Liffy sputtered and coughed, struggling for breath.
And if so, why? Because Whatley's a religious fanatic? A fanatic of history? A fanatic for the cause of moral uplift?. . And I don't need to add that these Christian metaphors are merely that, merely metaphors. Christianity is only incidental to the matter, only the form of moral uplift that happens to have been the most obvious one in the West over the last two thousand years. The matter goes much deeper than any specific religion or philosophy, for what the Germanic streak in human nature really can't bear is change. Any kind of change. It prefers what was, in our case the animal state. Very deep is the well of the past, says Mann. May we not call it bottomless? says Mann. And thus that seductive whisper oozing out of the blackness, the Germanic whisper in all of us… Where you were is where you are, my child.
So gaze backward and downward, my child. Forever. .
Liffy gasped for breath.
Which translates in modern times into a mindless loping around on the savanna, killing, to the accompaniment of Bach.
Liffy choked.
I'm sorry, Joe, I just can't talk about this anymore. I hate to think about the Nazis and their black and their leather and their death's-heads. It's a gigantic pyramid of skulls they're after and it's monstrous.
Joe stood up and sat down again. This Whatley, he muttered.
Liffy nodded.
I know it. It's a regular Whatley, what? What? And there always does seem to be a Whatley out there somewhere, morbidly flagellating his flesh because he wishes he didn't have any, because purity would then be possible. But the Whatley factor exists and there's no use denying it simply because we don't like it. A part of us always does yearn for purity, clarity, absolutes. Yearns for it, alas, even though living matter and clarity are opposites, as Einstein said.
And he was right as usual, said Joe. But we human beings seem to be far more confused than any other living thing, and why is that?
Because we think. And there's nothing more ruinous to clarity of purpose.
Ah, said Joe, now that has a ring to it for sure. Is it yours or are you quoting again?
Mine, said Liffy softly, no more than mine. It just came to me here in these ancient ruins of a courtyard, a kind of local aphorism to be contemplated on the journey east. In fact we just might codify it as Liffy's Second Law. To wit. If you want to be sure you know what you're doing, never think. . But this whole conversation leads me to suspect that much lies ahead of you, if the truth is ever to come out.
And which truth is that? asked Joe.
Liffy nodded. He smiled.
The truth about Stern, of course. But is it really possible to learn the truth about someone else? Is it? . .
I've often wondered about that. It was one of those unanswerable questions that used to plague this ancient child of a soul of mine, late at night, back in empty railway waiting rooms before the war.
Liffy smiled gently.
A Wandering Jew does wonder about such things, after all, because in the end that's what his wandering is all about and that's the whole point of his destiny. The mystery of other faces and other tongues—
wonder in all its guises. . To behold, as they used to say.
***
They left the courtyard soon after that, Liffy to keep an appointment and Joe to lie down in his room until it was time for his meeting with Bletchley. The blurred feeling had begun to come over Joe again while they were sitting in the courtyard that morning, just as it had the last time when he and Liffy had talked about the Monastery. An uneasy feeling on Joe's part, a shadowy warning from somewhere within him.
Meanwhile, on a roof not far away, an observer lay on his stomach peering down into the narrow courtyard of the Hotel Babylon, his binoculars resting in front of him. Having been deaf for some years, the observer could read lips with ease. Yet he found he was having difficulty that morning with the man called Liffy, because of the way his lips moved continually whether he was speaking or not. Nibbling and chewing, that mouth never seemed to rest for a moment.
The other man, the one called Joe, was no problem at all. But unfortunately it was the constantly nibbling Liffy who had done most of the talking in the courtyard.
They won't like it at all, thought the observer, crawling backward with his binoculars.
Damn that bastard Liffy and his lips that never stop. .
***
Later, when Joe tried the door on the far side of the courtyard, he found it locked. He used a key Ahmad had given him and groped his way down the stairs in the darkness to the second door at the bottom.
The cellar was just as he remembered it. A cool oblong room with a ceiling so low he had to stoop. A table with a single naked light bulb overhead, a cord leading down from the fixture to an electric ring where a kettle was steaming. A teapot and a raised newspaper.
But Bletchley seemed to be in a better mood that day, even though Joe was late for their meeting. As soon as Joe walked in Bletchley put aside his newspaper and rose to shake hands, putting out his hand that wasn't crippled.
Now there's a first, thought Joe. He began to apologize for being late but Bletchley waved the apology aside.
No matter, he said, I was just having a second cup of tea. Care to join me?
Joe thanked him and Bletchley reached for the teapot, an ugly expression flashing across his face.
Jesus, thought Joe, he's trying to smile. That piece of ugliness is his way of smiling.
Bletchley was wearing an old set of khakis that day, which gave him quite a different appearance. In a business suit, at night anyway he looked both elegant and efficient despite his bulky black eye patch. But in baggy cotton trousers and a wrinkled open shirt, both badly worn and faded, there was a shabbier quality to the man. His belt was too big for him, gathering his trousers in clumsy folds around his waist, and his shoes were old and scuffed. One of his shirtsleeves was rolled up while the other flapped around without a button. There were even some roughly mended spots down the front of his shirt, rips repaired at home, it appeared. In all he was a much less impressive man than Joe remembered. Certainly not overbearing in any way, rather frail in fact. A slight weary figure with an attentive air about him.
For a moment Joe had the impression of a lonely recluse puttering around in a garden that wasn't his own, embarrassed at being out of place, painfully uncomfortable among plants and flowers he didn't recognize.
Bletchley poured tea.
I dropped in to say hello to Ahmad this morning, he said, and he mentioned that you must have gone out early for a walk. I'm an early riser myself, always have been. Of course I don't sleep much these days anyway. Still no sugar?
Right, thanks. Anything of interest in the newspapers today?
Mostly Rommel as usual, said Bletchley. He's only forty miles from Tobruk and nothing seems to be going right. It's almost as if Rommel knew beforehand every move we're going to make. Damn it, but that's exactly how it is.
Joe blew on the tea in the metal cup. And what if that were true about Rommel? he wondered. What if he did know every British move beforehand? Could anyone have intelligence sources as good as that?
Well what about the personal columns? he asked. Any better news there?
Not really. One man heard from, one not. It's odd but business aside, I've always been intrigued by the personal columns in local newspapers. They give you such a strangely intimate view of a place and people's lives in that place, or at least an illusion of it. Oh by the way, you haven't tried to get in touch with Maud yet, have you?