his face, giving him a permanently crooked smile. And when he bared his teeth at a spot of grease on the runway and careened around it, snarling as he whipped the wheel to and fro, the expression on his face seemed dangerously close to delirium.
A gate with a sentry box came into view. Vivian began to slow down.
Security check coming up, he yelled. Just play dumb, sir. I'll handle these sun-crazed dolts.
They stopped. Several military policemen were standing around in front of the sentry box, metal cups in their hands. When one of them came over to the van, Vivian leaned out and sniffed at the man's cup.
This shabbily dressed fellow, he screamed, is a Yank who's come over to win the war for us. But see here, lance corporal or battle-ax corporal or whatever you are, you look like you could use a stiff one this morning, right?
Vivian guffawed.
Am I right?
The military policeman studied the card Vivian had given him.
What's this? he asked in wonder.
What's what, my dear fellow?
The military policeman read out loud.
The military policeman stared down at Vivian, who laughed happily.
Wrong pocket, what? Have to keep a tight rein on before breakfast. But look here, my dear fellow, why don't you keep that bit of cheer as a gift from the management? Now then, this is what we're looking for when there's a war on.
Vivian fumbled in another pocket and came up with a pass. The military policeman waved them through.
They left the airport and worked their way into a long line of military traffic moving in the direction of the city. Before they had gone very far Vivian began screaming again.
Now I know what you're dying to ask me, sir. What about the locals, is that it? The other fellows can loll over their gin and beer when they're not giving it a go in their tanks, but a spy has to move through the desert the way a fish swims through water, right? As the old saying goes?
So what
Vivian belched noisily.
Got the picture, sir?
They turned off the highway and drove through crowded streets. Vivian was continually honking the horn and waving and smiling at the masses of people.
Bloody wogs, he shrieked out of the corner of his mouth. They look a fruitless bunch but they're cunning,
Joe's eyes widened. They had been inching along more and more slowly through the crowds until they had to stop altogether. While Vivian was turned toward Joe, the gaunt solemn face of an Arab had suddenly appeared in the window right behind Vivian. At first the Arab didn't seem to be begging, merely curious. He studied the interior of the van, a piece of chalk between his teeth. Then he stared hard at the back of Vivian's head, pulled his own head out of the window and took the chalk from between his teeth.
He seemed to be writing something, and sure enough, a small blackboard appeared outside the window a moment later.
I AM A MARXIST MOSLEM MUTE.
GIVE ME ONE LARGE FREE ORDER OF GREASY
CHIPS BUT PLEASE HOLD THE SALT. I'M
ON A SALT-FREE DIET BECAUSE IT IS WRITTEN,
LIKE DESTINY AND HISTORY.
PRAISE BE TO ALLAH AND MARX, ALL POWER
TO MOHAMMED AND STALIN.
THANKS. HAVE A NICE DAY.
A
Just plain
The blackboard disappeared. A hard wipe of the Arab's arm across the slate and he was writing again.
The blackboard bobbed up.
ARE YOU REFUSING TO SERVE ME BECAUSE I'M DARK-SKINNED?
I've said it before and I'll say it again, screamed Vivian. You can never be too careful when you're rubbing shoulders out here.
The Arab looked murderous. Down went the blackboard, up it came again.
BUGGER YOUR CHIPS, YOU GREASY CAPITALIST FISH.
Vivian stared hard at Joe.
In other words,
***
They drove awhile longer and finally pulled up on a quiet back street with the engine off. Joe sat entranced, listening to the squeals and cries of the city.
Here we are, sir.
Fine, Viv. Where?
A time-dishonored area, sir, well known to romantic travelers before the war as the Coptic Quarter and also as Old Cairo, but known to its residents, now as then, as simply a slum. Once infamous, now merely famous. This alley you will be going to is legally called the rue Lepsius, but popularly remembered as the rue Clapsius. It's said that a good part of nineteenth-century Cairo acquired an incurable dose of nostalgia in these shadowy byways, and certainly the byways do give that impression. So if I do say so myself, sir, it seems an appropriate setting for your poetic Irish reveries between passes at the bottle.
Well thanks for the lift, Viv.
And thank you, sir, for your charming company this morning. War
Vivian vaguely pumped his hand in the air in a philosophical manner, a gesture apparently meant to end with a thoughtful fingering of his false moustache. But instead Vivian found his moustache halfway up the side of his face. He pressed it back into position and grinned.
The spy trade, sir, a queer and deadly game. Now if you meander forward and turn down the next alley, you'll come to what must have been one of the last of the bawdy houses in this quaint decaying neighborhood, an excessively unseemly place, and that is where you will find your lodgings. Look for a dirty nondescript structure called the Hotel Babylon, formerly a tenth-class hovel used by failed commercial agents and poor clerks in search of romance during their siesta hours, a place of broken dreams and dreams that could never be.
But that was formerly, sir. For some time now the Hotel Babylon has been under the clandestine supervision of HM's Secret Service, serving as an all-purpose hideaway for wandering spies in transit, a discreetly sordid haven amidst the turmoil for just such errant seekers as yourself.
Let's move right along, Viv.
Indeed, sir, now then. Immediately within the half-light that pervades this rotting structure, you will come across the local hermit-in-residence, the keeper of the keys to this odd kingdom, a large Egyptian who will be reading a newspaper and wearing a distinctive flat straw hat, of the kind referred to in civilian circles as a boater.
