The Clueless Watson

The Clueless Watson - Part Two: Reminiscences

Holmes

When Watson once more graces me with his presence some three hours after his impromptu departure, I deduce from his drenched state that he forsook the comforts of a cab - which hints at a need for physical exertions stemming from mental agitation - and that his destination must be about one and a half hours away at a brisk walk, where he did not stay long, for otherwise he would not be quite so wet. It takes even a good London rain a little while to soak through Watson's mac.

That is interesting. I know my Watson very well. I know where he goes and what he is likely to do there. Neither his club nor any of his usual haunts are at that precise distance, nor would they entertain him at this hour. The more disreputable establishments, if I could bring myself to actually believe he frequented them, would certainly hold his attention longer than the mere minutes he can only have spent there.

The only conclusion left is some acquaintance that I know nothing about, one that did not receive him.

I watch him avoiding my eyes while he excuses himself and goes to bed. Curiosity gnaws at me, but I decide to let the matter rest. Watson, of course, has a right to his privacy. If there is some problem with which he thinks I might assist him, he will tell me. In the meantime, it is his prerogative to suffer in silence.

***

Watson

Highly stirred, I stumble into my room, shed my clothes in an unusually careless fashion and drop onto the bed. At once, the memories clash over me in big warm waves that stir me even more. But I meet the terms of cruel fate and remember...

His name is Alhasan Ata' al Rahman, but here in England he goes under the name of Hassan Raman. I first met him when I was in Afghanistan, back then. The memory of my whole stay there is somewhat blurred, probably due to the unfortunate circumstances that finally drew me from that country, much earlier than I had planned. But I do remember some details, like clearings in a haze, such as the look he gave me when we first met. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I realize that I remember the whole incident as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

It was a quiet night, and as always, the heat was ceasing amazingly quickly once the sun had gone down. I had made my round, like I used to do almost every evening, first to pay the sick bay another visit, then to stroll around the camp in order to enjoy the spectacular sight. It never ceased to amaze me how fast the shadows lengthened, and how the light went from blurring yellow to sombre red, then to soothing blue. As soon as the wind grew more crisp, in comparison with the day's heat, they were all busy setting up little fires, in expectation of the nightly chill.

As usual, I would walk here and there, indulging in the feeling of the day's gritty sweat drying on my skin, until I would finally find a fire that looked inviting enough for me to sit down. This time, the fire was not as large as the ones next to it, it was a little bit farther off, and the men sitting around it were all natives, hence pure curiosity made me go there. One of them had brought an intricate little instrument on which he played a simple, yet beautiful tune, while the others shared a silent sheesha. The hospitality among nomads is legendary, therefore none of the little group seemed to mind my intrusion. Quite the contrary, they moved aside for me to sit down between them, and I was even offered the obnoxious pipe, which I accepted out of politeness. The fumes smelled familiar enough: I had smelled them everywhere, I also knew about their effects, and consequently I rather tried not to inhale too much, hoping that this would be enough of good manners.

One of those men was Alhasan. He was sitting almost opposite to me, silently chewing on a siwak stick, but as he was positioned slightly further away from the fire, I could see his face, lit by the warm light of the flames. He seemed to hold a special status, as far as I could tell by the simple fact that none of the others was sitting as close to him as they otherwise used to do. His whole demeanour was that of a leader, he had the athletic build of a warrior and the suave expression of someone who was used to giving commands, and used to being obeyed without dispute.

When he caught me staring at him, he put the stick aside and slowly turned his face towards me in order to stare back. There was a fire playing in his dark eyes, rivalling the one we were sitting at, and when he finally smiled, flashing his white teeth, I felt a warmth similar to that which I had to endure during the day, yet pleasantly different. In fact, it seemed to spread from within, and although I was completely at a loss as to where it originated, I could tell that it had to do with his smile.

I had been frequently in love before, but only with women, and I had always been quite aware of my feelings, as well as of what to do with them. This was different. I soon recognized the signs, but I hardened my mind in order to ignore them. This could not be. I could not possibly fall in love with a man, no matter how important or good-looking this man was, as there were some things in life that simply were not allowed to happen. And yet, I soon realized that I had to face at least the fact that I was falling in love nonetheless.

The things we did there, alas, were comparably harmless. Apart from a little grappling, we did nothing to infringe the law, and soon afterwards, we had to part, due to my injury. I thought I would never meet him again. How surprised was I, when I received notice of my good friend Alhasan some three years later, when I was living in London again and had just put up a small practice. He had followed me, using all his little wealth to find me here, in this strange city. He had taken up a job that was beneath his status, and moved into that little house at the dockside. I was moved and intrigued, and I soon realized that I was still in love with him. This time, we were overwhelmed and quite soon cast aside all kinds of scruples, sharing moments of passion I would not dream of writing down.

I can feel another tear rolling down my cheek while I am lying there, on my bed, thinking of him. I had to hurt him, to hurt his pride, and I know he will not deign to meet me again, even though I had been the only reason for him to travel all the way to this faraway country. But I also know that I have the best reason a man can have. And now, what am I to do? I cannot possibly tell Holmes all about it. He would never understand. He might be a Bohemian, but I rather doubt that his imagination or his slackness regarding the law would allow him to approve of such an unforgivable sin as the one I have committed. No, I will have to remain silent at any cost. Thus taking a silent oath, I fall asleep.

***

Holmes

During the next day, I watch my dear friend trying to act normally, but of course, I can see in his manner that whatever happened yesterday still disturbs him.

Since it is a slow day, I first try to distract myself using my music and my chemistry, but finally, tormenting Watson proves to be more entertaining. I amuse myself by peering at him searchingly and looking away with a knowing smile whenever he catches me at it. At the same time, I resolve to invite him to dinner at Simpson's in compensation. By now, poor long-suffering Watson really looks like he could use some cheering up.

I am just about to suggest it when Watson, who happens to be looking out the window, suddenly reacts to something he sees. He blushes, then glances over to me furtively. Fortunately, I am seated in my chair and can plainly see out the window owing to some careful placing of my dressing room mirror in conjunction with the mirror above the mantel, and with a little shifting, I observe a man looking at our window as if deliberating calling here.

Clearly, Watson knows this man. I have never seen him before. Also clearly, this man has some hold over my Watson, which he, probably for reasons of morality, will not divulge to me.

I rise. "Eight of the clock! My dear Watson, I see I have almost missed an appointment. Do not wait up for me, I cannot say how long this might take." All of which is the absolute truth and a total fabrication at the same time.

He does not know that I saw the mysterious man; he suspects nothing. I am in hat and coat and out the door before he can reply.

It is a combination of quick-wittedness and good fortune that enables me to catch a cab in time to follow the man in his own hansom. When he stops in front of some nondescript house half an hour later, I watch him enter and realize that this house lies precisely one and a half hours away on foot from Baker Street.

I have found Watson's mysterious acquaintance. Curiosity overcomes my reticence. Who is he?

I direct my cab to my closest bolthole and change into the clothes and makeup of a disreputable groom. Thus disguised from attention and recognition, I wander back to my quarry's residence and start engaging the neighbours in conversation. Using the right tactics, there is nothing that the motivated investigator cannot uncover from London's professional gossips, and I am certainly highly motivated.

*****

Two days later, the subject of Watson's mysterious friend still will not leave me alone. I know all about his other friends, where and when he meets them, how he met them, everything. But this Hassan Raman is an unknown entity. According to my information, Watson has known him for years and visits with him often. Why does he never mention him?

It is none of my business, and yet I worry at it as if at a sore tooth.

"Why do you never invite your friend Mr Raman over for an hour or two?" I finally ask Watson over breakfast.

His reaction is extraordinary. He splutters. He almost drops his piece of toast. Within the space of a few seconds, he pales to near translucency, then he blushes the most intense shade of pink I have ever seen upon his countenance. Finally, he hunches over as if expecting a blow, conspicuously avoiding my eyes.

I merely lean back and wait.

As expected, he starts blurting without thinking - an ideal situation to get at the truth. All I have to do is let him talk. "It's not what you think," he begins.

Watson

I am, of course, completely taken off-guard when Holmes makes this disastrous remark, thus revealing that he has not only been spying on me, but has also found out about my nightly ramblings. This is more than disturbing, and highly embarrassing. I realize that, if I do not tread really carefully now, everything will be lost.

Trying to cover up my nervousness, I gesticulate, and in desperate search of the appropriate words I find that I am close to stuttering. "He is just an old friend," I utter. "From Afghanistan." I hesitate and dare look at him for the first time since our fateful conversation started. "How on earth did you know his name?"

Holmes answers my look with the familiar cool stare of the private detective who has already found all clues needed and is merely waiting to pull out his trumps, one by one. "You mentioned him the other day."

"I did not," I reply, feeling my head sink slightly between my shoulders. I simply know how this is going to proceed. I can feel it in my bones.

"Then how could I know his name."

"Holmes...Did you spy on me?"

"I would never spy on you?"

I know what he means by that. Ah, my good old friend has a way with words, and while I am convinced that he would never lie to me, there must be some truth what he is saying, even though I cannot make out what he intends to allude to. I feel the heat rise behind my eyes once more, and I know that I am already blushing, partly with shame and partly with anger, and so I get up from my chair and walk to the fireplace, just to avoid his eyes.

Holmes' voice follows me there in his steadily merry tone of voice, and I know that he is watching my back - and probably enjoying himself greatly. "He is your old friend, yet you never mention him," he says. "Why is that?"

"I never found it necessary," I answer, talking into the wall. The situation seems lost, and all I can do now is try to diminish the damage that has already been done - or will be in the close future. Desperately, I turn to face him. "My dear friend, please," I ejaculate. "It is not important at all. Why can you not... just let it be?"

"You are right, it is not important," he replies. "And I will never bring it up again. I merely wondered... why you visit him, and he never visits you."

All my hopes were vain, and I find my suspicions confirmed at the worst. Not only did Holmes spy on me, he also found out about my regular visits, probably by asking around in the neighbourhood, and thus revealed the ugly truth - not only to himself, but also to others, if I am truly unlucky. Now I am certain that I will never allow myself to see Alhasan any more. My intestines turn to water, the room starts spinning, and I quickly sit down. "So... you know."

"I know where he lives. I know that you met him in Afghanistan, and I know that you have visited him several times since he moved to London, all of which is quite unremarkable, if not for the fact that you do it in secrecy. But I promised I would never mention it again. Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

I do not answer his last question, and the things he says are a mere murmur compared to the rushing noise in my ears. All is lost. I am a dead man. My world is tumbling down. I have lost my one love, and now I will also lose the other, the even more precious one. I bury my face in my hands and remain silent, wishing for the earth to swallow me and finally finish my tortures.

To be continued...