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 though 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?
What happened after that greasy failure? Joe called down.
Very little, Ahmad shouted up. I was in debt and there was no money coming in, and it didn’t take long for me to realize there was no future in that. Specifically, I knew it one evening when I walked into a café where I used to go, and not a soul there recognized me. It had always been our special place and Cohen and I and Stern had always gone there, surrounded by our circle. And then not to be recognized by even one person?… I wasn’t only embarrassed, I was ashamed and humiliated. I was nothing and I knew I was nothing.
Ahmad groaned down behind the counter.
Well the next morning I took a temporary job that normally I would have considered a ridiculous joke, but the joke turned out to be permanent and the beginning of my own Great Depression, foreshadowing the world’s. As usual, I was ahead of my time.
Again Ahmad seemed to have lapsed into silence down below the counter.
What was the job you took? asked Joe.
A position as counterman in a sordid brothel in decline, later to be acquired by an anonymous secret service, this rotting structure we now see around us, absurdly named the Hotel Babylon.
Ahmad’s head abruptly surfaced above the counter. He rested his chin and stared at Joe, his face expressionless, his battered straw hat tipped forward at an angle.
Since then I’ve come to terms with my lot, however, and occasionally I’m even able to muster a little humor. But all things considered, it’s been a long captivity for me here. My own sort of Babylonian Captivity, as I realized long ago. He smiled as his head sank out of sight.
More time passed.
This is impossible, thought Joe, and finally leaned over the counter to see what Ahmad was doing. Ahmad was down on his hands and knees with his back turned, removing screws from a panel in the wall. The panel was covered with dirty fingerprints and its edges were badly worn. Joe pulled back his head.
You might have been wondering, Ahmad called up, why I never supported myself through forgery. I could have, since I’m quite good at it. Ask anyone around town and he’ll tell you no one makes better money than Ahmad the Poet. Crisp clean lines and well-defined details, accurate portraits and artful images….
Joe jumped. Once more Ahmad’s face had suddenly appeared above the counter, grinning this time, the straw hat on the back of his head.
Were you wondering that? asked Ahmad. Why I didn’t just forge my way to stupendous wealth long ago?
Ah, yes, said Joe, looking first at Ahmad and then at the large reddish cat still sitting outside in the sun, immobile, watching him.
Ahmad nodded eagerly.
I thought so. But to me, you see, forgery is only money for art’s sake, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable spending such money. So the lot destiny seems to have cast me in this world is poverty in the midst of counterfeit riches. Genteel poverty when I’m able to relax with my music, humiliating poverty the rest of the time. And that pretty well describes the life of Ahmad the Poet.
He stared at Joe, his chin resting on the counter.
Now then, it’s time for our aperitif so please come down to my level in life.
Excuse me?
The swinging door under the counter, whispered Ahmad. You are now on the threshold of the lower depths, or what used to be called in Gothic novels, the Secret Behind the Wall. Just get down and join me here please, on the floor.
Joe looked at Ahmad, then crawled under the counter. The panel with its worn edges had been removed from the wall, revealing a square opening large enough to admit a man. Ahmad had lit a candle and was holding it in front of the black hole. A smile of boyish delight lit his face as he began to whisper.
This mysterious closet you are about to enter is left over from the old days when the hotel was still a brothel. Call it the local treasure chamber, if you like, and follow me but be warned. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. And also, duck your head or lose it.
Ahmad laughed.
Avanti populo, he whispered, there’s no turning back in life. The descent into the underworld begins.
Ahmad’s secret closet, as it turned out, had played a significant part in the history of the Movement in the nineteenth century.
One of the very first rights won by the Brotherhood, whispered Ahmad, thrusting his candle into the blackness. It was here that dragomen the world over began their long struggle to free themselves from the bedrooms where they had been virtual prisoners.
How did it work? whispered Joe.
Well when the police came around to raid the district, the Nubian porter in the lobby went to the pianola and pedaled Home Sweet Home at full volume, alerting the dragomen on assignment upstairs in the bedrooms, who immediately flung aside their customers and grabbed their flowered nightshirts and rushed down here to hide in safety behind the wall, passing the time with gin and parcheesi until the all-clear was sounded. That way they couldn’t be arrested on some trumped-up charge.
&nbs
p; And the customers didn’t mind being arrested alone?
The customers were wealthy foreign tourists, whispered Ahmad, so naturally the magistrates let them off. Smiles for tourists with loot and bugger the wogs. The usual double standard.
Ahmad chuckled and crawled through the opening, Joe going in after him. The chamber turned out to be quite large for a closet, although it was still no more than a small windowless room. Ahmad’s regular living quarters were in the basement, he explained, and this was but a private hideaway he used for listening to music and doing his exercises. The walls of the little chamber were stacked with dusty piles of newspapers, the most recent ones dated 1912, from what Joe could see. There was clutter everywhere, dozens and dozens of dusty Victorian and Oriental objects of every size and shape. A vague lavender scent permeated the cave and a chinning bar hung from the ceiling. Between the stacks of dusty newspapers, there was just enough space for a large man to stretch out and do push-ups.
Ahmad smiled happily.
My own little lair, he said, pulling out two tiny canvas stools for them to sit on. Joe nodded, dazed by the astounding clutter in the room. Ahmad, meanwhile, went on clearing his throat, apparently rehearsing what he was going to say. He seemed much more nervous than he had out front and when he finally spoke, there was a thin attempt at bravado in his voice.
Well now, so you’ve come from America, have you?
Yes, murmured Joe, his eyes drifting around the room in a trance.
Well now, isn’t that a strange coincidence? The world is really very small. It just so happens I once was given a complete edition of the collected letters of George Washington, some thirty-odd volumes in all, and they certainly added up to some fascinating reading.
They did?
Oh very. Let’s see now. Did you know, for example, that Washington’s false teeth were made from hippopotamus teeth? He also used teeth made from walrus tusks and elephant ivory and even cow teeth, but he always preferred hippo. He claimed it gave him a superior bite and chew. With hippo, he said, even peanuts and gumdrops were possible.
Even peanuts and gumdrops? murmured Joe. President Washington?
So he stayed with hippo whenever he could.
And wisely so, I’m sure, murmured Joe, who was still so overwhelmed by the clutter in the room he couldn’t concentrate on what Ahmad was saying. Again Ahmad cleared his throat.
Serious tourism began in Egypt around 700 B.C., mumbled Ahmad so it’s perfectly understandable you’d want to come and see the sights. But beware, nostalgia is deceptive. Nearly everyone in nineteenth-century Europe had syphilis, and if we forget that then the fainting spells and the dim lighting of the Victorian era become mere quaint oddities.
Quaint, said Joe. That’s true.
Or to put it another way, added Ahmad, the Vikings were once the most ferocious marauders in the world, but only a short millennium later most male Danes seem to be ballet dancers.
A nostalgic dance, murmured Joe. That’s true.
Ahmad quickly cleared his throat, a suggestion of panic spreading across his face.
And speaking of ballet and the dance, were you wondering where the best belly dancing in Cairo is to be found? Of course, my information may be a little out of date, but before the last war the best belly dancing was to be found in the … what shall I call it, the gut of the fish-market district?…Well in the fish-market district then, in the little drinking places there. In those days belly dancing always came with the smell of fish. It was considered suggestive….
Ahmad grinned broadly, but at once his grin faded. He rubbed his enormous nose and stared down at the floor in embarrassment.
It’s hopeless, he muttered. I just can’t do it anymore.
Joe stirred and looked at this large gentle man slumped over on the other little camp stool.
Forgive me, he said, I’m afraid I was distracted by all the things you have in here, it’s almost like being inside a person’s head. But what is it you can’t do? What seems impossible to you?
Ahmad made a gesture of futility.
Trying to talk, he whispered. A simple little thing like being polite and making you feel comfortable. I’m very happy to have you here, it’s just that I don’t seem to know what to say, here among my things. It’s not what I’m used to, it’s not like being out front at the counter. This is all I have in here and I guess I’m not accustomed to sharing it with anyone. Not that I don’t want to, I do very much. But I seem to have become clumsy in some terrible way over the years and everything I say comes out wrong, not what I really mean. It’s just that it’s been so long since anyone … well what I mean is …
Ahmad clenched his fists and stared at the floor, his voice trailing off. Joe reached out and touched his arm.
I know the feeling well enough, he said, but there are always things to talk about. Even here, where everything means so much to you.
Ahmad’s face twisted in pain and the words burst out of him.
But what? I don’t want to be another fool lost in the past. What could I possibly talk about that would be of interest to you? To anyone? What?
Ahmad buried his huge fists in his lap.
Do you realize, he whispered, that the adventures of my life are now limited to forays up the street to the greengrocer’s? That I actually have to plan my daily trip to buy vegetables and prepare myself for whatever contingencies may turn up? And that when I’m home again safely, I say a little prayer of thanksgiving because no harm came to me? And that when I wash and chop and cook my little pile of fresh vegetables for the evening meal, those vegetables represent the sum total of my accomplishments for another day?
Ahmad stared at his lap.
Greengrocery espionage, you might call it. And if the accomplishment seems meager, I can only say that for some of us even a trip to the vegetable stand is a dangerous journey to make in daylight, a torturous undertaking which requires every bit of courage we possess.
Ahmad shook his massive head.
For the same reasons I only venture downtown at night to do my forgeries. Because the streets are deserted then and I can slip through the shadows unseen by the failures that crowd my life.
Ahmad made a small sound deep in his throat.
But I’m sure you understand my situation by now. And with everything the way it is, what can I possibly talk about that would be of any interest to you?
Well there were those times back before the last war, said Joe. That’s a whole world that’s gone now, just as there’s another world ebbing away at this very moment, and that’s always been intriguing to me, how things change and why. Couldn’t you tell me a little about that? About those times you used to have with Stern?
Ahmad shrugged.
I guess I could, if it really interests you…. Actually there were three of us who were always together back then in the beginning. Three of us who were the nucleus, but even then Stern used to drop out of sight from time to time. For a day or two you’d notice him growing restless, then one morning he’d be gone. Where’s Stern? someone would ask, and the answer was always the same. He’s off to the desert but he’ll be back. And like the night and the day, Stern always did come back. Another morning or another evening and there he’d be at one of the tables in our little café, smiling and laughing and carrying on in his usual outrageous manner.
Ahmad paused.
That was before he became so involved with political ideals, you understand. Before he began to travel in connection with his political work. This period I’m talking about was back when he was still a student, when he’d just arrived from the Yemen, where he grew up.
But he used to talk to you about these sudden disappearances? asked Joe.
Oh yes, because we were so close, and also because of my little retreat out on the edge of the desert. He used to ask me if he could stay there sometimes, during the week, when I wasn’t using it, and of course I was more than happy to have him there. He didn’t have much money in those days and it was the least I
could do for a friend.
In those days? mused Ahmad. The truth is Stern has never had any money, he can’t abide it. When a little comes his way he spends it at once on friends, he’s always been like that.
Ahmad smiled, gazing into the distance.
Empty hands and eyes whispering of hope, as Cohen used to say. And Stern never slept in my cottage when he went there. Instead he’d tramp off over the dunes and camp out in the wilderness like a bedouin, taking almost nothing with him. But still, there’s never been anything simple about Stern. People used to think they understood him when they didn’t, because there are things in Stern that won’t mix. It’s always been that way….
Once more Ahmad paused, and this time he seemed to falter, as if he was afraid he was losing himself in the past. He even sneaked a timid glance at Joe, who smiled, trying to encourage him.
And that was Stern, said Joe. And who was the second member of your inner circle?
Ahmad nodded eagerly.
Well that was Cohen of course. Not the one of my father’s generation, not the one who went for midnight sails on the Nile with the Sisters and my father, but his son. He was Stern’s age more or less.
And what was he like?
Oh he was a colorful rascal. Very elegant and witty and a great favorite of the ladies, they couldn’t resist those long dark eyelashes of his. He was a very gifted painter too, a trifle morose on occasion but that only made him more appealing to the ladies. The handsome and moody young artist, you know.
And then there was you, said Joe.
Yes, lastly there was me. Much clumsier than them in almost every respect, in everything save for music really, yet somehow I was able to provide a certain rawboned paste to their mysterious leaven. And mysterious it was, magical even, when the three of us were together. Everyone remarked upon it and we were always mentioned in the same breath, because we did seem inseparable. And oh how we carried on in the grand tradition, roaming the boulevards with a word here and a smile there, the three of us in swirling cloaks and cocked hats in the dramatic manner of Verdi, our eyes afire for whatever mischief might suddenly leap into being in front of us, whatever gaiety might swoop our way on the amazing sidewalks of life.
Nile Shadows (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 3) Page 21
