Ishmael Reed: The Terrible Threes

Reverend Jones put on his glasses and examined the contract, his hands shaking.

“What? Why, I can’t do that. Heinrich is my closest companion,” he said, after reading the clause requiring Heinrich to return to hell. Hitler was lonely.

“We don’t want him up here anymore. You need advisors who are more contemporary. We want to get rid of Heinrich, he’s going back with me. As for that Joe Beowulf, that contraption, before the week is over I want that thing on a scrap heap in the D.C. dump. What good is it? One of my microbiologists is sending you one of these laboratory beings. He’ll be much more efficient. It’s time you entered the new century, shit, in a few years it’ll be the year 2000. Microbiologists, deconstructionists, New Age freaks; I’m thinking about opening a new area called Jargon City which is where I’m going to put these new sinners. Sometimes I don’t understand what they’re talking about.”

“But—”

“You’ll do what I say. And I want you to stop this crazy thing you have about black people. I don’t want any more of them in hell. They’re always organizing protests and begging for air-conditioners. They’re worse than the Jews.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Satan.”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about.” Satan walked over to behind the desk and grabbed Reverend Jones’s nose. “Ouuuucccchhh,” Reverend Jones said as Satan lifted the tubby man from his chair by the nose. Lucy cackled. Her new dentures fit fine. They cost ten thousand dollars, and she could eat fried turkey again, a recipe she learned in Nashville.

“Don’t try to fool me, you son of a bitch. I know that you and these others have had a contingency plan to put blacks and the other surps in camps, like you did the Japs back there in World War II. You and these other fake Aryan loonies believe that they’re my children. Well, I want to set the record straight. They’re not. They’re none of my kin. You keep them. I don’t want any more of them. Some days they worry me so that I want to open peace talks with the other side. Why do you think I have to dress this way? The blacks tricked me out of all my attributes; my tail, my horns, they took the red off of my hide, and the Jews, they’re always demanding things. I was talking to one of those Czars the other day and he said that out of the million Jews he had in Russia at one time, 999,999 were revolutionaries. Now look, Jones, I don’t have all day. The way you’re heading you’re going straight to hell, but if you play along with the program you can linger for a while. I’ll make you the most powerful man in America. You preach as good as a nigger, even though you don’t have their langage . I stay away from these black churches. These black preachers do the gospel so well that I almost want to jump and shout myself. Last time I visited one, I almost marched up to be saved with the rest of the sinners, but that’s no good. If I went over to the other side, there would be no symmetry in the world. Besides, one day I’ll get my due from history. History will give the devil his due. I’m down here in the world hustling my ass off for souls, and he gets all of the devotion and credit. Nobody’s even heard from him in thousands of years. It isn’t fair,” Satan said, staring at the ceiling. Satan let go of the Reverend’s nose. Jones signed the contract.

“This calls for a toast,” Lucy Artemis said.

The devil ran his hand across the table and three glasses of champagne appeared. The three drank from the glasses. When he finished his drink, the devil turned into a coyote and disappeared through a wall. Outside the door, Joe Beowulf stood. A synthetic tear came to his eye. Reverend Jones didn’t want him, Hollywood didn’t want him. What good was he, he thought.

When Artemis heard the familiar tinkle of the bell that preceded all of Nick’s appearances, she winked at Reverend Jones from where she stood behind the curtain. Sure enough Nick suddenly appeared before Jones. The Saint whose persuasive powers were so good that he put the devil on his payroll. The Saint who influenced an Emperor of Rome, and now a President of the United States.

“You’re not startled.” Nick should have known something was wrong then and there, because when he appeared they usually became afraid. Some even got to their knees and prayed.

“What’s on your mind, Nick, I don’t have all day.”

“But … I well, I guess you’ve seen the Congressmen on television, confessing to their sins, redeeming themselves, making promises to do something, and the Mayor of New York, Kevin Grouch, down in Tompkins Square Park, washing the feet of pan-handlers, and the Governor of California — whatever you call the chap — both of them out there singing Xmas carols at orphan homes — Jones, you must show that kind of leadership also.” But Jones didn’t even look up. He kept making as though he were signing papers. Nick was shocked that his appearance didn’t surprise Jones. He usually scared the bejesus out of people.

“If anybody’s going to do the changing, you will,” Jones said, still not looking up.

“Hello, Nick, baby.” Nick turned around, and standing behind him was Lucy Artemis.

“But—”

“Yes, you thought you’d finished me off when you and your vulgar followers burned my beautiful temple. But I wasn’t there that day. I was in the woods, hunting boars to sacrifice. I’ve hunted you down through history, and when I heard that you came to Washington a few winters back, I came and settled here.” Nick tried to respond but his powers were frittering away. He was becoming dizzy. The room began to swirl. Before he blacked out, he heard Jones’s and Artemis’s laughter.

There were still a lot of odd-looking people living in Soho, but unlike in the late 60s it now reminded one of a campus with lonely young people staring out the windows of bars and restaurants. There were still galleries in which art hung that was less interesting than the jargon that was peddled in its behalf. Since the period of the modernists, art increasingly came to rely on an apparatus as large as General Motors in order for it to be successful. Jamaica Queens had quit journalism for acting, and was making quite a career of it, landing roles in Shakespeare and Ibsen. He yelled up at her loft. She opened the window and looked down at him. She didn’t seem pleased to see him, but she threw down the keys. He opened the door and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator opened on the loft, which she decorated with money from a blind trust that was located in Togo. She was standing there with a towel wrapped around her head. She was wearing a short bathrobe with what she called cubistic design. It looked Navajo to him. The loft was huge and had an upstairs where she slept. She was one of these people who haunted the flea markets for bargains, and so the place was full of junk.

“Nance, I’m not really in the mood for company.” He could tell that she’d been crying.

“But when I saw you at the U.N. you said to drop down if I was ever in the neighborhood. I just got some good news. I wanted to share it with someone, besides you said you wanted to tell me about the invasion of Dominica.”

“O, Nance, I’m sorry — it’s just that I—” She walked up to him and put her arms around his neck. He could feel her heart beating through her robe. At that moment, he was glad he’d become celibate.

“Why don’t I get you some eggnog, and you can tell me about it.” She went into the kitchen. He was sitting on some Italian leather white sofa. He glanced at the Xmas tree she had in the corner, and the bright packaged presents underneath. On another wall was a Shango mask. It was made of wood, berries, mirrors, and cowrie shells. She was particularly pleased with this piece and talked about it. She came into the room and sat next to him.