fish and chips at modest and movable prices.
The small van came sputtering in from the night, its cream-colored side panels recently painted to obliterate any hint of that bright green lettering that had once announced the approach of the fabled Ahmadmobile. The van shuddered and heaved to a stop in the shadows beyond the corner, near a darkened colonnade that ran the length of a block of shops. A small man, no more than a shadow himself, came ducking out of the colonnade and quickly slipped into the van beside the driver.
Bletchley nodded, keeping both hands on the steering wheel.
Evening, he said.
Evening, said Joe.
A match suddenly flared, illuminating the interior of the driver's cab. Joe lighting a cigarette.
There's no one in back, murmured Bletchley, still staring straight ahead.
I can see that, said Joe, but I was doing it more for the sake of your posse scattered up and down the street. Who in God's name do they think I am anyway? Some desperado from Tombstone out to hijack the Suez Canal? I've never seen such elaborate precautions.
Perilous times, murmured Bletchley.
And I believe it, and that's why I lit the match. So your cavalry could see I'm empty-handed and not holding a sword over your head, heaven help us. Sword of justice, I guess they'd call it in Tombstone.
Bletchley snorted noisily and threw back his head, breaking into a braying sound. . . . Bletchley's laughter, Joe reminded himself. Bletchley's infernal laughter.
What do you call that, Joe? Monastery humor?
Joe stared at him.
Well I never have before but now might be the time to start. In fact I should've thought of that when Liffy was still alive,
So what do you think, Bletchley? Would it sell in the Christian provinces or would good Christians like the Germans rather not hear about it? Would they rather ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist except as an aberration, yours and mine, I mean? But maybe we could get a laugh or two if we worked up a song-and-dance routine to go with it? A gaggle of jokes we could put together in the empty railway waiting rooms where we pass our lives deep in the night? Or in a concentration camp, maybe? . . .
Bletchley was suddenly angry.
You must know none of this has turned out the way I planned.
No? Well I'm certainly glad to hear it, Bletchley. I certainly wouldn't like to think any of this had been planned. Because if it had been, it could only mean God's been off in a different part of the universe these last ten or twenty thousand years, which could only mean He doesn't spend all His time mulling over the grand sweep of human affairs on our little planet, unlike the rest of us.
We'll talk about it later, Bletchley said angrily.
He shifted gears and the van lurched forward.
***
They pulled up beside the Nile in the moonlight, near a small pier thrusting out into the river. It seemed to be a warehouse district, an area of deserted streets and squat windowless buildings, all of them dark.
Bletchley switched off the engine and began wiping the skin around his bulky black eye patch, folding and refolding his handkerchief.
I'll just be a moment, he murmured, his face averted. Joe watched him. He shook his head.
It must be next to impossible driving with only one eye.
It is.
But how do you manage it at all?
Bletchley glanced at him, then turned away.
Like anybody else with what they have to live with. Not very well and as best I can. You just keep trying to make some sense out of the flat picture you're given, which is too flat and never enough, especially when it comes to people suddenly appearing in front of you. You can memorize a street with its buildings, but you can't memorize people. There are too many of them. And anyway, they're always changing their sizes and shapes.
Bletchley finished cleaning around his empty eye socket and put his handkerchief away. He looked at Joe, averted his gaze.
Let's step outside for a minute.
Bletchley climbed out of the van and walked a few feet on the sandy gravel. He stopped, waiting for Joe, gazing out at the Nile. Joe noticed that Bletchley had closed the door very quietly behind him. Once they were out in the night the two of them strolled forward in a natural way toward the river. They crossed onto the pier and strolled out to its end, where they stood side by side looking down at the water. Joe nudged a pebble over the edge with his foot.
You barely make a sound when you close a door. Why is that?
Bletchley stirred.
What? Oh habit, I suppose.
Joe nodded. He looked back at the dark buildings and the empty streets and whistled softly.
What's that? asked Bletchley.
Just me whistling in the dark, said Joe. This looks like the kind of place where a man might be taken to walk the plank, but of course you didn't bring me out here for that, at least I don't think so. . . . Are we going to be here for a bit, do you suppose? I'd like to sit down. I'm exhausted.
Of course.
Joe sighed wearily and sat down on the end of the pier with his legs dangling over the edge. Bletchley sat down beside him and took a flask from his pocket. He drank, swallowed, wiped the corner of his mouth with his hand. He held out the flask to Joe.
Brandy.
Thanks.
Joe took a drink, coughed, took a longer one.
Not only brandy but the real stuff for a change. Not that I'm complaining about the Arab variety, you understand. Any oasis in a sandstorm, as we bedouin say. But the real stuff does have a way of not slashing your throat on the way down. Smooth is what it is, like a trackless path in the desert. Or like a felucca coming around in the wind on a clear night on the Nile. A reassuring motion after all. See that one out there?
He drank again and handed the flask back to Bletchley, who put it down on the worn boards between them.
And it is a clear night too, said Joe. Ahmad used to find it amusing the way I mention the weather. It's always the same here, he used to say.
Bletchley stared straight ahead. Abruptly, he passed his hand over the side of his face, as if brushing something away.
I'll give you the important details first, he said.
Joe nodded, then all at once sagged forward.
Are you all right? asked Bletchley.
Yes. Exhausted, that's all. Tired deep down.
Bletchley looked at him again, quickly, a nervous motion. He spoke in a low voice.
You'll be leaving by plane tonight for England. You won't stop there. You'll be put on another plane for Canada and when you get to Canada you'll disappear. But there's a proviso.
Only to be expected, said Joe. If there weren't, we'd be in a better world. What's the proviso?
Bletchley stared straight ahead. You're dead, he said in a quiet voice. A. O. Gulbenkian is dead, which means the agent who was using that cover is dead.
Joe fumbled for a cigarette.
Forever, added Bletchley, officially and unofficially. So far as the Waterboys and the Monastery are concerned,
