Nile Shadows

Why?

Liffy smacked his lips.

I thought you'd never ask. They work because Ahmad's father, also an Ahmad, was once a famous dragoman in Cairo, the leading guide and interpreter for tourists in these parts and something of a patron saint to those in the pimp and alcohol trades. It seems they still revere his name because he was one of the forerunners of modern Egyptian nationalism, by way of the dragomen's benevolent society, which he founded. Anyway, Ahmad pere used to hang around the verandas of tourist hotels, leering up business for himself in the last century, and one winter he chanced to have a torrid affair with a young German woman who was down for a holiday, and Ahmad fils, our Ahmad, has been a fiercely anti-German vegetarian ever since.

Why?

Because that young German woman became his mother. Soon after Ahmad fils was born, you see, she abandoned both Ahmads and returned to Germany. She thought it was best for all concerned, but certain political enemies of Ahmad pere spread a rumor that she'd buzzed off home because she couldn't live without a daily chomp on the long thick blood sausages of her fatherland. Our Ahmad heard this malicious rumor while still a sensitive youth and took it as a personal insult, reading some kind of sexual innuendo into his mother's reputed craving for large Germanic blood sausages. He never forgave the poor woman for preferring them to him. In fact he has never forgiven women in general, or Germany in general, or meat. . . . Once more the meat problem looming large in human affairs, I'd say, and it does have a way of doing that, doesn't it, old horse? Meat, I mean. Meat, that's all. The meat of the matter, pure and simple. Even when someone's as spiritual as Ahmad is, it's just extraordinary how often meat can be fundamental to what ails us. . . . Yes, meat, my child. Consider it well while tarrying in spiritual caves and open spaces. . . .

Liffy sighed.

As I well know. As I know as well as anyone. . . . But in any case our Ahmad is generally referred to locally as Ahmad the Poet, although no one has ever seen him write any poetry. A matter of disposition, perhaps. And it's safe to say that on top of everything else, Ahmad's very keen on the Movement.

Which movement is that? asked Joe.

My dear fellow, the Movement. Is there ever more than one? The Movement may be defined as whatever explains history to the individual concerned. The Movement is revolutionary in nature, a dazzling innovation that no one has ever thought of before, again, save for the individual concerned. The Movement smashes through the old order of things and updates us, a kind of political trolley used by some to transport them from being young and no one, to being older and someone. I'm sure you've heard of people dedicated to the Movement, even if you haven't met one recently. L'homme engage, for example, remember him from the '30s? Dashing French fellow in a beret who was always chain-smoking dramatically? Who used to turn up behind the intellectual barricades in moments of crisis to sum it all up by saying, Life is absurd or Life is a Cambodian, that sort of thing? But if all of this seems confusing to think about, why not relax and leave the thinking to Ahmad? I'm sure he'll tell you everything you could ever want to know about the Movement, and I do mean everything. Followers of the Movement are like that. . . . But what's the secret of the pyramids, master? Everything, my child. . . .

Liffy nodded to himself, his face thoughtful.

I should also add that Ahmad has been well described as an Egyptian gentleman in a flat straw hat who stands at a slight angle to the universe.

Who describes him that way? asked Joe.

The retired belly dancer up the street, replied Liffy. That very nice woman who sells tender young roast chickens for a living, as well as serving as the official hum-job historian for the rue Clapsius. She always says that about Ahmad.

Oh I see.

Yes. And the reason Ahmad never takes off his boater, his hat, she says, is because it's a memento from an earlier and quieter age when Ahmad served as the stroke and captain of a racing crew rivered by the dragomen's benevolent society against the British navy. In those days there used to be a ferocious rowing competition known as the Annual Battle for the Fleshpots of the Nile, and in 1912, I believe it was, Ahmad's crew won, the only time the British navy was ever beaten at its own game on the Nile, and by riffraff at that. The touts and pimps had done it at last. . . . And never, notes the former belly dancer, did the rue Clapsius hum with so much verve as it did that night. It was a heartening triumph for all true Cairenes, naturally, and a banner day for Egyptian nationalism. So the boater Ahmad wears is a precious memento from that fabled victory of yesteryear.

Liffy frowned.

But that was yesteryear and now he's quiet, Ahmad is. He's like a huge solemn cat silently licking his memories. So although all paths lead to Ahmad, according to Bletchley's clues, I'd still go gently with him when introducing Stern's name. Years ago the two of them were very close, but there was some kind of betrayal involved and it's still a touchy subject. I've never gotten to the bottom of it.

Liffy stood up. His face brightened.

Anyway, I have to tell you I telephoned Cynthia last night, hoping for a reconciliation, and she said she might take notice of me if I turned up on her doorstep as someone suitable this afternoon. I was considering playing the part of a Free French officer with the colonials. You know, a darkly handsome spahi officer of Algerian cavalry. They wear swirling red cloaks. . . . Irresistible on a Sunday afternoon, wouldn't you think?

Devastating, said Joe, smiling.

If you've recovered, that is, and don't need me. . . . And by the way, Bletchley seems to have someone keeping an eye on you. I spotted a young fellow hanging about up the street. He's missing most of his fingers and he may just be looking for a tender young chicken for lunch, or then again he may not be. Are you interested?

Not yet, said Joe. It's too soon.

Liffy laughed.

It is? Strange, but that's what Cynthia always says when we get into bed. It's too soon. Talk to me first.

And do you?

Liffy nodded vigorously.

Indeed, I tell her erotic tales from my travels. Would I be one to deny the myriad sexual acts mounted by spahi officers over the years in the desert? Beneath the swirl of a red cloak on Sundays?

Ha, and now I'm off to taste adventure, boomed Liffy, happily sweeping out the door and clattering down the rickety stairs.

***

At the foot of the stairs, behind the small counter tucked away in the shadowy corridor that led to the street, the enigmatic Ahmad sat silently playing solitaire, a thirty-year-old newspaper open at his elbow.

From what Joe had seen, solitaire and thirty-year-old newspapers seemed to be the man's sole pastimes when he was not engaged in his professional duties as a deskman at the Hotel Babylon or as a forger in Menelik's mausoleum.

Ahmad was a large man, his appearance bizarre even by rue Clapsius standards. In addition to the battered flat straw hat that was always on his head, he wore great round tortoiseshell glasses, securely attached to his ears by pieces of red thread tied in identical bows. His hair was also a bright red, obviously dyed according to his own prescription, for the color was much too bright and uneven to have been the work of a professional hairdresser.

Although his massive face was far from young, it had remained smooth and unlined and was rooted in an enormous thrusting nose. The size of his hands was remarkable and the general impression he gave was of great muscular strength in repose. There was even a childlike eagerness to his face, as if his impressions of life were still new and not yet fully formed, with the result that he looked less like an older man and more like a boy who had aged.

Up until that Sunday Ahmad had always been withdrawn in Joe's presence, never saying more than was