Fragments, in other words. Odd bits and pieces from which we must try to reconstruct the cup that once was, the fragile vessel that once held the wine of other lives in other eras. . . . Fragments, shards, yes.
The elusive materials of the Egyptologist gut after all, we're in Egypt so that's only natural, I suppose.
Only to be expected, I imagine.
Joe watched him. He smiled.
My God, Liffy, your imagination has found a lot for me to do this Sunday afternoon.
Liffy looked up and nodded eagerly.
True? While I'm exploring a totally different kind of reality? But let's consider your business first, since yours is business and my plans involve nothing more than straightforward outright debauchery, merely erotic tumbling at its sweatiest. . . . Now then, how can I help? What can I tell you about Ahmad or the Hotel Babylon or the music of time? But wait, I have an idea. Why wouldn't a pianola be as good a way as any to get things rolling? . . .
***
Liffy snorted. He laughed.
You've seen it, I know you have. There it stands under decades of dust at the far end, the dark end, of the corridor downstairs, a pianola of all things. And what in God's name could it possibly be doing there?
Joe moved as if to stand up and Liffy immediately whirled and glared at the bottle of gin on the table.
Is there a genie trapped in that bottle? he asked.
It seems likely, muttered Joe.
And you want to let him out? Set him free?
It seemed like not such a bad idea.
Liffy frowned, shaking his head vigorously.
Business first, Joe. The pianola takes precedence. Now then. Every Sunday morning, after Ahmad has his coffee and his sesame wafers on his high stool behind the counter, he strolls back there into the gloom and ponderously plays the pianola for an hour or so. Peddling the past, he calls it, perhaps because the pianola only has one roll. Home Sweet Home. You might say Ahmad has a delicious nostalgia for bygone eras.
Liffy looked thoughtful.
Of course he also has his trade which he pursues in old Menelik's mausoleum, currently Ahmad's secret workshop. Down there Ahmad's a master forger second to none, said to be the best in Egypt. Money is his specialty, great heaps of counterfeit currencies for the use of fanatical Monks who have taken the vow of poverty. Spurious millions in the cause of bogus appearances, don't you see, rather like life itself. But Ahmad also turns out identity papers and other scraps of this and that, such as those coupons good for free drinks. Don't you remember me flashing one at the airport? Say Ahmad sent you and you'll never be sorry?
You mean those coupons actually work? asked Joe.
Always. Anywhere in Cairo.
Why?
Liffy smacked his lips.
I thought you'd never ask. They work because Ahmad's father, also an Ahmad, was once a famous dragoman in Cairo, the leading guide and interpreter for tourists in these parts and something of a patron saint to those in the pimp and alcohol trades. It seems they still revere his name because he was one of the forerunners of modern Egyptian nationalism, by way of the dragomen's benevolent society, which he founded. Anyway, Ahmad père used to hang around the verandas of tourist hotels, leering up business for himself in the last century, and one winter he chanced to have a torrid affair with a young German woman who was down for a holiday, and Ahmad fils, our Ahmad, has been a fiercely anti-German vegetarian ever since.
Why?
Because that young German woman became his mother. Soon after Ahmad fils was born, you see, she abandoned both Ahmads and returned to Germany. She thought it was best for all concerned, but certain political enemies of Ahmad père spread a rumor that she'd buzzed off home because she couldn't live without a daily chomp on the long thick blood sausages of her fatherland. Our Ahmad heard this malicious rumor while still a sensitive youth and took it as a personal insult, reading some kind of sexual innuendo into his mother's reputed craving for large Germanic blood sausages. He never forgave the poor woman for preferring them to him. In fact he has never forgiven women in general, or Germany in general, or meat. . . . Once more the meat problem looming large in human affairs, I'd say, and it does have a way of doing that, doesn't it, old horse? Meat, I mean. Meat, that's all. The meat of the matter, pure and simple. Even when someone's as spiritual as Ahmad is, it's just extraordinary how often meat can be fundamental to what ails us. . . . Yes, meat, my child. Consider it well while tarrying in spiritual caves and open spaces. . . .
Liffy sighed.
As I well know. As I know as well as anyone. . . . But in any case our Ahmad is generally referred to locally as Ahmad the Poet, although no one has ever seen him write any poetry. A matter of disposition, perhaps. And it's safe to say that on top of everything else, Ahmad's very keen on the Movement.
Which movement is that? asked Joe.
My dear fellow, the Movement. Is there ever more than one? The Movement may be defined as whatever explains history to the individual concerned. The Movement is revolutionary in nature, a dazzling innovation that no one has ever thought of before, again, save for the individual concerned. The Movement smashes through the old order of things and updates us, a kind of political trolley used by some to transport them from being young and no one, to being older and someone. I'm sure you've heard of people dedicated to the Movement, even if you haven't met one recently. L'homme engagé, for example, remember him from the '30s? Dashing French fellow in a beret who was always chain-smoking dramatically? Who used to turn up behind the intellectual barricades in moments of crisis to sum it all up by saying, Life is absurd or Life is a Cambodian, that sort of thing? But if all of this seems confusing to think about, why not relax and leave the thinking to Ahmad? I'm sure he'll tell you everything you could ever want to know about the Movement, and I do mean everything. Followers of the Movement are like that. . . . But what's the secret of the pyramids, master? Everything, my child. . . .
Liffy nodded to himself, his face thoughtful.
I should also add that Ahmad has been well described as an Egyptian gentleman in a flat straw hat who stands at a slight angle to the universe.
Who describes him that way? asked Joe.
The retired belly dancer up the street, replied Liffy. That very nice woman who sells tender young roast chickens for a living, as well as serving as the official hum-job historian for the rue Clapsius. She always says that about Ahmad.
Oh I see.
Yes. And the reason Ahmad never takes off his boater, his hat, she says, is because it's a memento from an earlier and quieter age when Ahmad served as the stroke and captain of a racing crew rivered by the dragomen's benevolent society against the British navy. In those days there used to be a ferocious rowing competition known as the Annual Battle for the Fleshpots of the Nile, and in 1912, I believe it was, Ahmad's crew won, the only time the British navy was ever beaten at its own game on the Nile, and by riffraff at that. The touts and pimps had done it at last. . . . And never, notes the former belly dancer, did the rue Clapsius hum with so much verve as it did that night. It was a heartening triumph for all true Cairenes, naturally, and a banner day for Egyptian nationalism. So the boater Ahmad wears is a precious memento from that fabled victory of yesteryear.
Liffy frowned.
But that was yesteryear and now he's quiet, Ahmad is. He's like a huge solemn cat silently licking his memories. So although all paths lead to Ahmad, according to Bletchley's clues, I'd still go gently with him when introducing Stern's name. Years ago the two of them were very close, but there was some kind of betrayal involved and it's still a touchy subject. I've never gotten to the bottom of it.
Liffy stood up. His face brightened.
Anyway, I have to tell you I telephoned Cynthia last night, hoping for a reconciliation, and she said she might take notice of me if I turned up on her doorstep as someone suitable this afternoon. I was considering playing the part of a Free French officer with the colonials. You know, a darkly handsome spahi of
ficer of Algerian cavalry. They wear swirling red cloaks. . . . Irresistible on a Sunday afternoon, wouldn't you think?
Devastating, said Joe, smiling.
If you've recovered, that is, and don't need me. . . . And by the way, Bletchley seems to have someone keeping an eye on you. I spotted a young fellow hanging about up the street. He's missing most of his fingers and he may just be looking for a tender young chicken for lunch, or then again he may not be. Are you interested?
Not yet, said Joe. It's too soon.
Liffy laughed.
It is? Strange, but that's what Cynthia always says when we get into bed. It's too soon. Talk to me first.
And do you?
Liffy nodded vigorously.
Indeed, I tell her erotic tales from my travels. Would I be one to deny the myriad sexual acts mounted by spahi officers over the years in the desert? Beneath the swirl of a red cloak on Sundays?
Ha, and now I'm off to taste adventure, boomed Liffy, happily sweeping out the door and clattering down the rickety stairs.
***
At the foot of the stairs, behind the small counter tucked away in the shadowy corridor that led to the street, the enigmatic Ahmad sat silently playing solitaire, a thirty-year-old newspaper open at his elbow.
From what Joe had seen, solitaire and thirty-year-old newspapers seemed to be the man's sole pastimes when he was not engaged in his professional duties as a deskman at the Hotel Babylon or as a forger in Menelik's mausoleum.
Ahmad was a large man, his appearance bizarre even by rue Clapsius standards. In addition to the battered flat straw hat that was always on his head, he wore great round tortoiseshell glasses, securely attached to his ears by pieces of red thread tied in identical bows. His hair was also a bright red, obviously dyed according to his own prescription, for the color was much too bright and uneven to have been the work of a professional hairdresser.
Although his massive face was far from young, it had remained smooth and unlined and was rooted in an enormous thrusting nose. The size of his hands was remarkable and the general impression he gave was of great muscular strength in repose. There was even a childlike eagerness to his face, as if his impressions of life were still new and not yet fully formed, with the result that he looked less like an older man and more like a boy who had aged.
Up until that Sunday Ahmad had always been withdrawn in Joe's presence, never saying more than was necessary. But Joe had guessed this might have to do with a natural shyness on Ahmad's part, and in fact Ahmad's manner changed completely, as Joe had hoped it would, when Joe leaned on the counter and mentioned in an offhand way that he had once heard many stories in Jerusalem about the masterly Egyptologist and revered black sage unknown to the world as Menelik Ziwar, dead now these many years.
Of course the fact that the mere mention of Menelik Ziwar's name could dramatically alter the nature of an afternoon, any afternoon, wasn't surprising. It was true that only a few people had ever heard of this fabled Cairene of the nineteenth century, even when he was still alive. But to those fortunate few he would forever remain an astounding man of unsurpassed accomplishments, a hero of legendary proportions.
And unforgettable in every respect. Joe only knew what he had been told about Menelik Ziwar a decade earlier in Jerusalem. But Ahmad's connection with old Menelik was much more personal, as it turned out, and inextricably entwined with his own most intimate concerns
***
Menelik Ziwar had begun life as a black slave named Boy, born in the Nile delta early in the nineteenth century. At the age of four he was tossed into a cottonfield and told to pick, and under normal conditions that is what he would have done for the rest of his days, about two decades at best, before dying of dysentery or cholera or typhoid. But somehow Boy managed to learn to write a few words, including Ziwar, the name of the rich cotton-fat family that owned him, and soon he was proudly inscribing this name as a kind of graffiti on every available surface on the plantation where he lived.
Before long one of the Ziwars took note of this ubiquitous salute to his name and was flattered by it. He had Boy transferred from the fields to his mansion, to service his opium pipe on a daily basis. Boy now had time to dream, and with his imagination fired by the rewards of literacy, he quickly went on to learn to read as well as to write. That accomplished, Boy felt he had earned the right to a better name and immediately chose Menelik for himself, after the mythical first emperor of Ethiopia, the only country in Africa not ruled by Europeans at the time.
When Menelik was freed his success was even more startling. He moved to Cairo as a young man and learned the European tongues in order to be able to support himself by working as a dragoman, while quietly launching his study of hieroglyphs between backstairs assignations with tourists. He then turned his attention to archeology, at the same time cornering the opium market in Cairo as a way to finance his expensive digs elsewhere, and soon became the leading Egyptologist of the century, a wizard of subterranean life.
Yet the habits of anonymity acquired in his youth stayed with him, and Menelik always allowed the dissolute young men of the Ziwar clan to take credit for his remarkable discoveries, preferring instead to remain invisibly in the background, sagely advising others where to dig and how much opium to smoke while doing so, the better to appreciate these splendid treasures hidden by the ages.
Menelik's career of unsurpassed brilliance continued until he was well into his nineties, but long before then he had gone underground completely to live out his days in even greater obscurity, choosing one of his own discoveries as his retirement home, a spacious ancient tomb now to be found beneath a busy public garden beside the Nile. There old Menelik had graciously held court until he died, royally entertaining the few people who knew he existed. And it was this same mausoleum beneath a public garden in Cairo that Ahmad now used as his secret workshop, forging spurious millions for the Monks, as Liffy said.
And thus had ended an astonishing life begun so simply in a child's graffiti of long ago, on that fateful day in the nineteenth century when a little black slave named Boy had dared to raise his eyes on the cotton plantation where he labored, thereby exuberantly defying law and order, and had dared to write on a wall those slashing bold words that were to set free the magic of his yearning soul forever.
HAY.
EYES TIE-ED DRAGIN COTTUN ROUN.
COTTUN AINT FAYROW,
EYE EM.
(s) ZIWAR UF DA DELTER. MI, ZATS ALL.
-10-
Ahmad
But it was only one tiny part of old Menelik's career that seemed to appeal to Ahmad, not his phenomenal life in general.
Ahmad's intense admiration for the old Egyptologist was focused entirely on that extremely brief period when the young Menelik had worked as a dragoman one winter in Cairo, in order to support himself while beginning his study of hieroglyphs. For it was during that long-ago winter that Menelik and Ahmad's father had conceived the idea for the first dragomen's benevolent society, a forerunner of twentieth-century Egyptian nationalism.
Such vision, said Ahmad to Joe. And what heroic battles they had to fight to get the struggle out of the cafés and into the streets. In those days a dragoman could only find work during the winter tourist season. The rest of the year he had to do without, as did his neglected suffering children, the poor little waifs. For a dragoman in those days, it was rut or perish. During the winter, rich Europeans clamored for a dragoman's services and were willing to pay almost any price to get their hands on him. And then?
What did happen then? asked Joe.
Spring, thundered Ahmad. The crudest season. And not only spring, but spring and summer and autumn.
The tourists stopped coming to Cairo because it was too hot, and those same dragomen who had been the hottest items in town were suddenly rendered cold. Whereas before, a world-weary dragoman had hardly been able to set foot on the veranda of a tourist hotel without being pounced upon by wealthy Europeans in search of the rumored depravities
of the Levant, now these same poor slaves to the lusts of foreign exploiters were summarily scorned. Jeered at. Made the butt of rude Italian gestures and abruptly tossed off hotel verandas as if they had become so much superfluous hanky-panky.
But they changed all that, boomed Ahmad. And if you think Trotsky and Lenin set the world on its head, you should have seen what old Menelik and my father did right here in Cairo decades earlier. Fearlessly they went from café to café, convincing their fellow dragomen the time had come to stand up, to shriek, to speak out against these intolerable forced vacations that stretched on from spring through summer to autumn. Oh it was a time of fervor, all right. A time when there was electricity in the air.
I'm beginning to feel it, said Joe. It sounds like a regular spring thundersquall bursting over Cairo, with intellectual lightning just everywhere.
Ahmad whirled on him, his eyes afire, his voice crackling with emotion.
Ram it, he thundered. Up until then dragomen had always been mere rams for hire during the winter season, while being scorned during all other seasons. But no longer. Not after old Menelik and my father launched the Movement. And how did the idea for this great revolutionary crusade begin? This secular jihad to free the toiling masses of dragomandom?
Small, I bet, said Joe. That always seems to be the way.
Ahmad was somber, thoughtful.
Would you believe me if I told you it began in a small way? But always my father was passionately hammering away at the same inspiring theme. . . . You have to get out of the cafés and into the streets, he said. If you want your power to be felt, organize. If you want to make them listen to you, organize.
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