Ishmael Reed - Mumbo Jumbo

Take it easy, Musclewhite. We’re taking you for a spin in our Studebakers. A little trip down to the C.A.D., you cad. We’re going to have a little opening, Fuentes adds.

The Major rises from the sofa and suddenly spins about and leaps for Yellow Jack who flips him over, landing him on the floor with a thud.

The Major reaches for his sword but Berbelang reveals this magnificent long razor, its handle encrusted with diamonds and emeralds…It was designed after an ancient ceremonial knife.

Major Biff Musclewhite thinks better about his resistance. They escort him into the other room. Charlotte stands in the hall, seemingly petrified.

Don’t worry, my dear. I shall deal with these rapscallions.

O move! Yellow Jack says, pushing Biff Musclewhite out of the apartment and down the hall toward the elevators.

Major Biff Musclewhite rides silently with his apprehenders to the basement of the apartment building. How did they know he was at Charlotte’s? The Mu’tafikah had excellent intelligence. The authorities would have to put the Dictaphones to work to protect themselves in the future. He would suggest this to the Mayor of New York if he could ever get him out of a night club or away from the baseball diamond.

They slowly walk out of the apartment building and Musclewhite is forced into the car. The fleet of cars, headlights blinking, then forms a procession which moves to the Center of Art Detention located at 82nd St. and 5th Ave.

The 2 guards are amazed when they see the party of men and women mount the steps of the museum.

№ 1 told us of an opening tonight, 1 guard said to the other.

When they see Biff Musclewhite, this Black man following close behind, they open the door.

Sir…there’s no opening scheduled in the catalogue.

Of course there is, Musclewhite said. Open the door and admit these people.

But that’s against the rules, sir; it’s 10:00 P.M. This’s never happened before. Besides we ain’t seen no new show put up, sir. This is highly unusual.

Musclewhite felt the razor cut through his coat and then felt a tiny trickle moving slowly down his back.

Do what I tell you, open the door and let these…these…ladies and gentlemen in.

The guards oblige and the people enter the museum; Berbelang stands next to Biff Musclewhite at the entrance as the Mu’tafikah file by.

You 2 can have the rest of the night off, Musclewhite says after Berbelang whispers the instructions in his ear.

Mumbling, the guards resignedly put on their coats and leave the premises.

The men and women Mu’tafikah methodically go about their work; the husky men removing the larger items to trucks parked in the rear of the Center for their journey to the boats waiting down at New York harbor. A few hours later the job is complete.

Berbelang, Yellow Jack, Thor, Fuentes and the remainder of the party start for the museum’s exit. They’ve figured out a way to obtain the Olmec head. As they walk through the main gallery of the museum Berbelang pauses before Goya’s painting of Don Manuel Osorio de Zúñiga, 50×40 in. (127×101.6 cm.). The little boy in a bright scarlet outfit among cats and birds. He sees the child as the Goat-without-horns; the famous sacrificial White child of the Red Sect rites. He removes his razor and is about to slash the child in the painting. Yellow Jack grabs his wrist. Berbelang turns to Yellow Jack.

Remember the vow, Berbelang, we are just going to return the things, not pick up their habits of razing peoples’ art. It isn’t Goya nor is it the painting’s fault that it’s used by Atonists as a worship.

Of course, Berbelang says. I haven’t had much sleep.

The party exits from the museum with their hostage Biff Musclewhite.

Over Fuentes’ strenuous objections Berbelang has left Thor to guard Biff Musclewhite who is bound and gagged, hands tied behind his back and sitting in a chair near 1 of the basement walls of the Mu’tafikah headquarters. They’ve decided that there’s no other way of obtaining the Olmec head, therefore they’ve kidnaped Biff Musclewhite to hold for ransom, instead of releasing him after the haul as planned.

Musclewhite stares straight ahead at Thor who paces up and down the middle of the room, fidgeting and inhaling a Havana cigar.

May I have 1, son?

Thor turns, walks toward Biff Musclewhite, removes a cigarette from his shirt pocket and puts it in Musclewhite’s mouth. He then takes a match and lights it.

Musclewhite drags on it and speaks out of the corner of his mouth. Thanks.

Thor sits on the bench of 1 of the tables within hearing distance but on the other side of the room. He examines the agenda for forthcoming art heists. An exhibit of “primitive” art is encircled meaning that Berbelang wants it “touched.”

How old are you, son?

Thor looks up from the exhibit handbill lying on top of the bench.

You talking to me?

Yes, I asked your age.

Thor rises, walks over to where the man sits and shakes his finger in his face.

What’s it to you? The only reason I have to be in your company is because they are going to exchange you for a promise that the Olmec head will be shipped back to Central America. Frankly, I don’t think you’re worth it.

Musclewhite smiles.

What’s so funny? Thor says, becoming angry at the hostage calmly sitting there in the chair.

Nothing funny, son. You remind me of myself. I went off to war and was going to save the world but look now, already the war clouds are forming again. The disarmament conference; they always talk of laying down their arms before they resume fighting. The German tribes are restless. And here at home society is coming apart at the seams.

Why do you old people love clichés so. Coming apart at the seams, all of that phony hypocritical language…I hate it! Thor says, agitated, clutching a fistful of his hair.

Hypocritical? I don’t know about that. If you think we are hypocritical why don’t you have your father pay those donors for their artwork and then there would be no need for your nigger spic and chinaman friends to risk their necks for it.

Hey look, you. Thor starts for the man but then the comment registers.

How did you know? I mean, about my father?

The many times I saw you when your father brought you into the yacht club; a little child dressed in a fashion after Gainsborough’s Blue Boy.

You in a yacht club? Don’t make me laugh.

I know you look down on me because I come from one of the European countries under domination by stronger Whites than my people. We were your niggers; you colonized us and made us dirt under your heels. But in America it’s different. There is no royalty in the European sense. Only money counts. Guggenheim, Astor, Ford, Carnegie… people you would spit upon if you had them at home in Europe. We’re saving our dough and soon we will be able to purchase our own heraldry cheap and then maybe our values will be your values. We’ve learned, you see by joining your clubs and making our way from Police Commissioner, to Curator of the Center of Art Detention. We’ve learned to bullshit the way you do, build up an aura of sacredness about the meanest achievement, allowing “the Sunlight to intrude upon Royalty” as 1 of your queens said. 1 of these days 1 of our sons, perhaps the son of a Polish immigrant, will emerge from some steel town in Pennsylvania and mount a turd on the wall of a museum and make it stick… and when you ask him what it is he will put on his dark glasses and snub you the way you did us. And on that day we will have overtaken you.

That’ll be the day.

So you see you still have loyalty to your elite. Look son, we are trying to save you. Your class. We used to run alongside your carriages in barefeet when you drove through our neighborhoods, and you would splash mud in our faces violate our sisters, flog our fathers; but we kept coming for more because we loved your beautiful clothes, your clean hair, the charming ladies riding beside you, the way you talked…Fascinated by the man’s talk, Thor sits down slowly…