No. I'm following instructions.
Advice, murmured Bletchley. I'm sure they're not trying to control your every move, I'm sure they want you to go about it in your own way. But it's my impression they feel the more looking around you can do before Stern finds out you're here, the better off you'll be. Yes, that's it. Stern's going to find out soon enough anyway, once you begin moving around.
And when will that be, do you suppose?
Soon. Right away. They've gone slowly with you because of something to do with Stern's schedule, Stern's activities, but now I've been told Stern's leaving tonight on an assignment that will keep him out of Cairo for several weeks. Two weeks at the very least, that's it. So now you should have time for a good headstart.
He won't be in contact with anyone in Cairo?
Not with anyone who could tell him about you. I assume it was arranged that way.
Fair enough, said Joe, picking up his teacup and hesitating, not wanting to burn his lips again as he had the first time he came to the cellar. And he was also trying to decide what to say, because he felt it was important to try to move closer to Bletchley. He looked up now and made a gesture toward the black bulky patch over Bletchley's right eye. Most of the scars seemed old, although some of them, curiously, not that old.
Catch that trouble in the last war, did you?
Yes, replied Bletchley, surprised by the directness of the question.
How'd it happen? asked Joe, gazing over the rim of his cup.
Abruptly Bletchley dropped his stare and went perfectly still. For a long silent moment he looked down at the table, his single eye round and blank and uncomprehending. But when he spoke at last his voice was matter-of-fact, without emotion.
It was fairly early in the last war. I was using a spyglass when a bullet struck the thing and shattered the casing, driving metal and glass fragments into my eye and severing some muscles in my hand. A friend tried to pull out the metal bits in my eye but he couldn't manage it. Then he was killed and I had to lie there for five or six hours until help came. Later they were able to reconstruct the bridge of my nose and fix up the hand a little, but removing the fragments from the eye socket turned out to be a drawn-out process. Months, years, it just went on and on, that's it. For a long time I felt useless.
Joe shook his head sadly. Bletchley was still staring down at the table, his eye wide, uncomprehending.
The worst part about it, then, was that I'd been in the regular army, and of course there was no future in that. When you're young it's hard to accept the fact that you're never going to have the chance to do what you want in life. Most people may end up that way, but at least the disillusionment takes place over time.
It's not like knowing from the start that you don't have a chance.
Joe nodded.
Headaches too, I imagine.
Sometimes, but generally it's just an ugly itching sensation, something gnawing at your brain that's always there, that just won't go away.
Yes.
They sat some moments in silence. Bletchley still hadn't looked up at Joe. He was staring blankly down at the table, a frail figure in worn-out mended khakis. Then all at once he began blinking rapidly and covered his eye patch with a handkerchief, dabbing at something.
There are effusions from the socket, he said. I wanted to have a glass eye put in but the bones around the socket are shattered and there's nothing to hold one. They tried several times but it didn't work. It looked like a glass bead stuck in the corner of my face at an angle. Finally there was nothing more to be done, so I had to settle for a patch.
It covers most of it, said Joe.
Bletchley went on wiping with his handkerchief.
I hate the way it frightens children, especially in this part of the world where they believe in the evil eye.
Children can't stand it. One look and they begin to scream. It makes me feel like a monster.
Have you been out here long?
Not so long here, mostly in India. I grew up in India, we were an army family. After I'd gotten back on my feet I was offered this kind of work, and it seemed the closest I'd ever come to the army so I took it, that's it.
No, he added, I haven't been in the Middle East very long, only since the war started. India is what I know.
I've never been there, said Joe. I'd like to go someday.
At last Bletchley raised his eye from the table and looked at Joe.
Oh yes, it's a beautiful country, the land and the people, all of it. I know the desert appeals to some, but I'll never feel that way about it. To me, India is home and always will be. There's just no other place like it in the world.
Bletchley's face lighted up and he smiled at the thought of his homeland and the memories of his early years there.
At least it was meant to be a smile, but because of the missing bones and the severed muscles in his face, it came out differently. His good eye widened and stared grotesquely in what appeared to be a harsh cold expression, arrogant and disdainful.
The agony it must cause him, thought Joe. He tries to be friendly and his own face mocks him. It's no wonder children scream and run away. He looks cruel and it's not his fault, and they think he's sneering at them and it's not their fault.
But Bletchley's thoughts were far away in his beloved India at that moment, and he was smiling and pushing back his chair and getting to his feet, humming to himself, happy with his beautiful memories of a homeland that he probably already knew would never be his home again.
Well then, said Bletchley, shall we be on our way?
Right, to the Monastery at last, said Joe. And you have to admit that is a curious name for an intelligence unit, even one hidden away in the Egyptian desert. Rather human, isn't it, how we like to make things sound mysterious. . And when you finally get to the Monastery in the desert, my child. .
Bletchley laughed.
I know, he said. No matter how dull reality is, we do try hard to make it sound exotic. A natural inclination, I suppose, to add a touch of grandeur to our drab little lives. A romantic tendency in all of us, that's it.
So it seems, said Joe. And whether it's to be called romantic or not, I wouldn't know, but surely we do have to dream. If we didn't, where would we be? That much is evident just on the face of things. But of course there are all kinds of dreams, which is what can confuse a man.
***
When he looked back on it, Joe realized he should have known something was wrong with him long before he and Bletchley left the cellar. As they climbed the stairs, Joe missed a step and nearly lost his balance. He might have fallen if Bletchley hadn't rushed up to catch him from behind.
Are you all right?
I'm not sure. I feel a little out of touch.
They stepped into the bright sunlight. Joe's legs were heavy and he didn't seem to have any command over them. As they walked up the alley Joe sneaked a glance at his own hand, mildly curious about its shape, not quite sure it was the way he remembered it.
It may be exhaustion left over from the trip, he said. It's a long way from Arizona to Cairo and I don't know that I've caught up yet.
Your stopovers were short? asked Bletchley.
Yes, after the training camp near Toronto. I crawled into the ball turret of a bomber and crawled out again in Scotland. . Fetal position. I don't know how those gunners can manage for any length of time.
Then London was just one briefing after another and it was straight over here.
That's it, said Bletchley, a delayed reaction to all your time in the air.
And that ball turret was terrible, muttered Joe. . I just can't seem to get ahold of anything today.
***
Joe's sense of unreality grew more profound as they drove out of Cairo. He sat in a daze, a dream, gazing out the open side of the small desert car, watching the city drop away. Several times he noticed Bletchley sneaking glances at him.