The Iron Man [Serial]

Real Person Slash

"I don't understand," I said.

Across the street, the elderly gentleman perused books. I couldn't think why anyone would want to hurt him, much less, literally, kill the author.

"It's difficult to explain here," Murphy said. He stepped away from the bookshelf supporting half the street-side stall, then glanced from side to side. The street was populated by book vendors and buyers, including his mother. There was not a language we could speak between us that some among these Alexandrines would not understand.

It might even be that Murphy himself was widely recognizable, and particularly so among those who followed articles on local politicians. I'd seen how the local press had their own code-names for pairs of celebrated individuals: At'on being their curious contraction of Athené and Tyron.

Murphy moved along to check on Me'rah. She was at a display of aged leather-covered books and folios. 

I stood aside as Murphy aided his mother in negotiating the price of books. I couldn't scarcely have spoken any dialect of Arabic to save my life, but having heard it every day for over a month I was coming to understand better when others spoke it. Comprehension came a little easier when two people who spoke Arabic were most fluent in different dialects and slowed-down their speak to better understand each other or offer alternate words.

The vendor named some price, then Me'rah and Murphy spoke more quietly to each other, and then Murphy replied saying something like, "My father and uncle were firm with my mother on the amount she should pay for the books in their list; can you give her a better price or explain how these editions are different?"

Their conversation continued as I followed Mr. Hichens with my eyes. He made an exchange with a vendor, then crossed the street so he was on the same side as we were, though further along.

Murphy walked towards me, putting his back to Hichens as he spoke to me in French. "It's very embarrassing," he said, "My mother knows an antiquarian book as well as Sheikh Jibril."

"Does she speak French?"

Murphy shook his head.

I nodded.  Le français was a common second language in North and West Africa. France may have been defensive in relations with some nations—They'd only grown stronger since refusing to take sides in our War for Independence against Great Britain—but its regimes had been involved in their share of colonization.

If Murphy wanted to speak to me about an Englishman in front of his mother, French was probably best, even if there was still some risk of eavesdropping.

"I want to explain so you understand," Murphy continued, "Because, you are so dear to me that I wish you to know me as I am."

"You are my good friend, also, do you not know?"

Murphy smiled at me. He glanced over his shoulder before looking again to me. "I know you and I are friends, but when I was younger than you are now, I did not know so much of the world, and I was, like you, not legally adult, but no longer a child."

"I understand well." I rolled my eyes.

Murphy shrugged. "Sometimes, when two people are foreigners to each other, it can become unclear what is proper," he said. "Do I treat a man with all the hospitality I would one of my own people, or do I see he wants to hire me and demand a fair wage? How close or how friendly should I be with this one man?"

"I see." I had run a business for several years, sometimes with more or less success. And, I had followed Murphy into a number of strange countries.

Perhaps Murphy also remembered this about me. "You understand," he said with a tight smile.

I touched a hand lightly to Murphy's arm to communicate we might move on, as behind him both Me'rah and Hichens were walking to other street stalls, though not seeming too close to each other.

"I admired him," Murphy said, still speaking quietly to me in French, "Even now, all things considered, I admire much of his work. I've thought about every interaction between us. I've wondered if I actually did something improper. But, that man did nothing worse—that I know—than use some uncomfortably Euro-centric language and perhaps show poor judgment in publishing a satire about still-living public figures."

"Not about your family?"

"Oh! No! Julien. It was before our time, but parents or grandparents alive in the 90s would know, especially if in Europe, there was scandal and a trial: the main characters in The Green Carnation were based on real people. I learned all of this later, of course."

It took me a minute to digest what Murphy had said, and he left me to my thoughts for that moment, peering around some other pedestrian to see Me'rah and Hichens were not near each other.

"Murphy, I need to know. The ending of the book, did he choose to write it that way, or was it written to mirror some real events?"

"I don't know the details."

I whispered even lower, "And if your family meant to hurt him, was it the book they found offensive, or did they suspect you of being too familiar?"

Murphy sighed. There was brief hesitation before he spoke, "Both. Even now, I can't say what specifically aroused my brother's anger, but at the height of his accusations, it wasn't just about the gift of a book or whether it was moral.  It was my brother's word against mine and Hichens'. When I swore an oath and said I'd lick a spoon, Saif dropped his argument."

"A spoon?" I laughed.

"It doesn't translate. I think the English is 'stick a needle in my eye'."

I understood it was no joke.

"I've pictured meeting him one day; what I might say. But, I know I can't. Not out of fear for myself, but for what it means to risk him connecting the boy from Sinai with the Prince's friend. If he holds even the slightest animosity...."

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Chapter 84!

The media is "Enjoy the Silence" a Depeche Mode cover by Anberlin. It's lyrically relevant on some levels.

I don't know if just saying "Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye" is considered as serious as claiming one is willing to literally lick a metal spoon heated in a fire on the chance that God will prevent his mouth from blistering to prove his word, but if we consider the words, the rhyme probably has origins in a serious oath, the same way that "May lightening strike me, if I'm lying," may. I read online that the French equivalent is, "Croix de bois, croix de fer, si je mens, je vais en enfer," which is basically swearing by the cross and damnation that one is being true.

So, I was later than I hoped with last week's chapters, so here's this one on Early Tuesday. :)

The next chapter will be Night Visit (unless I change it last minute; I've already started it.) Then after that something with a train, probably.