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Ishmael Reed: The Terrible Threes

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Ishmael Reed The Terrible Threes

The Terrible Threes: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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In , Ishmael Reed proves that he is one of the most innovative voices in contemporary literature. This adventure into the world of offbeat humor and on-target social criticism is a vision of America in the not-too-distant future, a portrait of a fairy-tale gone awry. This novel begins where left off, in the late 1990s, three years after President and former fashion model Dean Clift was laughed out of office, with the nation in chaos and the White House implicated in a covert operation to rid America of surplus people and the Third World of its nuclear weapons. A blend of science fiction, folklore, history, fantasy, social satire, and all out surrealist comedy, bears Reed's distinctive voice and message. At once a threat, a promise, a prediction, and the awful truth about the land of the free and the home of the brave, the tale is wholly unforgettable. Once you've seen the world through Reed's eyes, you might never see it the same way again.

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“Yes, Ms. Scabb.”

“Good. I’ll go over the details with you after breakfast.”

“That’ll be fine, Ms. Scabb.” John had finished pouring the orange juice. He left the dining room. Outside he noticed that nobody was around. He cupped his ear and pinned it to the door of the dining room.

“I never feel comfortable around him. I keep thinking he’s comparing me unfavorably with Dean Clift’s wife — Kingsley.”

“Yes, honey.”

“How are we going to be a team when you won’t let me know what’s going on all of the time? This Operation Two Birds, for example. People all over town are talking about that Haitian woman’s letter. The one written by Admiral Matthews. They’re saying that Dean Clift was right. That there was a conspiracy to nuke the cities with huge surplus populations, blame it on Nigeria, and then nuke Nigeria. I don’t see why they had to be so sloppy. Why couldn’t they have just used ethnic chemicals like crack or heroin or round them all up? I mean that’s what this AIDS thing was all about, wasn’t it? To get rid of some unpopular groups like faggots and blacks. People who have outlived their usefulness. You could have dumped more crack and heroin into the ghettos. But no, they had to listen to those religious nuts. It was Krantz’s idea. He’s almost as weird as that Jones. First he was sucking up to Jones, and then Admiral Matthews. Then this Terrible Twos scheme got loose and it’s threatening everybody. Can’t you get the C.I.A. to do anything right, Kingsley? The stupidest scheme I’ve ever heard of. If this all gets out, Dean Clift will return to Washington and people will start believing in Santa Claus. You don’t know anything about this, do you, Kingsley? It would ruin your career to be involved in such a scandal.”

“Who, me? Of course not, dear. President Hatch never tells me anything.”

“You’d better not be. Wasn’t enough that I caught you at Cardinal Spellman’s party with those chorus boys.” She began to cry. He had been seen at one of the parties Cardinal Spellman used to throw after the opening of Broadway musicals, but that had been years before. She always managed to bring it up.

John stole away from the door and toward the kitchen, carrying a pitcher of orange juice. He could hear Mrs. Scabb, sobbing in the dining room. The government fired him, as soon as Jesse Hatch and his wife moved into the White House. But when John threatened to write a book about what he’d seen in the White House over the years, they gave him the job of managing the Vice President’s household. Esther and Jane still worked at the White House, and they kept him howling as they described the shenanigans going on in the Oval Office since Reverend Jones had taken up residence there. Mrs. Scabb ran past the open door of the kitchen, bawling as she ran to her bedroom. She slammed the door.

7

The turkey was about as gratifying as a Perry Como Xmas carol. The other parts of the menu, giblet gravy, hominy, celery root and spoon bread dressing, roasted chestnut salad, and plum pudding, were about as interesting, but he was hungry and so he dug in.

While Phillip and Virginia stared at each other across the table, sighing and blinking their eyes, he helped himself to the food. He hadn’t eaten this well in a long time. Nance finished his meal, and was dabbing at his guardsman’s mustache with a Bloomingdale’s napkin. Now they were holding each other’s hands. Before lapsing into some sort of love trance, they had spent about thirty minutes discussing kiwi and olive oil. Nance cleared his throat. This got Virginia’s attention.

“Would you like some coffee, Nance?” she said. Phillip frowned. He had a very narrow face. Little bitty eyes that shifted when you looked into them. He was wearing jeans and black Reeboks. A custom-made shirt and a Brooks Brothers tie. His jacket was designed by Armani. Virginia probably selected Phillip’s wardrobe. She was always volunteering to select Nance’s when they were married. He always said no thanks. He liked the rumpled look. Once he became attached to an item of clothing, he wouldn’t take it off. Sometimes he slept in his favorite shirts and sweaters. These days he was wearing black suits a lot. Virginia told her television audience that her ex-husband was going around dressed like an undertaker. She was always putting down his manners to the delight of the audience. She said that once she introduced him to the great tango accordionist Piazolla, and he said hello Mr. Pia Zadora. She said that he was the type of guy who went into Ethiopian restaurants and requested chopsticks. Virginia was in one of the huge kitchen’s alcoves, preparing the coffee. Nance belched. Phillip looked at him with disgust.

“Can I help you with coffee, hon?”

“No, I can handle it, dear,” came the answer from the kitchen.

“I hear you received a quarter of a million dollars to write about the surps. Where they are, and where they’re going, in which you trace their difficulties to their behavioral patterns. It was in The Exegesis,” Nance said, a little drunk and looking for trouble.

“Yes. I’ve already begun my research.”

“Now, I agree that some of these surps are their own worst enemies, but you seem to let the government, economics, and racism off the hook. It seems to me that Jesse Hatch’s philosophy is that of constructing a two-tier economy in which the surps will take the fall for any fluctuations in the raw market. These people in Washington have already written off millions of these homeless surps, I mean you can’t walk down the street without half of the people asking you for five dollars. They got whole families out there begging.”

“Those people are crazy. They prefer being out there.”

“Crazy? You sound like Pierre DuPont or somebody.” It was taking a long time for the coffee to be prepared. In the meantime Nance had knocked down a couple of shots of the rum that Virginia always kept around during the holidays. When they had first married, Virginia had shared his lackadaisical bohemian attitudes toward Xmas, but now she was more enthusiastic than a Jamaican. She had even persuaded the members of the condominium that she lived in to put a manger scene outside.

“Pierre DuPont has a lot of good ideas.”

“Yeah, if you and these DuPonts get your way the only people left in this country will be WASPs, the real ones, and the made-in-Taiwan ones like you.”

“If WASPs lose power in this country, it will be like killing the goose with the golden egg. Who is going to run the country? You and your surps? Ha. There would be brownouts every thirty minutes, and the telephones wouldn’t work,” Phillip answered, ignoring Nance’s sarcasm.

“And nobody will publish your articles.”

“What? What did you say?” Phillip Wheatley was usually very cool, but this last remark got a rise from him.

“Aw, man. They’re using you. Every time you write a column, somebody gets kicked off food stamps.” Nance was beginning to slur his words.

“Virginia, you’d better come and see about your ex-husband.” Virginia brought the tray of coffee into the room, and placed it on the table. “I’m sorry it took so long. I was trying out my new Italian espresso machine. Mr. Whyte gave it to me for Xmas.

“Now, Nance. Are you picking on Phillipkums again?” They both winced. “I think you’ve had enough of that,” she said. She picked up the bottle of rum, clamped a top on it, and placed it on a shelf.

“He was making fun of my column, sugarpie.”

“At least you have a job. Nance drifts from job to job. He’s almost fifty years old and still hasn’t figured out what he wants to do with his time. Whoever named you Nance was right. Anansis. Can’t figure out how to grow your yams and potatoes.” Nance’s grandfather had named him that. He was a professional folklorist. In the old days he just sat around the barbershops telling the old tales. Now he was making eighty thousand a year on the university circuit. “I worked and slaved to help him through law school only to have him conclude one day that there was no such thing as law in America. Only power. He dropped out of law school.”

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