Nile Shadows (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 3)

by Edward Whittemore

  The Major found his tongue at last.

  What do you mean, you’re officially dead?

  I mean, according to the Monks, said Joe. According to official Monkish reality. So, can you do this and speak to your Colonel for me?

  But what if I did? asked the Major. What arguments could I give him for stepping in? Bletchley’s operations belong to Bletchley. The Colonel can’t interfere for no reason.

  True enough, said Joe, but as I see it it’s not so much a matter of argument as it is of points of interest, and those interests are Colly for one and Stern for another and me for a third. Your Colonel, like Bletchley, must have respected Stern a great deal, that’s a given for anyone who knew the man. And as for Colly, well I wouldn’t doubt they both loved Colly, mysterious presence that he always was. And Colly was my brother, which is by way of slipping me into this configuration.

  What? Colly was your brother?

  Yes, that’s who he was. There were a lot of us to begin with and Colly was the next to the last, and I’m the last. But that’s an aside. The points of interest here are the Colly and the Stern and only lastly me.

  The Major shook his head, completely bewildered.

  None of this makes any sense, he muttered.

  Joe smiled.

  It doesn’t?

  No. I have no idea what you’re talking about most of the time.

  Joe smiled more broadly.

  You don’t?

  No. The Delphic oracle and the Sphinx and moonglow, and Colly and Stern and you? What does it all add up to? I just can’t seem to get my hands on it.

  Joe laughed.

  Oh is that all. Well I wouldn’t worry too much about that. There seem to be all kinds of things we can’t get our hands on in life. What we have to ask ourselves is, does the intangible thing in question have a certain ring to it?

  A ring?

  Yes. As with a bell mainly, but also as with a circle. Sometimes that seems to be as close as we can get.

  I’m lost, muttered the Major.

  Joe laughed.

  Then just think of everything as being a tentative arrangement for the moment, a set of circumstances that never stops shifting around, confusing only because it is just for the moment. Like you and me, say, with our in transit status in a universe that’s also in transit. Or a meeting with Bletchley, say. That’s just another tentative thing. He could always change his mind or he could refuse outright.

  And what if he did refuse? asked the Major. What would you do then?

  Joe shrugged. He looked down at his hands.

  Don’t know, do I. Liffy used to talk about sitting in empty railway stations late at night, hungry and tired and never sure when a train might show up. Never sure where it might be going, if it did.

  Liffy?

  Joe opened his hands and looked at them.

  Better we don’t talk about him. Some things are just too painful and enormous to get ahold of right away, and Liffy’s death is one of them for me.

  The Major was stunned.

  Liffy? Dead?

  Yes, God bless him.

  But that’s terrible. How did it happen?

  He was shot and bayoneted and blown up and gassed and knifed and beaten and starved and buried alive and burned to ashes, and the ashes were scattered on the waters of the Nile.

  What?

  Dead, that’s all.

  But who killed him?

  The war? Hitler? Some army or other? I don’t know.

  But why?

  On the face of it, a case of mistaken identity. But that doesn’t tell us much because so many identities are always being mistaken in life. Why then, beneath it all? Simply because of what he was.

  I don’t understand. What was he?

  A sound as clear as a golden bell, whispered Joe. A sound as of a mighty rushing wind. There all right, but never something you could get your hands on.

  What?

  Yes, that was him. And truly, Major, your question is one that ought to be asked here in the lap of the Sphinx, for the answer to it is the very same answer that solved the riddle of the Sphinx three thousand years ago. Remember how the riddle went? What walks on four legs in the morning, on two at midday, and on three in the evening? And the answer then was a man, first as a baby crawling, then strong in his years, then old with his cane. So a man is the answer to the ancient riddle, now as then and forever. A human being is the answer, no more and no less, and that’s why Liffy was killed. Because he was human and because he was good, and it’s as simple as that and just as complex.

  Joe gazed down at the crumbling stone at his feet.

  Major? I need you to help me. Will you do that?

  If I can.

  Good. I’ll call you at noon. You won’t be able to speak freely on the phone, but if you use the word Sphinx when we talk, I’ll take it to mean there really is a meeting on with Bletchley. And if you don’t use the word, no matter what you say, I’ll take it to mean there’s not going to be any meeting and I’m being set up to be killed…. All right? Just between the two of us?

  Yes.

  Joe talked then about many things, but especially about Stern and himself and Liffy. Finally he rose and put out his hand.

  In any case, Major, I appreciate you coming here no matter how it turns out, and I’m glad we had a chance to listen to the Delphic oracle in the moonglow and hear what the Sphinx had to say, and refresh ourselves by recalling Colly and Stern and Liffy. Things do have a way of being passed along, don’t they? Despite even adverse winds and sunspots. Well then….

  Joe slipped down to the ground and was quickly gone in the darkness, leaving the Major naked of weapons and lost in thought.

  … Liffy impersonating Joe at the houseboat and his reasons for doing so … Joe’s mysterious connections with Stern and others over the years … Liffy’s feelings for Stern and …

  But what does it all mean? wondered the Major, gazing up at the calm and battered face of the Sphinx.

  A light burned in the back of the Colonel’s bungalow. The Major went in through the gate and walked down the path to the kitchen door, where he rapped lightly. A voice was humming inside. The door opened.

  Morning, Harry.

  Morning, sir.

  Cup of tea?

  Thank you.

  He sat at the small kitchen table, his head tipped sideways under an overhanging shelf, while the Colonel busied himself at the other end of the room near the stove. Tipsy unpainted cupboards made from packing-case lumber lurched along the crowded walls of the narrow kitchen, products of the Colonel’s fondness for carpentry in his off-duty hours. Every shelf in the cluttered kitchen was askew and the cabinet doors all hung ajar, unable to close. The unpainted kitchen table was heaped with the Colonel’s customary assortment of scholarly books on early Islamic calligraphy, medieval Jewish mysticism, the Baha’i sect, Persian miniatures, Jerusalem at the time of the Second Temple, archeological finds in central Anatolia. A plate of muffins was squeezed in beside the books and the Major pinched one.

  Harder than a paw of the Sphinx, he thought. The Colonel, happily banging around in the corner, interrupted his humming to call out over his shoulder.

  Piece of cheese to go with your muffin, Harry?

  No thank you, sir.

  The Colonel came ambling over and cups and saucers clattered down on the table. He wandered off once more and the Major just had time to pluck the wing of a fly out of his cup before the Colonel came ambling back with the teapot, still merrily humming to himself and doing a sort of bearish dance as he slowly shuffled up and down the narrow room on his false leg.

  One step forward and a feint to the side, two steps backward and a feint to the side. Feint and shuffle and one and two, the Colonel turning around to make some backward headway and sidling up to the table more or less rumpside first. One step forward and two steps backward.

  The Colonel’s Bolshie Trot, as it was called, after Lenin’s famous description of the backward advance of historica
l necessity in a world that seemed to care nothing at all about necessity, historical or otherwise, and preferred to do its advancing hindside first, as the Colonel said, both for protection and in order to keep its eye on the past. A dance indulged in by the Colonel only before breakfast and late at night, rarely, when he had drunk too much brandy.

  In his hand the Colonel was carrying a chunk of hard white decaying matter, greasy and crumbling. A vague smile drifted across his face as he popped a piece of it into his mouth and stood beside the table, swaying on his false leg, gazing down at his hand.

  Cheese, he muttered, chewing thoughtfully. Do you realize that’s what we all must have looked like once upon a time, back when the protein molecules were getting started on this bit of stray matter we call the earth? Makes you think all right, doesn’t it. Did you say you wanted a piece, Harry?

  I think not.

  No? Well the truth is breakfast has always been my best meal. Any old thing in the cupboard tastes delicious and the first pipe tastes delicious and I’m ready to take on the world. But then a half-hour later I begin to creak and wheeze and feel as if I weighed a thousand pounds, and that’s it for me for the day. Cheese to cheese. Makes you think all right.

  The Colonel hadn’t gotten around to dressing yet. He was wearing huge baggy underdrawers that hung down to his knees and one khaki sock, on his real foot, with a large hole in the toe. His undershirt was so poorly darned in so many places it gave his upper torso the appearance of a mass of poorly healed wounds. A faded old yachting cap was perched on the side of his head, and even though most of his body was covered, he looked far more naked than any unmutilated man ever could.

  Feint and shuffle, one and two. Humming happily, the Colonel sat down at the table.

  Nice out, Harry?

  Clear, cool, no wind.

  Lovely, yes. Best time of the day really. People haven’t had time to muck up the camp and the air’s sweet and everything tastes delicious. Later it’s all just one stale pipe. No cheese for you?

  Not at the moment, thank you.

  No? Well the tea’s almost ready. Been out for an early turn in the desert, have you?

  The Major nodded, waiting. The Colonel maneuvered his false leg into a more comfortable position and poured tea. After they had added sugar and stirred, and sipped, the Colonel fell to studying the plate of muffins on the table. He pinched one.

  Hm. I thought I’d picked those up this week, but it must have been last week.

  The Colonel glanced at one of the open books on the table and raised his eyes.

  Well now. You’ve been to consult the Sphinx?

  He’s Colly’s brother, the Major blurted out.

  What?

  Colly’s brother, repeated the Major. Our Colly’s younger brother.

  The Colonel’s eyes lit up.

  Is that true?

  Yes.

  What’s his name?

  Joe. Joe O’Sullivan Beare. He still uses the full family name. From the Aran Islands by way of a dozen years in Palestine and more recently a tour in America as the shaman of an Indian tribe in the Southwest. He seems to know everyone from his days in Palestine. Stern and Maud and all kinds of people Stern used to work with years ago. I haven’t heard of most of them but you probably have.

  The Colonel’s eyes flickered brightly.

  Well well well, and here’s more than a chapter or two from the past turning up unexpectedly … Colly’s brother, of all people. What’s he like?

  Nimble, speaks quickly sometimes, seems to have an odd way of expressing himself. It’s hard to describe.

  The Colonel beamed.

  As if things were a bit off-balance, perhaps? As if you were in a small boat at sea and the sky and the land and the water were all moving around? Up, down, sideways, never quite still?

  The Major nodded eagerly.

  That’s it exactly. As if nothing were ever able to find a safe place for itself.

  The Colonel laughed.

  Colly, on the nose. His brother must be just like him.

  And there’s also something strange about the way he views time, continued the Major. It seems to be all of a piece to him with no past and present and future particularly, just one big sea with us upon it. The dead, for example. No one seems to be really dead to him. But it’s not as if they were still out there somewhere, or off somewhere, it’s very different from that. It’s much more concrete and seems to do with thinking of them as being within us, a part of us, not dead in that sense. Alive because we’ve known them and therefore they’re a part of us.

  Hm. You had that feeling with Colly sometimes, but not as much as with his brother, apparently.

  The Colonel smiled.

  You were taken with him, weren’t you?

  I suppose I was.

  Yes, well, it’s not surprising. Colly was a man of great charm. There was something out of the ordinary to him, another dimension. And if his brother is like him only more so, and meeting him for the first time at the Sphinx as you did, under a full moon …

  The Colonel broke off, humming happily to himself.

  Colly’s brother, he murmured. How astonishing.

  He gazed down at the crumbling piece of cheese in his hand.

  Yes, curious. What does he want?

  A meeting with Bletchley.

  That’s all?

  Yes, that’s all. He says Bletchley has a standing order out to kill him, so he can’t arrange a meeting by himself.

  Bletchley? A standing order to kill Colly’s brother?

  Yes, and Liffy’s already dead. Killed because he was mistaken for Joe.

  The Colonel was shocked.

  What?

  Yes.

  But that’s not right. That’s not right at all.

  It certainly isn’t. And Ahmad is also dead. The desk clerk at the Hotel Babylon.

  Ahmad? But he was a delightful fellow, perfectly harmless. What’s going on here?

  And a young man named Cohen, said the Major. David Cohen.

  Of the Cairo Cohens? Cohen’s Optiks?

  Yes. He was a Zionist agent apparently, and a close friend of Stern.

  Well of course he was a friend of Stern, all the Cohens were. That goes way back to Stern’s father’s time. But what in God’s name is going on here? Has Bletchley lost his mind? How could his men have mistaken Liffy for Joe?

  It seems Liffy was passing himself off as Joe. On purpose.

  Why?

  To give Joe time to recover after the hand-grenade explosion and Stern’s death. To give Joe time, a chance, to save himself.

  The Colonel frowned.

  Why did Liffy do that?

  Because Joe knew Stern so well and Liffy felt Stern’s life was … what shall I say? Of great importance somehow. More important to him, to Liffy, than anything else. Even more important than his own life.

  Is that true?

  Yes.

  And Ahmad and young Cohen? Why were they killed?

  Because they’d talked to Joe about something, or at least the Monastery thought they had.

  The Colonel frowned deeply and poked at his pipe, his mouth working. The Major had no idea what connections with the past he was making, and he knew it was useless to ask. Finally the Colonel heaved himself forward and planted both elbows on the table.

  So Liffy sacrificed himself in order to save Joe, is that it?

  Yes.

  But why? What’s it got to do with Stern? I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.

  Well I don’t have it too clearly in my own mind yet. But it seems that above and beyond whatever Joe was trying to find out about Stern, above and beyond all that, it seems Liffy felt that Stern, Stern’s life … Well it’s hard to describe without sounding mystical.

  The Colonel’s tone was suddenly curt, impatient.

  Never mind how it sounds, Harry. Just say it.

  Well it seems Liffy felt there was some kind of special significance to Stern’s life. In his peculiar backgroun
d and his sufferings and his failures, in the ambiguities and paradoxes of the man. That just all of it, everything having to do with Stern, added up to a different kind of life. Something more than …

  The Major gazed into his teacup.

  … It’s almost as if to them, to Joe and Liffy and the other people Joe spoke of … almost as if Stern’s life is a kind of tale of all our hopes and failures. Living and trying as he did, failing and dying as he did. Ideals that may lead to disaster and yet still contain within them … Oh I don’t know what.

  A clock clicked in the stillness. The Colonel reached out and touched the Major’s arm, a kindly gesture.

  Never be afraid how anything sounds, Harry. A good deal of what’s in these books of mine could be called mystical, or could have been once. It’s just another word we use for things we don’t understand very well, things we don’t understand. To somebody else those same things might be commonplace, as routine as the most routine matters are to us. People have different realities, as Stern used to say, and there are many of them going on simultaneously for all of us, and the fact that one is true doesn’t make any of the others less true…. As for Stern, he was a man who had a powerful effect on anyone who knew him. You instinctively felt great affection for him, even love, you couldn’t help it. Yet at the same time there was a kind of indefinable fear you knew when you were with him, a fear that seemed to come from being in the presence of emotions so profoundly contradictory they could never be resolved. Something suggestive of the eternal conflicts in man, the mixture of the divine and the profane, holiness crossed with our dark natures and all of it pushed, pushed … because that’s the man Stern was….

  The Colonel nodded. He leaned back and went to work on his pipe.

  You were saying, Harry?

  Well that’s all, really. Liffy felt Joe had to live on as a witness to Stern’s life. As Liffy himself expressed it to Joe, so that one man at least would know, no matter what the war brings …

  A witness, murmured the Colonel. Yes, I see. And of course at the time Liffy said that, Joe didn’t realize what Liffy was telling him? What Liffy intended to do?