The Waters of Lethe
Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, I just like to play around in it's world and torture Ed for awhile.
Author's note: post series, some movie events will happen, but differently
Warning: may contain movie spoilers. Has contained and will contain violence and death. Maybe sex.
Beta: Moi, for now
47. Come To The Casbah (Zum Casbah kommen)
A violent thunderstorm rolled in that night and brought some relief from the drought. While lying on a rickety cot, Edward rolled over on his stomach and jammed the pillow over his head in a van attempt to block out crashes of thunder so loud they shook the entire building. They discovered next morning that the resulting flash flood had dug the "Flying Nefertiti" out of its grave before depositing it in the middle of the airport's only landing strip. After that, it was easy to roll the battered remains into a hanger where Harry gave its broken nose a consoling pat. "Poor dear, you've had a rough landing. But I'll make you beautiful again, I promise."
Behind the hangar were several piles of airplane parts - propellors, wings, struts, wheels, steering mechanisms, and assorted "guts" - all neatly sorted and protected from the elements by canvas shelters. Edward surmised these were cannabalized from aircraft wrecked by other fliers, until Bill (the man with the black crewcut) informed him "all these kites were personally pranged by Harry." And then he laughed wickedly when Edward's face turned even paler.
If he'd known that before leaving Egypt, he would have run back into Alonzo's house and hidden in one of the storage rooms. Or he would have taken his chances on the noon train to Cairo and hoped to avoid Herr Draco. But it was too late now. He was in the middle of Algeria, and surrounded by miles of trackless plains full of hungry carnivors who would be happy to make a meal of him, metal prosthetics and all. "Y'see, Ed, it's this way. Harry was a courier during the war and avoiding German planes made him a great flier. He's one of the best take-off men I've ever seen, even when the runway was torn up by shelling. But the trouble is, he still needs more work on his landings."
Edward rolled his eyes. Maybe if I walk really, really fast, I can make it to Casablanca in a month.
Harry didn't give him a chance to even think about it because he began repairs immediately. A new propeller came from one pile, struts from another, wings and wheels from two other piles. The engine took a while longer and in the end the it was rebuilt from the carcasses of three other engines. In just under a week, the "Flying Nefertiti" was whole again, if looking a bit like Dr. Frankenstein's monster because the replacement bits were all different colors. The bi-wings were red, green, blue and white, and the fabric patches covering the fresh repairs to the midsection were gray and black.
Just after dawn the next day, Harry and Edward were back on the runway and waving goodbye to Bill and the rest. Then Harry opened the throttle and the "Flying Nefertiti" rolled down the runway before she soared gracefully back into the sky. He circled the airport once, waggled the wings in salute and set off westward to Morocco. Edward hunched down in his seat and welcomed the numbing cold. Maybe if my brain freezes, I can stop worrying about Harry crashing when he tries to land.
To his great relief, the landing at Casablanca was a bit rough, but the "Flying Nefertiti" came down in one piece.
They took a horse drawn cab into the city itself and Harry checked them into rooms at an inexpensive hotel. Still cold from the flight, and tired out because he couldn't sleep, Edward lay down on a narrow bed to nap for a few hours. He splashed cold water on his face after waking up, then spread his coat out on the bed and dug into one of the hidden pockets. Time to change his identity again. Edward spread the false passports out like a hand of cards on the bed, closed his eyes, and selected one. He opened the book to the first page:
Name: Edward Smith - Jones
Birthplace: Vancouver, Canada
Date of birth: May 18, 1905
Edward memorized the data. First he'd been Swedish. Now he was Canadian. He wondered if his father or the maker of the false papers had chosen these random dates and places.
Father's name: Harold Jones
Birthplace: London, England
Date of birth: June 12, 1881
Mother's name: Belinda Smith-Jones
Birthplace: Bury St. Edmonds, England
Date of birth: September 11, 1883
Hmm. Canadian of British ancestry, common enough not to arouse suspicion. He was replacing the other passports in the hidden pocket when he became aware of an unpleasant odor. After a quick sniff, Edward realized the odor was coming from him. The room didn't have a proper bath, so he washed up at the sink and changed into fresh (if a bit wrinkled) clothing. A knock came on the door as he was re-doing his ponytail. "Come in!" he called.
Harry stood there with the same irrepressible grin on his face. Mostly because he had a pretty girl on each arm. "Edward! It's just gone seven, time for a spot of din-din, wot? " He handed one of the girls off to Edward. "Here's your escort for tonight, Ginger Beere, meet ..."
"Smith-Jones, Edward Smith-Jones. I'm very pleased to meet you, Ginger." Edward took her offered hand and bowed over it, barely brushing the skin with his lips. Ginger was dressed in the height of fashion in a dark blue low-waisted dress, with a matching cloche hat pulled low over her marceled blonde hair. Her cornflower blues eyes widened and her red painted lips rounded with surprise.
She simpered and giggled, "What lovely manners you have! Where do you come from, handsome?"
"Vancouver. Vancouver, Canada, but my mum and dad were English." Edward mused to himself how easily the newly minted lies tripped off his tongue. Plus how un-guilty he felt about lying. In a space of barely three months, prevaricating was now second nature as a survival mechanism.
The remaining girl, who was cooing over the size of Harry's left bicep broke off her admiration long enough to squeal, "My! You're a long way from home!" Edward smiled, nodded and murmured in agreement. Yes, yes I am very far from my home.
"Come with me to the Casbah, m'dear," Harry chuckled smoothly. "I know this lovely cafe in the Old Quarter, it's called Rick's, and is run by this Yank with a rather dodgy past. But the food is good and the piano fellow can play somewhat. I think you'll like it."
Author's note #2: OK, who gets the movie reference in the final paragraph? Virtual chocolate chip cookies for those who guess correctly!