No, said Joe.
It means to speak darkly, murmured Little Alice. To speak allusively. And the root of that is the Greek word for a tale.
Yes, said Belle. Oddly enough, the ancient Greeks had the idea that such was the nature of an account of life. To recite a tale, to speak of life, was to speak darkly because the essentials forever lay just beyond the clear light of the mind, tempting and allusive and beyond. To them, a tale was felt and experienced and its truths were known that way. But a tale could never be reduced through recitation to mere landscapes and seascapes and other topographies of the soul, however mighty, however brilliant the telling of it. Nor could the shadows and the echoes of a tale be removed in the speaking of it.
Belle studied Joe.
By chance, we know the name of their first great teller of tales, don’t we? Or at least time and tradition have assigned a name to this blind man who would otherwise be anonymous, who must have sat in the dust of some wayside recounting what he had overheard from the din raised by those who passed him by, or what he imagined he had overheard. And curiously enough, since you mention Smyrna, it was that very same ancient Greek city in Asia Minor where this obscure blind man was said to have been born. Blind Homer seeing deeply behind his dead eyes, seeing brilliantly in the dust of the wayside through the perpetual shadows of his mind. Homer’s blind eyes at play for all time on the dancing glittering seascapes, on the hard unyielding landscapes of the ancient world where others passed him by on their journeys, passed him by while imagining they sailed and strived in the clear white light of their days. When in fact he was the one who saw the journey, not them, because he was blind and they had only lived it.
And that ancient Greek image of blind Homer seeing more than the great heroes of whom he spoke, seeing more than those who have eyes, is an enigma in itself. And as an enigma it whispers to us and hints at things and suggests far more than we might want to acknowledge readily, and it remains an enigma untouched by millennia, no less of a truth today and yet no more resolvable than it was then, three thousand years ago. An enigma as dark and allusive and true, still, as it ever was. And with that we are brought to the code you now look for in Cairo.
Belle paused, gazing at Joe.
Today? This century? Stern? A sudden unexplained trip to Poland just before the war broke out? A priceless breakthrough?
Enigma, she said, is the name of the code machine used by the Germans. Just before the war broke out, a Polish intelligence service acquired one of these machines. Stern learned of its existence through contacts and he knew the machine had to be turned over to the British before Poland fell. Consequently, he went to Poland at once and there were hectic clandestine meetings in Warsaw that finally resulted in the most important meeting of all, held in a secret signals-intelligence post buried underground in the Pyry forest, a concrete bunker referred to as the house in the woods. Stern wasn’t at that final meeting himself, but he played some part in arranging it. Just what part I can’t tell you, because Alice and I don’t know that. In addition to the Poles at the meeting there were three men from London, two of them professional experts in cryptology. The third man from London, an observer rather than a participant, was there in the guise of a professor from Oxford.
Joe was listening intently, deep in thought.
He knits, said Joe suddenly.
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?
Nile Shadows (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 3) Page 35
