Ishmael Reed - The Terrible Threes

He was enjoying himself, swaying to the music, and admiring the Xmas decorations. Suddenly a commotion broke out in the middle of the room. He arrived at the scene just in time to see a man slap a woman and send her sprawling on the floor. Her dress slid up around her tan thighs, a sight that didn’t escape many of the men, regardless of the nationalities; even the American and British diplomats were staring at them. He recognized those thighs at once. They belonged to his friend, the journalist, Jamaica Queens. Noticing that some men were staring, she held her jaw and began to feign a scream. The man, a Latin-looking person, who wore a black eye patch and a prominent scar that stretched from his left eye to his jaw, approached Jamaica again and started to kick her when Nance walked up and knocked the fellow flat on his ass. A number of Latins ran up to assist him, and about fifty seconds later he came to and began to moan, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Jamaica was holding on to Nance’s arm, looking down at her date. Virginia was standing next to her friend, and she was smiling at Nance. Her friend noticed the smile and glowered at Nance. Somebody mentioned the man’s name. Nance had read about him in the newspapers. He was the famous death squad leader and arms merchant. His friends helped him to his feet, and he approached Nance, said some words in Spanish, and left the party. “What did he say?” Nance asked Jamaica Queens. “He’s challenged you to a duel,” she answered calmly, with a slight smile.

“He what?”

“A duel. He’s quite good at it. In his own country he’s killed about twelve men. Don’t worry, Nance. I’ll talk to him again. He’s very jealous. He became angry because he saw someone light my cigarette. He treats me so mean. He’s such a knave and a crook,” she said, gazing at the man and his entourage as they left. Some of his friends looked back at Nance. One of them ran his finger across his throat. As they exited a couple entered the room. Whoever they were, they must have been important, because the cameras began to go into action. People surrounded them. A man who some said was the Ambassador rushed up to the couple, making his way through the press and admirers who were excitedly making comments and asking questions.

Nance and Jamaica Queens joined the others. He liked her arm on his. She knew that he liked it, her hip bumping against his, and he wondered if she did this to excite him or rather whether this was merely her style. It didn’t excite him. The night before he had fucked Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. He found as he listened to the man that this was the Prime Minister of Gun. The herald of a new Africa. One who would combine the high technology of Korea and Japan with the old traditional ways. One who was at home with the music, art, and literature of many cultures, who could converse as well about Bauhaus as Muslim architecture. Someone who knew about Western democracy as well as the old associations and clans.

The West was on the decline because it got stuck in a single design, modernism, and its intellectuals and politicians couldn’t grapple with the eclecticism of the twenty-first century. Africa, the continent which most had left for dead after the famines and plagues of the 80s, was making exciting gazelle-like leaps into the late 90s, and South America and the Caribbean were hitting their stride. They were calling this Prime Minister, who was so simple and elegant that he came to the party in economy class, the gust of transformation that was taking place on the continent. He called his own movement toward African renaissance Nostromham. Nance came up in the 60s and didn’t want to hear about his plans and his missions. He’d seen too many visionaries lying on the balconies of motels and the kitchen floors of hotels, their lives oozing out in rentable ballrooms or in the backseat of a car.

“I’ll buy you a drink, Jamaica.”

“Thanks for the offer, Nance, but I think I’ll take a rain check. I’m living in Soho now.” She handed him a card. “Stop by some time. I have to tell you a strange story I heard while I was down in Dominica on assignment.” A yellow cab finally pulled up. She got in. She looked at him for a moment. A few years before he would have asked her for sex. He shook her hand instead. Besides, who knew what was in store for him this night. Maybe Irene. The one that Leadbelly said he would get in his dreams. He started home, whistling.

“I was the first in my family to try smoking, the first to play hooky from school, the first to venture away from home, and the first to go to jail. On the other hand, I was the first child in the family to own a Cadillac, the first to have a formal wedding, the first to fly to Europe, the first to earn a half million dollars, and the last one to admit that I was wrong.”

The Pope was inside his Vatican apartment, reading Chuck Berry’s autobiography and shaking his head in disgust, when Cardinal Malidori walked in. He was black haired and wore a black goatee. The Pope shoved the autobiography into a desk drawer. His face was as that of a Cameroon antelope mask. Malidori had eyes like a sparrow. He bowed, and the Pope noted a touch of sarcasm in his voice when he said “Your Holiness.” These dagos still haven’t gotten used to a foreign Pope. They’d prefer one of their own. Have to be careful or they’ll bump me off the way they did Pius and John, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a hand in hitting John Paul. I’ll bet they hired that mad Turk. They just can’t stand a non-Italian in my place. Just like Mussolini said about the Italians. A nation of waiters , the Pope thought.

“Yes, what is it, Malidori?”

“Your suspicions were correct, Your Holiness.” Your Holiness. That’s a laugh. The Romans were the center of the world when his ancestors were crawling around central Asia on their hands and knees, eating goat’s cheese. What was the joke our friends, the Nazis, used to make about them? Why the Slavs. Nobody knows where they came from. Ha .

“We put all of the material into the Vatican computer. Contraceptives, bio-birth technology, birth control, homosexual priests, divorce, married priesthood, women priests, and all of these other demands. It sounds like Old Nick out to embarrass us again.”

“I knew it. Who else would it be,” the Pope said, rising from his breakfast. “Why in the old days women used to cling to his effigy in order to become pregnant, and he tolerated all manner of loose immoral behavior. He advocated a married priesthood back there in the Middle Ages, and his position toward the devil has always been weak. This Black Peter character, for example. One version has it that this creature was originally exorcised from somebody’s body, but instead of destroying this fiend, Nick hired him. So he’s the one who is raising such a fuss among the American church, and up to now we thought it was merely some of those Irish priests, Druids in priests’ clothing. But now he’s back. The rascal is as irrepressible as voodoo. In fact, what is the custom of leaving cakes and delicious things before chimneys for him but idolatry? The Calvinist Walich Sieuwerts knew. Filling shoes with all sorts of sweets. Nothing but sacrifice to an idol. Voodoo plain and simple.”

“There have been new developments. Black Peter is also back. And if Nick sees that he’ll surely want to engage the creature in a contest. Word has it that Nick is losing his touch.”

“But I thought Black Peter was an impostor.”

“Yes, there is an impostor. Remember we sent someone to investigate from the Office of the Holy See, and he turned up missing, but before he disappeared he informed us that Black Peter was an impostor.”

“But if Black Peter is an impostor, why doesn’t Nick contest him? Why would he waste his time?”