born ambidextrous, I don't know why.

  Don't move.

  Right.

  One hand, either hand, slowly. Pull down your underwear and step away from your clothes. Out there, over to the end of the paw.

  Right. For another of life's maulings, probably.

  Joe smiled and walked to the end of the paw where he stood naked, shivering. The Major kept his carbine pointed at Joe while he knelt beside the pile of clothing and felt his way through it. Other than Joe's papers and a handful of Egyptian coins, the only thing he found was a large wad of money in various currencies, in denominations he had never seen before. The Major backed away, perplexed.

  Where are your weapons?

  Don't carry any.

  What?

  That's right. I dropped out of the maiming and killing business a long time ago. It may be necessary sometimes but myself, I'd rather not take part. Personal prejudice.

  The Major looked confused.

  No weapons?

  None but what's in the head, and do you suppose I could get dressed now? Just plain cold is what it is.

  The Major nodded. He kept his carbine trained on Joe while he pulled on his clothes, at the same time sneaking glances at the wad of money he had taken from Joe's pocket. A bewildered expression came over the Major's face, hidden by his white silk mask. The money was printed on only one side.

  I keep some money on hand because you never know when you might have to take a quick trip when you're in transit, said Joe, watching the Major out of the corner of his eye. Of course it's true those Bulgarian leva and Rumanian bani can't be worth much this year, and the paras have probably also seen better days. None of them could be worth more than half of what they used to be, which is maybe why they were printed that way. In halves, I mean, on one side only. . . . Things are always deteriorating all over, have you ever noticed that?
>
  The Major forgot himself and nodded. Joe pulled on his shoes.

  But the real beauty in the pack, said Joe, is that bill on the bottom. See it? One hundred Greek drachmas on one side, ten thousand Albanian leks on the other. Or is it the other way around? The Balkans have always been a confusing concept to me, I've just never been able to make much sense out of them.

  Know what I mean?

  Again the Major nodded dumbly in agreement. He was having trouble remembering what he was supposed to be doing, so bewildering did he find Joe's manner. This isn't right, thought the Major. Things aren't going the way they're supposed to.

  Tinkle.

  Joe smiled, pulling on his jacket, as the Major quickly tried to think of another command to deliver. Any command would do.

  Sit down there, he said. Feet apart, please.

  Sound reasoning in the moonglow, Major. I was just thinking myself we ought to relax a bit. After all, the Sphinx is a riddle and we're right in the lap of that riddle, aren't we?

  The Major nodded without thinking. He pulled down his white silk mask, absentmindedly, and wiped his mouth. Joe asked for a cigarette and the Major handed him a packet.

  Would you care to sit down yourself? Joe asked pleasantly, striking a match.

  The Major nodded, confused, and sat down a few yards away from Joe on the paw of the Sphinx. He removed his pith helmet and wiped his brow Then he realized he couldn't see very well and he removed his goggles.

  This is an impossible situation, he muttered.

  Joe peered over the end of his burning cigarette and smiled.

  Tut tut, Major, tut and ho. Impossible, you say? Best to be wary of words like that in the moonglow here, where the secrets of the pharaohs reside all around us. A few minutes ago you might even have been wondering where I was when you first rode up and the Sphinx seemed to be speaking to you.

  Were you maybe wondering about that?

  The Major stared, fascinated. He nodded.

  Sure and why not, said Joe, and I was inside the Sphinx, that's all. It's too long a story to go into now but it has to do with tunnels of the past and lookouts people don't know about, and holes in the universe that are so mysterious they seem to be black, and other lives that affect our own even though those other lives seem to be gone and underground and forgotten to all appearances, even lost. But that's appearances only. They're there all right.

  Joe looked up at the sky.

  Here now, what's this? What moonglow was I referring to? Seems our gentle white goddess has just down and finished her tour for the night, making the black holes less black but leaving us in more darkness until dawn for sure.

  What's that? asked the Major.

  No more moon, said Joe. And speaking of that, we were talking about appearances and what's hidden and the apparent differences thereof, and Stern used to have a way of describing such things. He borrowed it from the Delphic oracle and it ran something like this. Summoned or unsummoned, the gods are there. Inside of us, it means. Calling themselves by all the names we can think up, some of which we recognize when the mirages come into focus at dawn, now and then when they do. Or in the middle of the night when everything's black and we also see things clearly for a change. Sometimes, for a moment anyway.

  Joe smiled, gazing up at the head of the Sphinx.

  I may be rambling now, Major, but that's only because the thought of Stern always sets my mind wandering and whisks me right off over time's dunes. A piece of personal dizziness, that's all. Fair enough?

  The Major nodded, not at all sure what he was agreeing to anymore, his thoughts tumbling in utter confusion.

  Right, said Joe. And it is odd how things can come around and come together. But I have another problem now and I'd like to tell you about it, and it's simply this.

  Joe paused, turning his head to the side to cough. While the Major waited for Joe to continue he absentmindedly removed the heavy sniper's rifle that had been resting on his back. Then he lifted off the heavy bandoliers that were weighing down his shoulders. He also undid his web belt with its heavy load of ammunition and laid it on the stone, relieving the pressure on his kidneys.

  Joe coughed again, his head still to the side. Numbly the Major went on pulling out weapons and laying them down, unencumbering himself. The automatic pistols appeared, small and large, and the various knives and daggers. When the Major was freed at last of all his weapons he stretched languidly, easily, sensuously. Joe glanced down at the small arsenal and cleared his throat.

  Right. Now as I was saying, my problem is simply this. Bletchley has some kind of standing order out to kill me and I don't see any need for it, but to get the order changed I have to talk to Bletchley, and I can't arrange that by myself. I can't just give him a ring and ask for a chat, because the way things are now he probably wouldn't get the call and certainly wouldn't show up. The fellows who take his orders would.

  Those Monks, damn them. See what I mean?

  The Major nodded.

  Therefore I'd take it ever so kindly, said Joe, if you could arrange a meeting for me with Bletchley. Surely you know I'm not going to go blasting my way out of Egypt these days, couldn't, even if I had a mind to.

  Bletchley's my star this night and I have to follow his lead. I need his approval to keep my in transit status, and I think I could get it if I could talk to him. So what do you think? Could you discuss it with your Colonel before the night's out? The way things are at the moment I'm short on time. Officially dead as a matter of fact, which isn't a promising condition to be in for long. Makes me uneasy, naturally.

  The Major found his tongue at last.

  What do you mean, you're officially dead?

  I mean, according to the Monks, said Joe. According to official Monkish reality. So, can you do this and speak to your Colonel for me?

  But what if I did? asked the Major. What arguments could I give him for stepping in? Bletchley's operations belong to Bletchley. The Colonel can't interfere for no reason.

  True enough, said Joe, but as I see it it's not so much a matter of argument as it is of points of interest, and those interests are Colly for one and Stern for another and me for a third. Your Colonel, like Bletchley, must have respected Stern a great deal, that's a given for anyone who knew the man. And as for Colly, well I wouldn't doubt they both loved Colly, mysterious presence that he always was. And Colly was my brother, which is by way of slipping me into this configuration.

  What? Colly was your brother?

  Yes, that's who he was. There were a lot of us to begin with and Colly was the next to the last, and I'm the last. But that's an aside. The points of interest here are the Colly and the Stern and only lastly me.

  The Major shook his head, completely bewildered.

  None of this makes any sense, he muttered.

  Joe smiled.

  It doesn't?

  No. I have no idea what you're talking about most of the time.

  Joe smiled more broadly.

  You don't?

  No. The Delphic oracle and the Sphinx and moonglow, and Colly and Stern and you? What does it all add up to? I just can't seem to get my hands on it.

  Joe laughed.

  Oh is that all. Well I wouldn't worry too much about that. There seem to be all kinds of things we can't get our hands on in life. What we have to ask ourselves is, does the intangible thing in question have a certain ring to it?

  A ring?

  Yes. As with a bell mainly, but also as with a circle. Sometimes that seems to be as close as we can get.

  I'm lost, muttered the Major.

  Joe laughed.

  Then just think of everything as being a tentative arrangement for the moment, a set of circumstances that never stops shifting around, confusing only because it is just for the moment. Like you and me, say, with our in transit status in a universe that's also in transit. Or a meeting with Bletchley, say. That's just another tentative thing. He could always change his mind or he could refuse outright.

  An
d what if he did refuse? asked the Major. What would you do then?

  Joe shrugged. He looked down at his hands.

  Don't know, do I. Liffy used to talk about sitting in empty railway stations late at night, hungry and tired and never sure when a train might show up. Never sure where it might be going, if it did.

  Liffy?

  Joe opened his hands and looked at them.

  Better we don't talk about him. Some things are just too painful and enormous to get ahold of right away, and Liffy's death is one of them for me.

  The Major was stunned.

  Liffy? Dead?

  Yes, God bless him.

  But that's terrible. How did it happen?

  He was shot and bayoneted and blown up and gassed and knifed and beaten and starved and buried alive and burned to ashes, and the ashes were scattered on the waters of the Nile.

  What?

  Dead, that's all.

  But who killed him?

  The war? Hitler? Some army or other? I don't know.

  But why?

  On the face of it, a case of mistaken identity. But that doesn't tell us much because so many identities are always being mistaken in life. Why then, beneath it all? Simply because of what he was.

  I don't understand. What was he?

  A sound as clear as a golden bell, whispered Joe. A sound as of a mighty rushing wind. There all right, but never something you could get your hands on.

  What?

  Yes, that was him. And truly, Major, your question is one that ought to be asked here in the lap of the Sphinx, for the answer to it is the very same answer that solved the riddle of the Sphinx three thousand years ago. Remember how the riddle went? What walks on four legs in the morning, on two at midday, and on three in the evening? And the answer then was a man, first as a baby crawling, then strong in his years, then old with his cane. So a man is the answer to the ancient riddle, now as then and forever. A human being is the answer, no more and no less, and that's why Liffy was killed. Because he was human and because he was good, and it's as simple as that and just as complex.