Excuse me?
Being recognized as myself, when I'm myself. Nobody ever does. Wouldn't you find that a problem too?
Joe had to resist an urge to wrap his arms around the stranger, so forlorn did he seem. Instead he eased the last paper bag out of the man's arms and put it safely down on the table.
They're heavy. What's in them?
The stranger shuffled his feet in embarrassment and said nothing. Joe touched the man's arm.
Who are you?
The stranger stole a timid glance at Joe and lowered his eyes.
I'm the official tourist guide for this street, he whispered, although frankly business has been terrible since the war started. The last war, that is, not this one. But nonetheless. .
Yes?
The stranger took a deep breath.
. . but nonetheless, the rue Clapsius was once world-famous among those who knew the secret of life.
In fact this little rue used to be considered the ultimate oasis of the soul by many, many philosophers.
There was even a popular saying acknowledging the fact. See the rue Clapsius and leave the world humming. And do you know why this little rue used to be considered more significant, finally, than the Sphinx and the pyramids and even the Nile?
Why?
Because of its hum-jobs. History is really very simple, isn't it?
Joe's eyes widened. He stared at the stranger, who continued to move nervously back and forth, his mouth working all the while, never still.
Hum-jobs, you say?
That's right, muttered the stranger, and I'm talking now about the ultimate in good vibrations. The whores on this little rue, you see, were once spectacularly clever at humming off their customers. So much so that it wasn't at all unusual to find philosophers from every corner of the globe, strong men, determined men, simply curled up and gurgling on the cobblestones at all hours of the day and night, unable even to drool, not even a hint of a syllogism in their heads, mere husks of their former selves. . But what do I mean? I mean drained.
The stranger flashed a smile, which immediately faded.
I'm talking about the best, he muttered. Europeans like to think hum-jobs were discovered in Bologna around the beginning of the Renaissance, what really got the Renaissance going, so to speak. But they go much further back in time than is generally suspected, like most things having to do with people. In fact the hum-job tradition on this street goes back to what Europeans call the Dark Ages, when things weren't nearly as dark in the East as in the West. In the East scholars were still studying the Thousand and One Nights and passing on nibbles of their erudite findings to selected acquaintances. . Are you familiar, perhaps, with this classical piece of literature?
Joe gazed at the man, dumbfounded. At last he found his tongue.
I believe I've heard of it, yes.
The stranger flashed another smile, apparently less nervous than before.
Good. Then you probably know the Arabs borrowed the Nights a long time ago from the Persians, who in turn borrowed them much earlier than that from India. . But it's intriguing, isn't it, this notion of an enlightened East with the primitive buzz of hum-jobs echoing up through the mists of ancient India?
Frankly, before I knew the truth, the very idea of all those strange tongues down there in the subcontinent of our souls always used to exhaust me. But now that I know better, I can see what a truly brilliant innovation it was on the part of the Indians to connect hum-jobs with the civilizing impulse. . Fakirs indeed. Fiendish really. .
The stranger tossed his head and snorted, a kind of depraved mysticism creeping across his face.
But admit it, he suddenly roared in excitement. Didn't you always think Om was the important sound out of India? Didn't they fool you with that one too? And doesn't this new information mean, then, that the Hum and the Om may be far more closely entwined than anyone has ever suspected? That to chant the one is secretly to chant the other? That the Indian sages, in their wisdom, may long ago have discovered this astounding way to sound the bells of the soul and the flesh simultaneously? That the soul and the body, therefore, contrary to Western thought, are not only on secret speaking terms with one another, but are actually one and the same thing beneath it all? That the entire human story can thus be summed up in one profound phrase? That it's all a matter of man seeking his true home? From hummmm to ommmm, in other words, and so to home? And so at last to hommmme. .
Joe stared. The humming sound went on and on as the stranger shifted his weight back and forth, all the while vigorously nodding his head in encouragement, a shy maniacal grin on his face. Finally Joe was able to shake himself out of the trance he had fallen into.
But this is extraordinary, he murmured.
Is it? asked the stranger eagerly. You mean wonders never cease? Not even in an alley as shabby as the rue Clapsius?
Joe laughed.
What did you say your name was?
The man's smile instantly disappeared. All at once he was gazing at Joe with an immensely grave expression Solemnly, he cleared his throat.
Didn't say, did I. But my name's Vivian and I drove you in from the airport and I'm sorry about everything. Sorry.
Vivian blushed, his arms swinging in agitation. Joe laughed and warmly shook his hand, once more resisting the urge to embrace him.
Viv? It's really you without the wigs and tennis whites and leopardskins? Good to see you again.
Vivian shrank back a little, looking even more doubtful than he had when he first entered the room.
Is it? I know who you are, they told me a little about you. Not much, just a little. You're not angry with me?
No, of course not. Why should I be?
Because of my rank behavior at the airport. But I'm sorry, it was a part, a role. When picking up someone new I'm expected to play some kind of exotic role. . I think. . and sometimes I just lose hold and go blasting off in every direction. It's the madness of the times that does it to me.
Forget it, Viv. Anyway, you should be the one who's upset.
Vivian looked bewildered.
Me? What on earth for?
That business about Cynthia. I hope you realize it had nothing to do with you. It was Bletchley who was bothering me.
Vivian sighed.
Oh yes, the Bletch, none other. I understood that right away. Our local supply sergeant can be very unpleasant sometimes, especially when he adopts that business-is-business attitude of his. Don't take it personally, the Bletch likes to say, but what nonsense. Of course I'm going to take it personally. This is my life that's being tossed around out here in this Bletchedly dry business known as the Western Desert, and would you mind if I sat down immediately? My feet hurt.
Of course, Viv, take the chair or the bed. It's not much of a room.
Vivian pulled off his shoes and slumped down on the bed with grunts and sighs. When not playing a role he seemed to wheeze heavily. He moved the pillow down to the bottom of the bed, covered it with his jacket and lay down with his feet up. Briefly he gazed at the paint peeling off the ceiling, then closed his eyes.
Flaky, he murmured. But even so, when meeting someone in real life I always try to raise my feet above my head in order to increase the trickle of blood to my brain. Quite frankly, there's seldom a time when my brain couldn't use a little more oxygen. It's my asthma that slows me down and the odd thing is I never had it until I came to Egypt, can you imagine that? A desert climate is supposed to cure such things, not cause them, but there we are. Another performance of the blues.