***
Bernini's bag, she thought much later, still cradling the seashell in her hands, still cherishing the shadowy whiteness of its memories against the night.
Yes, Joe's right, she thought. Bernini would love it if only Joe could have a chance someday to pass on those worlds he's known. Jokes and riddles and scraps of rhymes. . rich music on the shores and tales suggesting infinity. . Oh yes, Bernini would love every single whisper of it, every last whisper from a beginning that never was, to an end that will never be. If only Joe could have the chance. If only. .
For of course the Colonel had said more that afternoon than she had told Joe. The Colonel had called her into his office as she was leaving and closed the door and taken her hands in his, holding them tightly, something he had never done before. And when he had quietly spoken his few words, trying to help as best he could, she had heard the sorrow in his voice and had understood what he was telling her about Joe, and about Bletchley and what would happen now.
***
. . maybe tonight, Maud, we ought to think of something Liffy used to say. He used to say miracles happen all the time, it's just that we don't raise our eyes to look for them. Well you and I know words are easy and life never is, but Liffy knew that too and he knew it as well as anyone, but still he went on trying to look for the miracles. He always tried to see more and feel more, and so for him, miracles did happen all the time. They did. .
In the darkness of her balcony, Maud suddenly pushed away her tears and held up her seashell to the stars, whispering.
It's yours. It's a part of you too and so is Bernini, and so is Joe. And how I wish. .
— 23-
Nile Echoes
An empty street corner with a single streetlamp casting a small circle of weak light. A distant clock striking the hour.
Five minutes passed.
A rickety old-fashioned delivery van came rattling out of the darkness, so old it might once have served as an ambulance in the First World War, so dilapidated it might once have been on permanent tour through the rutted back streets of greater Cairo, its bell clanging pied-piperly, its large awkward owner wistfully offering freshly cooked 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, ho ho ho. . Gallows humor, you say, Liffy? No I was referring to something much blacker than that, so black it's the very heart of blackness. I mean Monastery humor, Liffy, the pitiless kind. .
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?. . Liffy jokes, we could call them. Yes? No? Too black altogether for good Christians? Or only when Nazis are massacring Jews, maybe? Or only if you and I are Jews, 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.