enclosed the roof and gazed out over the Old City, lost in thought. He didn't know how many minutes had passed when he suddenly heard the soft familiar voice behind him.
Like the view then?
Cairo turned and broke into laughter at the sight. Joe was wearing the baking priest's shabby uniform from the Crimean War, flyer's goggles around his neck and a flyer's leather helmet. The goggles bounced on his Victoria Cross as he bounded up the last few steps and walked across the roof scratching his beard.
Here now, Cairo, what's so funny?
That outfit of yours. I never knew they had fighter pilots in the Crimean War.
Didn't you now. Well I don't think I did either until I was almost thirty. History can be a mystery when you're young. Were you looking for me then?
Not at all. Just roaming the roofs of the Old City in my spare time. You can't see as far up here as you can from the top of Cheops' pyramid, but there's more variety certainly. Where do you live by the way?
Here.
No, I believe an elderly Armenian priest lives here.
Ah, you met Father Zeno downstairs. A fine oul article that one, none better.
I'm sure.
Runs the library in the Armenian compound and also makes pottery. First a baking priest took me in, then a potting priest. Just seems to be how things go for me in Jerusalem. Care for a drink?
Fine. Where did you say you lived?
Joe shrugged. He walked over to the shed and unlocked the door. Cairo followed him and stood outside the door, gazing down at the narrow iron cot, the battered wooden footlocker, the small cracked mirror above a small table that held a basin and a pitcher, a bar of soap, a comb and a toothbrush and a towel neatly folded over a rack. A kerosene lamp hung on one wall beside a shelf of books. There was a crucifix above the head of the cot. The ceiling of the shed was so low Cairo wouldn't have been able to stand up inside, but of course he was much taller than Joe.
A cupboard sat on the floor and there was a little fireplace in one corner. Joe took a bottle and two glasses out of the cupboard and poured poteen. They went back to the wall around the roof and sat down.
Well here we go, Cairo lad, home-brewed and the best poteen in the Holy City by far. But don't go thinking I'm religious just because you saw that crucifix. It's a habit merely, kind of thing I grew up with.
Would you say the view is best to the north? I'm generally of that opinion.
Cairo nodded.
What's the meaning of that anyway?
Of what?
That peasant's hut. That monk's cell.
I don't know what you're talking about. It's where I live, there's no special meaning to it.
There isn't? When one of the richest men in Palestine lives like that?
Oh those schemes of mine, Christ they're nothing really. I was born a peasant you know so there's no reason why I shouldn't live like one.
Joe took off his leather helmet and goggles. He lit a cigarette and sipped from his glass. Cairo clasped one knee with both hands and leaned back, silent for a while, his eyes closed.
Do you cook in there too?
That I do. The very best stews to be found east of Ireland. Hearty and nourishing on a winter night.
What do you do for heat on a winter night?
A nice cozy turf fire, nothing like it.
I can imagine how cozy it is up here when there's a winter gale blowing down from the north.
Anyway, Cairo, aren't you richer than I am?
Probably.
And Munk too?
He might be if he didn't give it all away.
Sure and that's true, Munk's our very own idealist. Knew another man like that once, a man who had that kind of dream, a homeland for his people. But his people were Jews and Arabs and Christians all together, if you can imagine such a hopeless situation. Hated him at the time I did, but I was young then.
Anyway, I've nothing but affection for our dear Munk of the revolution and his three-level watch, time as time is at any hour of the day or night, fast or slow or not even there. And he'll make it too I think, Munk will. Hope so certainly. Be good to see someone who believes in more than money make it. But is that why you came dropping in today? To see if I was properly prepared for winter?
We were worried about you, Joe. Munk thought one of us should look in.
Nothing to worry about. I was just off with the Camel taking in the fine autumn sunsets.
Aqaba?
That's right.
For three whole weeks?
Was it that long now. Yes I guess it was. I was having a snort or two you see.
Drunk for three weeks, in other words.
Couldn't have been that long, I'm sure of that.
Yes you're right. It must have taken at least a sober day or two before you were steady enough to fly back.
It's not being unsteady exactly, that's not the problem, it's the danger of falling down that alarms you.
Who wants to take a terrible tumble? Not me. So you just daren't get in the plane at a time like that. You just have to sit still as still watching the water and holding on to yourself until things get right inside. Even walking is alarming. Dreadful feeling, the falling-down sickness.
Joe tried to smile but his face was sad and weary. He emptied his glass and lit another cigarette.
There's a pome, he said, that describes my last three weeks and it goes like this.
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
Like it, Cairo? Has a ring to it I say, a touch of majesty, and it'll live as long as the tongue is spoken. But since we don't have any plain on the premises, I think I'll just help myself to another glass of this most friendly drink that looks like water, yet is far friendlier than that. Care to join me?
No thanks. It's a little raw for me.
Guess it would be. Guess you have to be born to the stuff. But it can help all right when you're feeling like last winter's turf fire, all cold gray lumps and ashes. Well I'll just be helping myself now.
Cairo squinted at his hands as Joe went inside to fill his glass. Behind him he heard a beating of wings, a pigeon alighting on a little roof just below them. There were two small wooden shelters on the lower roof.
A short ladder led to it.
You keep pigeons, Joe?
For company don't you know. After he eats he'll sleep, so will the others when they arrive. They'll be tired certainly.
Where are they coming from?
Joe shrugged. Aqaba, I suppose.
You take them down there with you?
It's company, and then when I'm getting ready to leave I give them a wave and tell them they can go anywhere they want. Amazing, isn't it, how they can fly all the way back from the Sinai to find a little roof like this? One tiny roof in Jerusalem when they've got the whole world to choose from? Makes you think about home and wonder where it is.
Joe went down the ladder and put out some grain for the pigeons. Cairo was standing outside the door of the shack, gazing at the crucifix, when Joe came back and sat down.
I just knew you'd be going and thinking I was religious when Christ it's just not the truth. Why are you thinking that anyway?
