Nile Shadows

Or better yet, said Ahmad, muttering to himself down below, repeat something that was done a very long time ago. Three or four thousand years ago, for example, the way Crazy Cohen did. That can really bring in the money.

Excuse me? Joe called down.

I was saying, shouted Ahmad, that my real problem with fish and chips was that I wasn't able to master the secret of capitalist success in this part of the world.

What's that? asked Joe. The secret?

Slimy suspicion, boomed Ahmad. Subterfuge as the supreme code of conduct.

Again a part of Ahmad's head abruptly reared into view. He rested his nose on the counter, his glasses bouncing up and down. He seemed to be laughing silently.

Because in his heart, every true Levantine knows that if the rest of the world is half as devious as he is, then the rest of the world bears very careful watching. In other words, we have much in common with the great leaders of the world, both those of the West and of the East. Hitler, Stalin, Genghis Khan. . . .

Ahmad sank out of sight, chuckling as he descended.

***

Joe was moving restlessly back and forth in the shadowy hallway, wondering why this strange conversation seemed to go on and on with Ahmad down below the counter. Certainly Ahmad seemed talkative enough, surprisingly so. But why was he hiding down there? Was he really so shy he could only talk with someone if he stayed out of sight most of the time?

What happened after that greasy failure? Joe called down.

Very little, Ahmad shouted up. I was in debt and there was no money coming in, and it didn't take long for me to realize there was no future in that. Specifically, I knew it one evening when I walked into a cafe where I used to go, and not a soul there recognized me. It had always been our special place and Cohen and I and Stern had always gone there, surrounded by our circle. And then not to be recognized by even one person? . . . I wasn't only embarrassed, I was ashamed and humiliated. I was nothing and I knew I was nothing.

Ahmad groaned down behind the counter.

Well the next morning I took a temporary job that normally I would have considered a ridiculous joke, but the joke turned out to be permanent and the beginning of my own Great Depression, foreshadowing the world's. As usual, I was ahead of my time.

Again Ahmad seemed to have lapsed into silence down below the counter.

What was the job you took? asked Joe.

A position as counterman in a sordid brothel in decline, later to be acquired by an anonymous secret service, this rotting structure we now see around us, absurdly named the Hotel Babylon.

Ahmad's head abruptly surfaced above the counter. He rested his chin and stared at Joe, his face expressionless, his battered straw hat tipped forward at an angle.

Since then I've come to terms with my lot, however, and occasionally I'm even able to muster a little humor. But all things considered, it's been a long captivity for me here. My own sort of Babylonian Captivity, as I realized long ago. He smiled as his head sank out of sight.

***

More time passed.

This is impossible, thought Joe, and finally leaned over the counter to see what Ahmad was doing.

Ahmad was down on his hands and knees with his back turned, removing screws from a panel in the wall. The panel was covered with dirty fingerprints and its edges were badly worn. Joe pulled back his head.

You might have been wondering, Ahmad called up, why I never supported myself through forgery. I could have, since I'm quite good at it. Ask anyone around town and he'll tell you no one makes better money than Ahmad the Poet. Crisp clean lines and well-defined details, accurate portraits and artful images. . . .

Joe jumped. Once more Ahmad's face had suddenly appeared above the counter, grinning this time, the straw hat on the back of his head.

Were you wondering that? asked Ahmad. Why I didn't just forge my way to stupendous wealth long ago?

Ah, yes, said Joe, looking first at Ahmad and then at the large reddish cat still sitting outside in the sun, immobile, watching him.

Ahmad nodded eagerly.

I thought so. But to me, you see, forgery is only money for art's sake, and I wouldn't feel comfortable spending such money. So the lot destiny seems to have cast me in this world is poverty in the midst of counterfeit riches. Genteel poverty when I'm able to relax with my music, humiliating poverty the rest of the time. And that pretty well describes the life of Ahmad the Poet.

He stared at Joe, his chin resting on the counter.

Now then, it's time for our aperitif so please come down to my level in life.

Excuse me?

The swinging door under the counter, whispered Ahmad. You are now on the threshold of the lower depths, or what used to be called in Gothic novels, the Secret Behind the Wall. Just get down and join me here please, on the floor.

Joe looked at Ahmad, then crawled under the counter. The panel with its worn edges had been removed from the wall, revealing a square opening large enough to admit a man. Ahmad had lit a candle and was holding it in front of the black hole. A smile of boyish delight lit his face as he began to whisper.

This mysterious closet you are about to enter is left over from the old days when the hotel was still a brothel. Call it the local treasure chamber, if you like, and follow me but be warned. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. And also, duck your head or lose it.

Ahmad laughed.

Avanti populo, he whispered, there's no turning back in life. The descent into the underworld begins.

***

Ahmad's secret closet, as it turned out, had played a significant part in the history of the Movement in the nineteenth century.

One of the very first rights won by the Brotherhood, whispered Ahmad, thrusting his candle into the blackness. It was here that dragomen the world over began their long struggle to free themselves from the bedrooms where they had been virtual prisoners.

How did it work? whispered Joe.

Well when the police came around to raid the district, the Nubian porter in the lobby went to the pianola and pedaled Home Sweet Home at full volume, alerting the dragomen on assignment upstairs in the bedrooms, who immediately flung aside their customers and grabbed their flowered nightshirts and rushed down here to hide in safety behind the wall, passing the time with gin and parcheesi until the all-clear was sounded. That way they couldn't be arrested on some trumped-up charge.

And the customers didn't mind being arrested alone?

The customers were wealthy foreign tourists, whispered Ahmad, so naturally the magistrates let them off.

Smiles for tourists with loot and bugger the wogs. The usual double standard.

Ahmad chuckled and crawled through the opening, Joe going in after him. The chamber turned out to be quite large for a closet, although it was still no more than a small windowless room. Ahmad's regular living quarters were in the basement, he explained, and this was but a private hideaway he used for listening to music and doing his exercises. The walls of the little chamber were stacked with dusty piles of newspapers, the most recent ones dated 1912, from what Joe could see. There was clutter everywhere, dozens and dozens of dusty Victorian and Oriental objects of every size and shape. A vague lavender scent permeated the cave and a chinning bar hung from the ceiling. Between the stacks of dusty newspapers, there was just enough space for a large man to stretch out and do push-ups.

Ahmad smiled happily.

My own little lair, he said, pulling out two tiny canvas stools for them to sit on. Joe nodded, dazed by the astounding clutter in the room. Ahmad, meanwhile, went on clearing his throat, apparently rehearsing what he was