Nile Shadows jq-3

by Edward Whittemore

  And with that Ahmad's massive face swayed majestically with the beginnings of a smile.

  Two nosegays.

  A darkened dilapidated houseboat, a rambling pleasure barge of yesteryear, where memories included everything.

  Two tiny ancient women, twins, whose shadowy floating realm on the Nile had gradually come to be Joe's ultimate destination in his search for the truth about Stern.

  The prospect of Joe visiting the legendary Sisters had even caused Liffy to emerge from his somber mood. Either that or Liffy had brought all his acting abilities to bear for Joe's benefit and was staging a bravura performance, laughing and joking and dipping into a variety of roles to encourage Joe.

  The three of them, Ahmad and Liffy and Joe, had met for a strategy session in the narrow courtyard behind the Hotel Babylon, late in the afternoon as the sun was sinking. There amidst the creeping vines and the hanging flowers, the rustling old newspapers and the heaps of debris crumbling in the corners, they sat beneath the single palm tree as the shadows gathered in the slums of Old Cairo, Ahmad solemnly serving tea from a heavy silver tea service that had once belonged to old Menelik, the tea service resurrected by Ahmad from the epic clutter of his dusty little closet especially to mark the occasion.

  Ahmad's manner had never been more dignified. Obviously to him an official visit to the Sisters, a social call by Joe or anyone, was an event of the most profound significance.

  Ahmad poured.

  Teatime, he announced in his ponderous voice, gesturing at the cups. Tea in time and need I point out that vast empires have risen and fallen on just such queer civilized rituals as this? Now then, mates, who will take what? Cream, sugar, what?

  Before Joe could say anything Liffy had made a quick pass over Joe's teacup, and his own, with what appeared to be a small pocket flask. Liffy flashed a brilliant smile.

  A new invention, he explained quickly to Ahmad. A tricky combination of essences that takes the place of the usual sugar and things. Discovered, some say, in a remote desert in the New World where it is known locally as Irish-Hopi tea. Perhaps you'd like to try a splash yourself?

  Ahmad's huge nose twitched above the little table where they huddled. He hovered, sniffing. He frowned.

  Cognac?

  Liffy nodded.

  Egyptian cognac?

  Liffy nodded again.

  Foul, muttered Ahmad. Deplorable. But drink away at your cups of wretched Irish hope, the two of you, and meanwhile let's get down to business, social business, the only kind worth mentioning. Now then, before Joe can hand over his flowers he must first get in the door. And since he hasn't been invited to the houseboat, how will he accomplish that?

  Ahmad smiled knowingly in answer to his own question. With a flourish he reached under his faded lavender nightshirt and produced a tattered piece of hard thick paper, which he placed on the table with great ceremony. The paper was badly stained, its faint engraved lettering illegible. Liffy and Joe leaned forward, studying it.

  What in the world can that be? asked Liffy, mystified. Is it a secret pass of some kind? Your own ultimate forgery, good for anywhere in a universe of receding stars? Is that why the lettering is so dim? A carte blanche, perhaps, issued by the last pharaoh on his deathbed and good for immediate access to all secret tombs? A reissue of the same, promulgated by the last caesar on his deathbed? Or perhaps a highly prized invitation to Queen Victoria's birth? . . . What on earth is it, Ahmad? What could this curious document be?

  A formal invitation, announced Ahmad triumphantly, to the grand costume gala that was held in old Menelik's crypt to honor him on his ninety-fifth birthday. Now that was music, and if anything will get Joe across the gangplank and into the houseboat, this will.

  It will? asked Joe in wonder. Is it possible someone could still read it?

  No one has to read it, said Ahmad. A piece of memorabilia as unforgettable as this need only be recognized by its general size and shape and disposition. And it will be recognized by those who know it, by those who have traveled that joyous underground route, as the saying goes.

  Excellent, said Liffy. Excellent. An invitation in time saves . . . well yes, of course it does. Now then, Joe, let me brief you on the more current intelligence making the rounds in the bazaars. But first, a warning.

  The Sisters are to be visited only at night. All informers agree on this fact, straight off and straightaway.

  At night? repeated Ahmad thoughtfully. That, I daresay, is true.

  Liffy nodded at Ahmad, his manner grave.

  Precisely. There'll be a moon tonight and lunar facts, after all, are lunatic by definition.

  Liffy turned back to Joe.

  Simply a matter of vanity, perhaps? A sure knowledge that sunlight would show up unwanted wrinkles?

  Possibly, intoned Liffy. Or possibly the information these tiny twins are heir to can only be grasped in the sudden intuitive glimpses that come where moonlight reigns.

  In any case, continued Liffy, night is the milieu for this approach of yours. Night with its curious echoes and its soothing breezes off the Nile. If anyone tries to visit the Sisters at any other time, according to reliable gossip, they just won't be there. Of course they have to be there really, somewhere on the houseboat, because they never leave it and haven't in decades. But it seems the place has as many hidden passageways as the Great Pyramid, so when the Sisters are being elusive, well, they're as inaccessible as Cheops, at least so far as modern man is concerned.

  Cheops, the prototypical little man obsessed with erections, muttered Ahmad with disdain, stirring his tea.

  Precisely, said Liffy, throwing Ahmad a vigorous nod.

  He turned back to Joe.

  Now then, as for the houseboat itself, as for this shadowy structure looming at the end of a gangplank, this floating vision Ahmad so tactfully refers to as their particular queendom. . . . It seems this houseboat has had a very special relationship with British intelligence for some time. In fact there are those who claim that without this houseboat, there would be no British intelligence in this part of the world. Just none at all, nothing but blather and sand. So I guess it would have to be called the premier safeboat in the Levant.

  Liffy delicately touched the ends of his fingers together, one hand against the other, making a sphere. A demented gleam crept into his eyes.

  And now we may be drawing near the very heart of the clandestine matter. Breathe evenly, please, let the muscles in your neck relax and just consider the year 1911, if you will.

  Ahmad sighed.

  Now that's a year worth mentioning, he muttered. Not quite as grand as 1912, but a stunning performance all the same.

  Precisely, said Liffy, vigorously nodding at Ahmad again. That was a year, too. I can see we're on solid ground here. Now then.

  He turned back to Joe.

  The year for what, you say? Well for one thing, that was when Churchill was given the Admiralty for the first time. And during his first year in his new post, that august presence set two goals for himself. The first was to convert the fleet from coal to oil, and the second was to secure a certain world-famous houseboat on the Nile as his secret flagship.

  Abruptly Liffy puffed out his jowls in Churchill's familiar scowl. His head sank into his shoulders and he glowered resolutely at Joe.

  As is well known, young man, he boomed, I achieved the first goal. As of 1911, oil was in and coal was out. But as is less well known, I also achieved my second goal. That houseboat did become my secret flagship, and a very pleasant home away from home it always was, too. Once the particulars had been arranged, I immediately fired off a congratulatory cable of welcome to my new companions-in-arms.

  THE SISTERS,

  THE NILE.

  LADIES:

  GLAD TO WELCOME YOU ON BOARD. THIS IS GOING TO BE MORE FUN THAN

  CHINESE GORDON'S LAST STAND AT KHARTOUM IN '85.

  YOUR OLD PAL,

  WINSTON.

  The following day, boomed Liffy, glowering, jowls s
et, I received a return cable at the Admiralty in London.

  YOU CHERUBIC LITTLE UPSTART. YOU WERE STILL IN SHORT PANTS IN '85, SO HOW

  COULD YOU POSSIBLY KNOW WHOSE STAND WAS FUN THAT YEAR, LAST OR

  OTHERWISE?

  ANYWAY, NOW THAT YOU'RE IN CHARGE OF THE BOATS OF THE EMPIRE, KEEP A FIRM HAND ON THE THROTTLE AND CRANK UP THE STEAM, GIVE THE BOILERS

  HEAD AND STOP DRAGGING ANCHOR.

  AND WE'RE GLAD TO HAVE YOU ON BOARD, WINNIE. ANY OLD TIME.

  US.

  THE NILE.

  Liffy laughed.

  Awesome, he said in his own voice. They seem to have known everyone in their time. But remember, only at night.

  ***

  Oh, and one other thing, added Ahmad.

  Be careful not to make any stray remarks about Catherine the Great or Cleopatra, or about lost family fortunes or about someone called Uncle George. At least not until you have a sound feel for the conversation. I'm not sure those topics are still sensitive, but they might be. Of course, any allusion to human height or size would be out of the question, just cause for immediate dismissal from their queendom, but I don't have to tell you that.

  Ahmad smiled happily. He sighed.

  They're foolish old dears, no doubt about it. But they're a rare pair and basically very friendly, and certainly likable when you get to know them.

  Precisely, agreed Liffy, nodding. All rumors have verified that since long before Churchill got out of short pants and began reaching toward the tiller.

  He turned back to Joe.

  Now then. Let's start at the beginning again and make sure we've left nothing out, because memories which include everything can be tricky.

  Liffy paused.

  Now in the beginning there was Egypt and the Nile, and the Sphinx and the pyramids. . . But also in the beginning, strangely, curiously, there were these two tiny women, twins, called Big Belle and Little Alice.

  And in the beginning these sisters, who are the Sisters . . .

  ***

  Free the serfs, thundered Big Belle to no one in particular as she moved stiffly across the room, the declaration apparently a mere pleasantry meant to take the place of a remark on the weather.

  Of the two tiny sisters, Big Belle was slightly shorter. But she was also bulkier, which perhaps explained why she was commonly known as Big to her sister Alice's Little, although neither one of them was ever so known to her face, according to Ahmad. Both of the tiny ancient women were wearing old shawls and cotton slippers.

  Big Belle stopped in front of the chair where Joe was sitting and held out a glass, her face severe.

  You said whiskey, young man. Will that do? It's Irish, but I have to warn you, it's Protestant. Jameson's.

  Can you manage?

  I can, said Joe. As far as I'm concerned, drink is beyond tribal strife.

  Big Belle put her hands on her hips and beamed. Standing, she seemed about as tall as Joe was sitting.

  Good for you, she boomed. I always appreciate a man who leaves politics and religion at home when he comes calling on a woman.

  Chirping noises rose from across the room, from the chair where Little Alice was sitting.

  Women, trilled Little Alice. When a man comes calling on women. You know as well as I do, Belle, that Joe came to call on both of us. He brought two beautiful nosegays, or are you trying to ignore that?

  Little Alice smiled sweetly across the room at Joe.

  You'll have to forgive my sister, she chirped. Belle's so short, poor dear, she sometimes tries to forget there are taller women in the room. But I suppose it's only human nature to try to ignore the things that bother us. I'm almost five feet tall, you see, and I've always had a willowy figure.

  Big Belle still stood with her hands on her hips, beaming, in front of Joe.

  You're not a hair over four-feet-eleven, she called out over her shoulder, and you've been skinny since the day you were born.

  Little Alice sat up straight in her chair.

  Well at least I'm not four-feet-ten like some people, and I've never been stout because of all the chocolates I eat.

  Better than that dairy mess you pick at, boomed Belle over her shoulder.

  Yogurt is very healthy, Alice called out. And it has always kept me willowy.

  Willowy? thundered Belle. How can anyone who's four-feet-eleven be willowy? Anyway, I'm sure Joe didn't come here to hear about your obsession with being skinny.

  Belle smiled at Joe.

  You'll have to forgive my sister. The reason she starves herself into being skinny is because she thinks it makes her look younger. Can't face her age, never could. Younger sisters are like that, I suppose. Just desperate to stay young forever.

  How much younger is she? asked Joe in a normal tone of voice. The two sisters had been shouting at each other across the room, apparently because one of them was hard of hearing.

  How much younger? said Belle. Eight minutes, more or less. But the way she talks, you'd think it was forty years.

  Some people whisper, Alice called out, because they're afraid their lies will be overheard. Where's your knitting, Belle?

  Belle left Joe and went to look for it. Joe sipped his whiskey and gazed around the room.

  ***

  It was an unusual sitting room they had led him to, an airy old-fashioned sunroom on the side of the houseboat that faced the river. High narrow windows rose one beside the other from floor to ceiling, interrupted in the middle by a windowed alcove where a pair of tall French doors, as tall as the windows, opened onto a narrow veranda beside the water. The moon had already set at that late hour, but since the sunroom was mostly windows and all the curtains were pulled back, the stars and their reflections off the water would have been more than enough to have lit the parlor. A few candles flickered here and there but their only purpose seemed to be romantic, to cast a soft play of shadows over the scene.

  Most of the furniture in the room was made of light airy wicker, ghostlike and insubstantial, painted white.

  Occasionally some handsome old mahogany piece would turn up in the dream, solidly rooted among the floating wicker shapes.

  A small portrait of Catherine the Great hung at one end of the room, a portrait of Cleopatra at the other end. Both had been done long ago in pen and ink, apparently by the same artist, and both were badly faded. The portraits weren't meant to be realistic, the figures represented being strictly Victorian in dress and concept, the one imperial and opulent and haughty, an autocratic woman at court, the other playful and hinting at sensual delights in a vaguely Oriental manner, thoroughly proper in keeping with Victorian precepts, yet also suggestive of the hidden recesses of a nineteenth-century Turkish harem.

  Both portraits, in fact, might have been meant to represent unsuspected aspects of a giggly little Queen Victoria in the frolicsome days of her youth, before she took on the burdens of empire, the tiny future queen having decided to succumb to fantasy one rainy afternoon in some castle or other, and abandoned herself to the secret joys of dressing up, as little girls were known to do. This impression was reinforced by the fact that the young faces in the two portraits were close enough in appearance to be the faces of twins. Tiny twins. Yet even in the portraits, the girlish figure of Catherine the Great was noticeably bulkier than the girlish figure of Cleopatra.

  There was also a beautiful antique harpsichord in one corner of the parlor.

  All together the sunroom was a magical setting by starlight, despite the number of wicker chairs and wicker settees crammed into it. Joe guessed that as many as thirty or forty people could have found a place to sit in the room at any one time, more if any degree of intimacy had been allowed. Of course the Sisters had been famous hostesses when they were younger, so perhaps this vast array of spectator seats beside the Nile was only to be expected.

  Yet with only the three of them now in the room, a certain melancholy air to the parlor was unmistakable.

  An inevitable feeling of time having slipped away on t
he currents beyond the open French doors, taking with it a host of memories of laughter and gaiety and leaving behind these hauntingly empty wicker shapes as ghostly reminders of other worlds and other eras, forgotten now elsewhere surviving only in the hearts of these two tiny ancient women.

  Big Belle found her knitting and stiffly arranged herself in a wicker chair beneath the portrait of Catherine the Great. Little Alice cocked her head at the portrait of Cleopatra and nodded wistfully, as if hearing some echo flit across the water. Joe, meanwhile, smiled at them both and gazed out through the open French doors at the night and the river.

  ***

  You've hurt your ear, said Belle somberly. Were you trying to listen to something too closely?

  I'm afraid so, answered Joe.

  It's like that, is it?

  I'm afraid.

  Belle continued to stare at him.

  You remind me of my Uncle George, she announced abruptly. He used to wear a short beard and a shirt without a collar, and there was generally a makeshift bandage someplace on his head. He had your coloring and your build and he must have been about your age when he passed on.

  Jesus, thought Joe. And I bet he gambled away the family fortune and dabbled in underage barmaids and drank himself to death. Sounds like the voice of doom and this is no way to get things started. But the important thing is, did they like this Uncle George or not?

  Belle still stared at him severely.

  Oh help, thought Joe, the curse of Uncle George is upon me. But mightn't that compulsive lecher have been a wee mite endearing to his lovely young nieces just once in a while? Maybe a friendly smile in their direction as he lurched down the gloomy winter corridors of their family estate, before he fired up the samovar and locked himself in the study to mutter over Paracelsus and rage with his vodka bottles? An uncle-ly pat perhaps, warm and respectable, before he went crashing out into the night to attack the peasant girls in their hovels? Before he stole all the family jewels and all the deeds to the family estates and fled on the spring train from St Petersburg, racing to Nice of course, there to madly gamble everything away in a monumental fit of drunken hysteria?

  Belle's face softened.