whole fancy-dress ball worth the trouble, almost make you thank the King for
taking the time out of his schedule to engage in this dust-up with his cousin—
I left the base for a
rendez-vons
I had arranged amongst my beloved pyramids
at Gizeh, which is a longish trip from here but a pleasant one on a motorcy•
cle late at night.
Setting please, Bev: the apex of Cheops's pyramid penetrated the silver
disk of moon, rather charmingly like a head on a pike. The attenuated black
shadows of the three pyramids fell behind their yellow-white selves, making
a backgammon board of the desert, and I cut the 'cycle's engine. I walked
towards the pyramids, sultry on this silver-black night as if they were ab•
solutely luring me into a tryst. But for my expected guest, I was, I thought, the
only man in the ancient desert, and these three proud beauties, along with
their noseless pimp, called me onto the sand, where we could all be alone to•
gether. Soon thereafter, my appointment arrived, a native son I had interro•
gated that day, a quite innocent fellow hauled in for reasons known only to
some Emma Pip or other. As I was the only Arabic speaker in the interroga•
tion, I took the opportunity of telling him that the best way to avoid future
trouble with his masterful English overlords was to meet me for a tour of the
pyramids after midnight. "His Excellency does me too much honour," replied
the
coquette.
"What's he saying, then?" asked the sergeant. "He says he is a
submissive subject." "A likely story, the little black bastard," grumbles old
sarge, and I assured him I would keep the boy's name on file and have my leg•
endary network of spies watch him constantly.
Well, we'd placed ourselves in the shadow of the great pyramid, my inter¬
rogatee and I, making a great pyramid of our own, when I heard another mo•
torcycle engine, but it seemed to be heading off in the other direction
(damned echoes). A few minutes later I looked down and noticed I was no
longer standing in shadow (damned mobile moon) but rather on moon-
blanched sand, and only a moment later I heard a throat clear, and out of the
dark steps this little private (whilst one's own little private remained well-
concealed).
Some free counsel, Bev, should you ever be in just this situation: this is not
the time to panic or show weakness. My hips absolutely continued their noc•
turnal travels, though my native bearer was now wide-eyed and whimpering,
and his supporting arms were sagging when he was supposed to be holding up
the side of the pyramid. I barked some convincing Arabic at the intruder,
meaning to have him scurry off thinking he had interrupted a heavily armed
Egyptian gentleman in a standard evening's pursuit: "Name yourself, ac•
cursed swine eater."
He replied in calm English with an Aussie ring: "General Allenby."
"Right then," fucking Marlowe enunciates in English. "You'd best have
leave to be off base at this hour, soldier, and have a signed chit for that mo•
torcycle I heard." You would have been proud of my rough sergeant's manner,
Bev, and that I still refused to break my martial rhythms. "Name." He saluted
smartly and answered. "You've not heard the end of this. I'm ordering you
back to base immediately."
"Yes, sah, Captain Marlowe, sah, right away, sah." The ready use of
my
name did dishearten me a bit, as you can well imagine, and if I'd had more wit
or confidence I could actually hit anything with the damned toy, I would have
reached for my Webley, shot the digger, finished my engagement in peace,
and found an explanation later. As it was, I heard his 'cycle buzz away, I stir¬
ruped my mount back into the shadows and tried not to think about it.
Next day, though, I admit I was a bit concerned about repercussions, but
my tormentor did not keep me suffering for long. Before my servant had even
finished telling me that an ANZAC was waiting outside at
my
request, into
my tent strode this same jackeroo of the previous evening. "At my request?"
I repeated with a tone, dismissed my servant, and set to winding my puttees
myself.
"Had the impression you were unhappy with me last night, sah."
"Not at all, not at all. All you Aussies have proven to be excellent soldiers.
No unhappiness at all. Anything else then?"
"If I may, sah, beg leave to enquire, what is it about the Australian fight•
ing man that most impresses you, sah?"
I finished my puttees, sat back on my daybed, and considered the little
shit, though he gazed militarily into the middle distance, where I am sure he
could see the universe laying itself out very well indeed for him.
"I suppose that would be the native Aussie discretion, wouldn't it?"
"Our watchword, sah."
"Quite."
"Sah, if I may say, interesting this: the ancient Egyptians so respected this
particular trait—discretion—above all others that they gave military promo•
tions for just that."
"Funny, I can't say I recall ever reading that."
"No, sah? Well, state education down under is terribly thin, you know,
sab., so it spurred me to independent scholarship."
"I see. Yes, you may be right, ancient cultures rather up for interpretation
at the end of the day, aren't they? I shall look into that claim, perhaps contact
an old don. Anything else today, Private?"
"Shall I write my name down for you, sah?"
"Shouldn't be necessary, I don't think."
"Very good, sah, at your service, sah."
He had me, Bev. I swallowed my dignity, and a few days later I had busi•
ness again at the Aussie base at Tel el Kebir. There I mentioned to the appro•
priate AIF company commander that one of his number, who had some
Arabic, had been of particular use on a series of counterintelligence interro•
gations I had been conducting, and certainly not my place, of course, but the
fellow might merit a bump up to lance corporal if they had an opening in
those lofty ranks. The price? I had to listen to the most excruciating stories
about this captain's fiancee back in Melbourne and coo over a photograph of
the most unspeakably hideous woman in the history of that sex, if she was not
in fact a shaven wallaby in skirts.
Thus endeth my steamy adventure, B. I should think I'm in the clear, and
have heard the last of my nasty Sven from the bottom of the earth. Of course,
I shouldn't be surprised if he turns up expecting a few piastres for his contin•
ued discretion, but he should also know that I can make his life quite miser•
able here, have him detailed to something awfully unpleasant if not absolutely
fatal.
In other exciting news from the scene of mankind's great endeavour on
behalf of world peace, I found something rather extraordinary in the bazaar
this past week, though I can hardly believe it is not an imposture. I bought it
on the strength of its convincing appearance, better than the usual absurd for•
geries. I am not done deciphering it, but it appears to be something of poten•
tial interest on a rather arcane point of Egyptology. Of course, despite
meandering back into the bazaar, I cannot find the fellow who sold me it
again, so all of my new questions about its provenance and authenticity are
virtually unanswerable, but I wonder if you might not do me a small service,
Bev? Might you ask dear, doddering Clem Wexler how best to preserve and
ship to him a particular "aged document"? Be a dear and write back instantly
upon his response, quite the highest priority. Also, Bev, while I do think I can
pass letters to you unread, I shouldn't think yours to me will be treated with
equal respect. Phrase wisely, dearest friend.
Chinlessly,
Go-go
23 April, 1918
Bev, you asinine anthrophile,
Do try not to be an absurd little girl about what I do and do not include
in my letters to you. Do not lecture me on any of your newest virtues, none
of which even remotely convince me. I shall continue
to
write what amuses
me and what I believe will amuse you, my dearest friend. My method of con•
ducting counterintelligence operations is as sound as any other I have seen.
None of my young native agents have conspired with the Enemy, that is cer•
tain; I keep them much too sated, a preventive technique every security serv•
ice should use. So I shall not censor myself for you, nor shall I protect what
you so unconvincingly term your
sensibilities.
Do you think I write the same
stories to little Theo Grahame or any of our other old dinner companions?
Of course not. You are my one and only true
correspondent.
I never asked you
to live like a grey Dominican friar on my account (and even they, I think,
make a point to enjoy themselves more than you do, relaxing with nuns and
half-wit peasant boys and such, threatening them with hellfire if they talk).
But what of Wexler, damn you? You were in such a hurry to complain (and
quite indiscreetly) that you neglected to do the very simple thing I asked of
you, you rotten man. Now go run across town right now before Wexler fi•
nally expires and disintegrates and the charlady sweeps up the resulting grey
powder. Tell him these words: "Hugo's found some p. that seems to confirm
Harriman and Vassal and wants to send it to you safely. How?" Be sure to pro•
nounce the question mark, or he'll likely assume you're a Red Indian and have
you thrown out of his rooms.
As for my other little business, it has taken a turn for the exceedingly
droll. As I recall, I left off having engineered a promotion for my matilda and
was then waiting for his inevitable request for funds. This never came. I
began to hope that we were satisfied with our promotion, that we were most
proud to show off our new lance corporal stripes and administer a bit of lance
corporal punishment to those who seemed to merit or at least relish it, but no:
one morning, I had instead a baffling message from an Aussie sergeant, the
jolly mate in charge of his camp's front-gate guard details. He politely re•
quested that since I was so regularly dispatching our new lance corporal out
on counterintelligence missions at all hours of the day and night without,
understandably, having time to issue individual passes each time, might I at
least fill out some standing order for the rotating guard to have as a refer•
ence? Well here was a puzzle. I sent my batman to trek out and rustle up my
pet Aussie, and that very evening in trots the colonial. Since our last meet•
ing, explains grinning young Sven, he has adopted the habit of leaving his
camp whenever he feels the urge, giving
my
name as his pass: "Intelligence
mission for Captain Marlowe," he tells the guards, zipping in and out on a
'cycle requisitioned with the same words. "See Captain Marlowe for autho•
risation documents." A garish display of cheek, you'll agree. And what was
he doing on his missions? Houris? Brawling? Not a bit of it: he has, on my
good name, gone out half a dozen times to .. . wait for it, Bev...
explore the
monuments!
He has been at archaeological sites, trying to
meet
the few exca•
vators still working despite the explosive distractions of this modern War.
"May I speak openly, sah?" he bellows. Of course you can, ducks, but do keep
it down. Prepare yourself, Bev: it seems our little Aussie just
loves
Egypt and
Egyptian studies, crazy mad for them. He does not want
anything
else from
me, really, on the soul of his favourite koala, he just wants to talk to me about
ancient Egypt. "How would I know anything of that?" I ask. Ah, well, he
knows all about me, you will be as alarmed as I was to hear. He knows not
only that I read the pharaohs at Oxford but that I am due "to go back and fin•
ish up and become a University professor," he says with stars in his eyes. He
shyly confesses that having learned this some time ago, he had approached
me
prior
to our first encounter in the desert, back when I spent that week at
Tel el Kebir, though I have not the slightest recollection of him. When I un•
derstandably paid him no attention there, he took to following me about
whenever he could, and even stole out of camp and came across to our base
that fateful night, just to introduce himself again. But he saw me leaving and
assumed I was off on a "walkabout to gaze at the unparalleled beauty of the