by Gore Vidal
“Yes, sir.” A thought occurred to Pete. “You don’t happen to know a pianist, do you, name of Le Mouche? Works at a bar.”
The look Hastings gave him was as bland and empty as ice. “Friend of yours?”
“No. I think I ran into him my first night here, when I was drinking. Thought he might be connected with some traveler’s checks I lost that night at his bar.”
“Better take it easy. You can get stuck in a place like that.”
“Stuck?”
“With a knife. See you later.” And Hastings was driven away.
* * *
At five o’clock, wearing new clothes, Pete arrived at Le Couteau Rouge. The fact that Hastings had warned him, in so many words, not to go there was all he needed to spur him on. Besides, he was curious to know more about the piano player.
The bartender greeted him pleasantly. “Everything O.K.?”
Pete said everything was O.K. and ordered beer, Munich beer.
The bar was beginning to fill up. Sailors from various foreign navies crowded about the bar. Tough-looking French girls, usually in pairs, sat at the small marble-topped tables that edged the walls, eying the men shrewdly. Small dapper Frenchmen and burly Arab types wearing European clothes seemed to make up the regular clientele. They sat at tables close to the bar, talking to each other, their hands moving excitedly, their eyes turned occasionally on the newcomers at the bar, sizing them up in much the same way the women did. How much money’s he got? How drunk is he? Pete looked about sharply when he took his place at the bar to see if there was anyone he recognized or anyone who seemed to recognize him. Except for curious calculating stares, he aroused no particular interest.
The back of the bar was like a dim cavern with more tables, on each of which stood a bottle containing a stump of candle, unlit. They weren’t wasteful in this dive, he thought, his eyes straining through the gloom to see what was at the far end. He finally made out, at the very back of the room, a double door to the left of which was an upright piano. More tables, also empty, filled the space from the piano to the bar where he stood. It was obviously too early for those tables to fill up.
Someone pulled at his coat sleeve. He turned and saw the blonde with the delicate mustache. “Oh, hello,” he said, making room for her at the bar. “Want a drink?”
“Pernod,” she said with a bright smile that revealed dark irregular teeth; she was not his idea of a good time. “You have a good day today?”
He wondered if these people had a sixth sense about money. They seemed to know if you had it or if you’d lost it or if you were going to get it. Love of money was the one thing they all had in common. It was both business and religion to those who lived below the city’s surface.
“A real good day.”
“I am glad for you,” she said, drinking her Pernod daintily, not letting the fine hairs on her upper lip get moist. “I am Parisian,” she said, putting the glass down.
Pete said that he could tell she was, which pleased her. It had not taken him long to figure out that being from Paris was about the grandest thing you could be in Cairo. That most of these people were from Alexandria, or maybe Algiers, made no difference; they all claimed Paris as home and talked nostalgically, if inaccurately, about it. Pete played their game with a straight face.
They talked about Paris in the spring, their conversation a bit like the perfume ads Pete used to like to read in the magazines back home. In the middle of a long story about an evening on the Boule’ Miche, Pete, reminded by the name of the man he had come here to see, asked her if Le Mouche had been in that evening.
She nodded. “Yes, he came in just before you did. Oh, but this night in Paris was like no other. Maurice Chevalier and I went driving through Montmartre and—”
“Where is he?”
“Monsieur Chevalier? In Paris. I no see him for many, many years, but he—”
“Le Mouche. Where is he?”
“Oh, him. He is probably in his room. Through there.” She pointed to the double door.
“Excuse me,” said Pete.
She looked alarmed. “He does not like people back there. You stay here. Or perhaps we have drink at this charming flat I have two streets from here.”
“I’ll be back,” said Pete. He moved carefully through the mob of sailors. They were growing louder by degrees. The time of good fellowship was at hand, to be followed by wrangling and fighting at two o’clock, with the police giving a hand. Bars were the same everywhere.
The civilians who sat at the table at the far end of the bar watched his every move. They looked startled when they saw him go through the double doors.
In front of him was a hallway, lit by a single dim light bulb. There was one door on the left, one on the right, and, at the end of the hall, a half-open door through which Pete could see an alleyway.
He paused between the shut doors, trying to guess which he should try first. He gave a start when a voice said, “The door on the left, Mr. Wells.”
Pete opened the door, mystified. There had been no one in the hall.
Le Mouche was seated in an armchair, an electric hot plate in front of him. On it a teakettle bubbled. The room was lit by a lamp with a red shade, which cast a ruddy glow over the chair and the one table, over the prayer rug that half concealed a window, and over Le Mouche himself, who waved Pete to a stool beside him.
“I expected you yesterday, Mr. Wells, I was very disappointed when you did not come.” Pete stared fascinatedly, stupidly at the man. Le Mouche was a hunchback with a handsome, large, melancholy head and graying hair. He spoke English with great elegance and no accent.
“I—I was busy,” he stammered.
“I quite understand, Mr. Wells. After all, you are new to our city and there is so much to see and do.”
“How did you know I was in the hall? I mean, the door was shut and—”
Le Mouche chuckled. “Am I psychic? Yes, I think so. Many people have said I can foretell the future, and perhaps I can. But, alas, there is nothing mysterious about my knowing you were in the hall.” He waved a long graceful hand at the wall opposite him. Pete saw that two holes had been bored into it, about four feet above the floor, the eye level of the hunchback. “I keep myself informed of what is going on in the bar. This is not a simple city, Mr. Wells, nor, I fear, is everyone as good as he might be. There are even some rather wicked people who cause no end of trouble. One must be watchful.” As he talked, very simply, as though to a child, he poured the tea into two cups; then he handed one to Pete. “It is a mint tea, Mr. Wells. Good for the health. The Arabs are especially fond of it.”
“Thank you.” Pete swallowed some of the hot mixture. It was good.
“Now I have a special surprise for you. I recall I apologized to you Tuesday night for having none of this. Now I can make it up to you.” He opened a flat metal box filled with what seemed to be some sort of dark brown candy or preserve. The hunchback scooped out a bit with a silver teaspoon and placed it beside Pete’s cup. Puzzled, Peter looked at the lump. “Come, taste it. There is nothing like it.”
“What is it?”
“Hasheesh, Mr. Wells, hasheesh. The forbidden fruit, as it were…but the mainstay of the Arab world. Without it they would all go mad, and I am serious. They are forbidden to drink alcohol, but they can eat hasheesh, and they do, while drinking cups of hot tea to increase the sensation.”
“What is it like?”
Le Mouche clapped his hands and shut his eyes blissfully. “Like flying, like dreaming, only you are conscious all the time and there is no uncomfortable awakening. And of course, to make love when full of hasheesh is like nothing this world can offer. The sensation lasts for what seems to be an eternity, though actually it is only a second or two in actual time.”
Pete grinned. “Perhaps I should have a girl, to get the full effect.”
Le Mouche took him seriously. “Certainly. Shall I get you one from the bar? As my guest, of course. You can make love yonder on those prayer r
ugs in the corner. I am sure the Prophet would not mind.”
“Oh…well, thanks a lot, but I’ve got a dinner date,” said Pete, realizing how silly he sounded. He was half tempted to accept the invitation.
“As you please,” said Le Mouche, and he himself took some of the hasheesh and chewed it thoroughly, sipping tea from time to time, a faraway expression in his eyes.
“This won’t end me like the absinthe did, will it?”
“Certainly not. I wouldn’t let you take too much; you know that. Just a taste, to commune with angels.”
Pete ate it carefully. The flavor was like ginger candy, sharp but agreeable. As he chewed the pellet, he drank some of the tea. Almost immediately he began to feel warm and relaxed. It was like alcohol, only there was no distortion.
Le Mouche smiled benignly. “Good?”
“Very good. I’ve got to keep track of the time, though. Have to be at Shepheard’s by eight. Important engagement.”
“I’ll see that you start out in good time.”
“The way you did the other night?” Pete was more sharp than he had intended to be.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Wells, that I was hardly responsible for your condition. You insisted on drinking that poison. You were already quite far gone when we met.”
“Ah…” Pete relaxed; the drug made the room seem cheerful. He found that he liked Le Mouche very much. Yet, even so, there were questions to be answered. First: “How did we happen to meet? I’m a little hazy about that.”
“I should think so.” The hunchback poured himself more tea. “I was playing American songs. I believe I had just started something called ‘The Memphis Blues’ when you came over and sat down beside me and put your arm around my shoulders and said that that was the one song that always sent you.”
Even in his warm hasheesh mood, Pete did not like the idea of his arm around those sad, malformed shoulders; yet it had probably been that drunken gesture which had endeared him to the hunchback. “I guess I’m a sucker for that kind of blues. I never thought I’d be hearing it in Cairo.”
“You’ll hear it only when I play,” said Le Mouche proudly.
“Where did you learn to play our music?”
“In New Orleans—the only place.”
“You’re not American, are you?”
The little man shook his great head. “No, but I have been to many countries. I’ve done many things. Now I play piano at Le Couteau Rouge.”
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, yes. I see a great deal of life—through those two holes,” and his voice was bitter.
A thought occurred to Pete. To his own surprise, he found himself thinking lucidly despite the drug that ran like an electric current through his veins.
“What do you know about a woman named Hélène de Rastignac, a French countess?”
Le Mouche sighed. “Many things. I know, for instance, that she is not French, but Alexandrian, and I know that she is not a countess.”
“But she is rich?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. Yes, she must have a great deal of money now.”
“How did she get it?”
“How does any lovely girl make money in the world? She had friends.”
“Was she a spy in the war?”
“Everyone in Cairo was a spy. It was the thing to be.”
“Was she one?”
“I have no idea. She was the mistress, though, of Erich Raedermann, who was, as you may or may not know, the most important Nazi agent in Egypt.”
This was news. “What happened to him?”
“He was shot, I believe, while with her at their house on the Avenue Fuad Premier. She buried him decently. Germany fell. She did not fall with it.”
“How does she live now?”
“By her wits is the usual expression.”
“I met her through an Englishman named Hastings.”
Le Mouche whistled softly. “You move in very fast circles, Mr. Wells.”
“Too fast, maybe?”
“Maybe too fast, yes. I should be very—circumspect, if I were you. This is not like any other country in the world. We are ruled by a king who is a little mad and, on top of that, we have a number of corrupt officials who make life very difficult for those who refuse to make life easy for them. People can disappear in this country more completely than anywhere in the world, with the possible exception of Russia, and leave no trace.” Something in his voice chilled Pete to the bone. He gulped tea quickly, trying to drown the fumes from the hasheesh, which threatened to engulf him in pleasurable waves. With a strong effort, he kept his eyes in sharp focus.
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“Only to take care, Mr. Wells. I should hate to see you come to harm.”
“And you think I might?”
“If you get mixed up with people like Hastings and the woman who calls herself De Rastignac.”
“Do you know her real name?”
“I suppose I must have known it once. It’s not important.”
“What is her business?”
“I have no idea. She is involved in many things, and so is Hastings. I was not aware they were working together. It was inevitable, though. They are two of a kind. Will you have more hasheesh? More tea?”
Pete shook his head. “I think I’ve had it, thank you.”
“If you want one of those girls, I would be only too happy to—”
“I’ll take a rain check on that,” said Pete. He liked the ease with which basic things were handled in this country. “Oh, by the way, you know I was robbed of every cent I had Tuesday.”
Le Mouche nodded. “I believe I heard the bartender say so. I was sorry to hear it. If I can help, perhaps…”
“Oh, no, thanks. I’m O.K. now. I would like to find out who the hell took my wallet. You don’t happen to remember who I left here with, do you?”
The hunchback shook his head. “I believe you left here alone, though I’m not sure. Unfortunately, the street is full of bandits and procurers. It is possible that whoever took you to the bordello took your money at the same time. It is not uncommon. You are lucky to be alive.”
“I guess so.” Pete stretched his legs comfortably; they seemed to have no weight, to be resting on air.
“You will find life a little less wicked in Luxor,” said Le Mouche, pouring more tea. But they were not able to drink it, for someone knocked on the door and said, “Êtes-vous prêt, Monsieur Le Mouche? Oui? D’accord.”
“I must play,” said the hunchback sadly, and he stood up. He was even smaller than Pete had suspected and his body was grotesquely twisted, as though by a giant’s malicious hand.
He walked Pete to the door of the bar, their every step noted by the bright quick eyes of the natives. “Have a good journey, Mr. Wells, and guard yourself closely.”
“Thanks for everything,” said Pete.
“Come see me when you return,” said Le Mouche. Then, with a wave of his hand, he disappeared through the doorway of the cavernous bar, like a crab scuttling out of sight.
It was not until Pete was halfway to the Stanley that he realized he had never mentioned to Le Mouche that he was traveling that night to Luxor.
* * *
He picked up his suitcase at the hotel and checked out, leaving word that if the Consulate called he could be reached at the Karnak Inn in Luxor. A taxicab took him to Shepheard’s.
He was met by Hastings in the lobby. The Englishman was in an expansive mood. “Look quite shipshape,” he said, slapping Pete heartily on the shoulders. “Big improvement, eh? New shoes, by God! Come, let’s have a drink while we wait for the lady fair.”
They sat in the main lobby, only a potted palm separating them from a group of British ladies discussing bridge. They ordered gin.
“All ready for the big trip?”
“All set.”
“You’ll like Luxor. Colorful, historic, that sort of thing. Some fine lookers, too. If you go in for them.”
Pete sa
id he did, although his score so far in Cairo was unimpressive.
“You’ll find our friend Mr. Said a big help in these matters. He can fix you up properly. Anything you want. Arab, French, Italian, what have you—or what have they. In stock, that is!” He gave a short rumble of laughter. “My advice is try the Arabs.’’
“I hope to,” said Pete, but he was thinking of Hélène now, of how much he had wanted her the night before. He couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. In the car she had been unmistakably interested. Then, for no reason, she had frozen. He decided that she would be his main objective when he got back from Luxor.
He wondered as he drank whether or not it was a good idea to mix liquor with hasheesh. Since he felt no ill effects, he decided it would do no harm. The mood of the drug was beginning to wear off, in any case.
“One thing,” said Hastings, turning around in the deep wicker chair and fixing his pale stony eyes on Pete. “Keep away from government people—your government, my government, this government. They’re all bad for us.”
“Then we’re operating outside the law?”
“If you want to be technical.”
“I don’t want to be technical. I’m just afraid maybe the police will be.”
“All of them can be bought, if nothing gets out of hand. Also, don’t mess with politics.”
“Politics? That’s about the last thing I’m interested in.”
“Hope so. See that it is.”
Pete was mystified, but he had made up his mind to ask no questions until his employers volunteered answers.
Hélène, cool in white, with a flower in her hair, appeared in the lobby. She was as serene as ever when she joined them in their corner. The sight of her reawakened Pete’s desire, and also his anger. He would make her pay for handling him the way she had.
But if she was aware of his outraged masculinity, she did not betray it. She spoke lightly, of gossip. “He has done it again, Hastings,” she said, after a greeting that had included them both equally, dispassionately.
