Ishmael Reed: The Terrible Threes

Unlike the part of that nebulous world, the Netherlands, where Nick dwelled, where at least there were some elves to do the entertaining, the atmosphere of this exclusive club was always disciplined and austere. There being no such thing as black-tie optional here, the men were standing about in tuxedos. They could have been models in a Ralph Lauren ad. They all wore the pout that had become an image of the nasty 80s. Though they were, like Nick, at one time as dark as vanilla extract, they had been whitened over the years; as white as the fence that Tom Sawyer, the trickster, got his fellows to paint. This board of directors of eleven were waiting for their chairman, Saint Peter, to arrive. Their founder — as pale as a rock cod — could be seen in a portrait, in which he appeared as unshaven as in the Dali painting of the same subject.

When Saint Peter arrived, they all completed their cocktails and took their places in love seats and sofas which were as black and curvaceous as a Porsche. They had that Italian look, and were as elegant as a mosquito. He told them that Nick had gotten into trouble with his old nemesis, Lucy Artemis, still mad because he destroyed her temple and seduced her followers. That his vanity had again done him in, and not willing to quit while he was ahead, having altered the course of American history, he pushed his luck and got involved with one of Satan’s new customers, Reverend Clement Jones, a charlatan who’d gained power in the United States, where the public opinion was fickle and Piscean. All of the Saints were aware of America’s Attention Deficit Disorder which permitted only one image to reign at a time, and only briefly, before being replaced by another. Though he knew their disdain for this renegade Saint, who in the Middle Ages rivaled Mary in popularity, he was still one of theirs and they’d have to get him out of a jam, even if it meant calling on the services of Black Peter. A couple of Saints sighed at the mention of Black Peter. A vote was taken. Six for, five against, and one abstention. A grim Saint Peter sent a message home to Guinea, the island beneath the Caribbean.

Peter was glad to be back home in Guinea. He had gone to excise the impostor, Black Peter, from history, but, as usual, forgot his mission and ended up doing good deeds. He would leave global politics to Nick. He could have it. Xmas in the world had been troubled as usual. Bethlehem had been shut off to outsiders because of gunplay between competing religions. The dollar was chasing the yen like Tom the cat chasing Jerry the mouse.

Black Peter was reclining on a rock which was shaped like the head of a rhino. Crabs were crawling in and out of holes and in the distance French bathers, two women with billiard ball buttocks and a man wearing Ray Bans, were wading into the Caribbean, accompanied by their black dog. Black Peter was sitting under a palm tree, cooking a pot of blood sausage for his friend, the mosquito, who couldn’t wait to lay his proboscis upon it.

“You seem more relaxed than I ever seen you,” said Mosquito in his high-pitched, wiry voice.

“Glad to be back home.”

“But Black Peter, the impostor. Your original purpose was to put him out of business.”

“I did. The toy manufacturers thought that it was he who was helping all of those people. The Turkey, Beechiko, Fryer Moog, and the others. And so Nick, knowing that I was behind the whole thing, decided to get into that metaphysical arm wrestling contest that he likes to get into with me, upstaged my work. The toy manufacturers got rid of Peter, and are now promoting Nick’s image again. You know how fickle market forces are. Economics has about as much sense as a tornado. Besides, I’m tired of the competition. I went and congratulated Nick.”

“You did what?”

“I congratulated him. It’s bad enough that history views me as a lackey and a buffoon, but not a poor loser as well.”

“Now you’re talking, Bro Peter. Once you get a bad rap, it’s hard to shake it off. Hell, in my family there are two thousand species. We got folks around in the arctic. I don’t even bite. But everybody thinks that all of us are responsible for yellow fever and malaria,” the mosquito said.

“Well, at least the impostor is out of business. Always trying to scam somebody or put something over on somebody. But with the toy manufacturers, he met his match. Once they use you up, they go out and get somebody else. Now he’s hoboing around on the subway. Probably end up back on Broadway with his dummy act. Clever fellow; if he tried to channel his energy into something useful, he’d benefit mankind.” Bro Mosquito drew some liquid from the blood sausage.

“Hummm-hum! Peter, you know how to cook some blood sausage alright. You and Nick ought to stop your bizarre relationship. You seem to need each other. You feed off each other. It’s strange.”

“The competition is over. Look, I’ll never convince the people in those cold climates that I’m the one who does all of the dirty work for Nick.”

“I’d forget about it if I were you. Forget about it.” Firecrackers were going off. They could hear the band in the distance. It was Shango’s day, and so they were playing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. Bro Turtle was ponderously making his way toward the pair. There was a telephone on his shell. Peter picked it up. He listened.

“I’ll be right there.”

“Where you going, Bro Peter?” the turtle and the mosquito asked simultaneously.

“It’s the Saints. Nick’s in trouble. I got to go.” And with that, Black Peter was off.

One of the old ones shambled up on the beach. It was Bro Lobster. The ancient crustacean must have weighed one, two hundred, he must have weighed at least five hundred pounds. They stood out of respect, because here was one among them who was there at the creation. He knew all of the stories.

“What say, Bro Lobster?” they said, greeting the lobster who was scrambling up on the beach in a jerking fashion as the tide played with his body. His many legs moved slowly.

“Hello, Bro Mosquito and Bro Turtle. What you boys up to? O, and happy Shango Day.”

“Happy Shango Day to you, Bro Lobster,” they both said together.

“Wasn’t that Bro Peter who just flew out of here?”

They nodded their heads. Turtle was munching on some of the fish that Bro Peter had left in the skillet being kept hot by a low flame; it was making a sizzling sound.

“Boy, is he complicated, or should I say, they,” the lobster said.

“What do you mean, Bro Lobster?”

“Yeah. Tell us?” Bro Mosquito said.

“Well, you know, Bro Peter and Bro Nick are the same person. They were a King some hundreds of years ago in a Yoruban kingdom, and once a year the King was required to throw a feast at which he would give all of the members of his village gifts. Wan’t no war, or drought, or plague or any of those things in those days. Hey, what you got there, Bro Mosquito?” the lobster, whom everybody called Das Alte, said.

“It’s some of that white rum that Black Peter likes so much.” The lobster reached out a pincer and sampled a taste of the rum.

“Anyway, one year a stranger showed up to the village. He demanded to have a gift, too, but the King refused, and the stranger went away, but not before warning the King that he’d regret it. Shortly after he left, the people began to die, and the King went to Ela, who told him that the stranger was Death, and that, for insulting the stranger, he was responsible for the advent of death in the world. It all came down to a matter of give and take. Death takes. I don’t know much about Peter’s career except that he shows up in Spain in the Middle Ages and is covered over with some Christian figure, underneath which is a matriarch of early Turkey associated with tree worship. Then he’s split into white and black along the way. The main thing is that he has to give gifts because he feels that some day he will meet up with Death, and Death will accept his gift. Then he thinks that Death will come to an end in the world. A foolish quest if you ask me.”