. Who after all speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians? The world believes in success alone.
. . a night, once, in a hell of smoke and fires and screams, Joe lying wounded on a quay and Stern standing over him and everywhere the dead and the dying huddling together, heaped near the sea while the city burned. . while beside Joe, moaning softly, an abandoned little Armenian girl lay ripped and torn and dying in unspeakable pain.
. . Joe unable to touch the knife by his hand and shrieking at Stern in his anger, his pain. . yelling that Stern just wasn't as much in charge as he wanted people to believe, that he could do his own butchering if he wanted to play the great visionary who knew all the answers, the great hero dedicated to a cause of a kingdom come.
. . Stern staring down with eyes that burned in blackness, Stern wild with anguish and violently shaking as he clutched the knife and buried his hand in the little girl's hair and pulled back her head, the tiny throat so white and bare.
. . the wet knife clattering on the cobblestones and Joe not daring to look up then, not wanting to see Stern's eyes then. . a night twenty years ago and forever and but a prelude to the century, but a shadow of the far deeper descent into darkness that was yet to come.
***
Joe shuddered. He passed his hand in front of his eyes.
And who will be Stern's witness now? he asked himself. . Who will do that for him, who will look into his eyes? A man with a dream that was just hopeless from the very beginning. A good dream and hopeless, with nothing coming from it ever. .
Joe got to his feet. Of course he already knew how it would end over there, how it would have to end for Stern. And he wasn't going because he felt he owed Stern something, because he didn't feel that way.
But after all these years of Stern trying and failing, someone somewhere did. And now when Stern was going to die, the gift had to be repaid.
Silently the greatly revered shaman of the Hopi walked up the path to the pueblo on top of the mesa, to the underground vault where the elders of the tiny nation sat repeating their guttural chants and birdlike whispers, those mysterious sounds of life and death they had heard since the beginning of time, echoing through all things in the universe.
PART TWO
— 4-
Vivian
The sky was cloudless above Cairo airport, unmarred at that early hour by even the softest haze from the sun still low over Sinai. The cargo plane swung around and came to rest, bringing into view a pack of military men marching in twos and threes across the runway toward the plane. The men wore wide starched walking shorts and the different shirts and caps of uniforms from several corners of the British Empire.
Brisk and crisp and most of the colors of the species, thought Joe, watching the men. You'd have to know what you were up to, or think you knew, to march around the world looking like that every morning.
The military men advanced rapidly, intent and in step, their right arms swinging high, their left arms cradling clipboards tightly clasped at the ready. Some of them were already pushing on board when Joe reached the door of the plane and started down the stairs. He had only taken a few steps when he caught sight of a bizarre figure in white who seemed to be staring at him. Immediately the man nodded to himself with conviction, barking a silent order as he did so. Then he snapped to attention with parade-drill gusto and marched forward.
Jesus, thought Joe. What is that?
And indeed, the man cut an astonishing figure.
An elegant white shirt, open to the waist and displaying the insignias of a subaltern. White walking shorts and high white socks and snowy white tennis shoes. A regimental leopardskin casually draped over one shoulder, a glittering gold pendant bouncing on the man's chest. And looming above it all an enormous broad-brimmed white hat, one side attached to the crown in the Australian manner.
Christ, thought Joe, as he reached the bottom of the stairs and found his way blocked. The man in white came to attention no more than a foot away and slammed his foot into the runway, saluting.
Sah, he bellowed. I say, pleasant flight and all that?
A blast of early morning fumes struck Joe full in the face. Unable to speak, he nodded instead.
Right, bawled the subaltern, blasting him anew. Two massive rows of perfect white teeth suddenly flashed in the man's face. Without thinking, Joe ducked.
Right, shrieked the subaltern. Right? Right. But I say, sir, is it true you Yanks are coming over to win the war for us? Hands across the ocean again?
Joe swallowed.
I'm not American, he said.
What's that, sir? Not American? All the way from that barren wasteland, what do you chaps call the place, Arizona? All the way from a bloody colony like that and you're not even American?
Heads turned. Eyes stared. The subaltern was still screaming, blocking the stairs.
Sorry to hear that, sir, rum show actually. Just dropped in out there for a buffalo shoot, did you? Show the flag and let the wogs know who's in charge?
Joe pushed forward to move around the man, a gesture the subaltern misinterpreted as a sign of friendliness.
Or something else altogether, sir? A quiet foray among the little maidens in buckskin? New pelts for the library and a well-earned notch or two for the old blunderbuss?
At last Joe was around the man and heading in the direction of the terminal buildings. The subaltern dropped his salute and fell in briskly beside him.
No offense, sir, screeched the subaltern. About my taking you for a Yank, I mean. Some of my best friends are Yanks. Be glad to give you the name of my tailor here.
Joe walked straight ahead. The man had quick-stepped several times when he fell in beside Joe, trying to adjust his stride, but he didn't seem to be able to get it right and was now doing a permanent dance at Joe's elbow, prancing forward and falling behind a pace, quick-stepping again.
Different drummers, shrieked the subaltern. We're a race of individuals, after all. And please veer to the left, sir, as the Bolshies say. The clandestine war wagon's to the left.
Joe veered to the left without breaking stride. They were moving away from the groups of milling staring men. Joe spoke in a quiet voice.
Will you kindly tell me what the meaning of this is?
The subaltern caught the forceful tone in Joe's voice but apparently without hearing the words. In order to get closer he quick-stepped in, misjudging the distance and crashing into Joe with the power of a body-block. Joe pitched forward and landed on the runway on his hands, the subaltern coming to rest sprawled across his back. The subaltern peered upward, scanning the sky.
Spot something, sir? Jerry up there for an early morning go, is he? Shows good reflexes, that dive of yours.
Jesus Christ almighty, muttered Joe.
Can't spot the blighter, murmured the subaltern into Joe's ear, still scanning the sky intently. Blasted clever, the Hun.
Get off my back, muttered Joe. The subaltern, his face only inches away, peered sideways at Joe.
What's that, sir? You only thought you saw a Stuka coming in out of the sun?
Off my back. Now.
The subaltern grinned nervously and began to untangle himself.