Mumbo Jumbo (15 page)

The trucks you can have for a few days. Then there are some barrels of booze to go to Chicago and we will need them. The costumes havta be back tomorrow night, he says to Berbelang.

Other men wheel wardrobe closets into the basement. They contain boxes of shoes, formal dresses, jewelry, stockings, tuxedos, black silk top hats, white silk scarves.

The other stuff has to be back at the theater tomorrow for the opening of that musical he’s backing. The Studebakers tomorrow morning. He’s got 18 funerals scheduled by his various Harlem undertaking establishments. And listen pal, he says jabbing a black gloved finger into Berbelang’s chest, be sure to get them back…

The man, 1 hand still in a huge pocket, readmits a cigar to his mouth and begins to walk out of the basement. He turns around and as if this was a signal the men follow his motions.

O the most important thing I forgot to tell you. The boats are down at the harbor. The ships are waiting out at sea. And good luck he told me to tell you, he said you’d understand. He said the only reason he’s giving you these things is he’s a Race Man.

The man approaches Berbelang and gives him a strange handshake. Berbelang looks puzzled.

O, I thought you was 1 of us and that was why he was givin’ you some code. Well so long. The man turns and he and his partners begin to leave.

As he prepares to turn the knob Berbelang stops him.

Hey! Listen! How did Buddy Jackson get the ships and boats?

He said some fellow named Black Eagle, a monoplane flyer, has international connections.

The man left the basement.

The men and women put on their costumes. They pile into the Studebakers parked against the curb. You can still see the influence of the carriage upon this automobile’s design, this Studebaker which was characterized by its vendors as “Knight Motored.”

H
ARD-BOILED BIFF MUSCLEWHITE, “THE
man who tamed the wilderness” and much decorated combat officer of World War 1, now curator of the New York Center of Art Detention and part-time consultant to the Yorktown police. He is relaxing his head upon Charlotte’s lap as she sits upon the sofa. Charlotte strokes his grey hair. 1 leg dangles over 1 of the sofa’s arms. His sword touches the floor and his hand embraces a glass of fizz water which rests next to a champagne bottle on the table. 1 boot on, the other on the floor near the sofa, he continues to speak, his blouse unbuttoned in 2 places.

…And then my dear, I single-handedly led this charge into German lines before we encircled their men…and it was then that I realized that the fate of my men was in my hands.

Major Biff Musclewhite has finally convinced Charlotte to allow him to see her. He has brought some roses which the maid Suzie Mae has placed in vases. Charlotte, bored, stares at the ceiling as she listens to him talk on and on about World War 1.

…I like the décor in this apartment, it shows that distinctive taste. You certainly are selective, my dear, in lesser hands the style would be gaudy almost Africanesque…I should like you to permit me to contribute to the maintenance of the apartment. As a combat veteran I am accustomed to doing my bit. Kiss me, my dear.

The Major springs from his lying position and suddenly grips Charlotte’s long arms at the same time pinning her against the sofa’s back and kissing her violently.

Just then, the door bell rings.

Patting her hair and smoothing her dress, she is released from the Major’s vice-like hold. As the Major waits in the other room, buttoning his shirt, Charlotte rises to open the door.

A minute goes by before Major Biff Musclewhite inquires about what is happening in the other room.

Do you have company, my dear?

Berbelang, Thor, Yellow Jack and Fuentes enter the room; they wear Chesterfield coats over their tuxedos and black top hats which they wear cavalierly.

Why…why what is the meaning of this? Charlotte, who are these men?

They said they were friends of yours and forced themselves in, Charlotte replies.

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.

No 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…

You are all we had. Against them. Against the Legendary Army of Marching Niggers against the Yellow Peril against the Red Man. We didn’t have what you had and so when you appeared before the world with your coronations and your ritual they imitated you all over the world and marched like you talked like you and made their national anthems “Finlandia” or “God Save the Queen.”

But…but…

Musclewhite won’t allow Thor Wintergreen to say a word.

It was then that we realized you were all we had, the way you had cultivated a theater to keep us from them, a theater with scene shifts and a changing cast of characters but always squeezing out the Bronx cheer from your bought-off claque. Then we found out what you were doing. But we didn’t let on, we decided that we would imitate you. America was our chance, a caste built upon money. We want to protect you though, you are our finest. Son, why do you make it hard for us?

Because this looting of the world’s art treasures can’t go on. That’s why. When I was in Egypt a guide told me that the Egyptians would never think of removing their dead like the foreign museums had. How would you like it if someone disturbed your dead, dug up their bones and put them on display, melted down the sacred jewelry of your ancestors as they did in Mexico, and destroyed your stone idols.

Now you listen to me, Musclewhite fires back. If it’s a bunch of precious stiffs you think you’re after, then my name is Joe E. Lewis. Look pal, it’s time we came clean with each other. Don’t you think I know why you’re in this? Don’t you think I used to listen to that fancy radio station you were on. The Franz Liszt Birthday Specials, the Tolstoy Marathons, you never did that for the nigger musicians or writers. No, they died in the East River while you talked about some great books and serious works of art, a code for White. Right? So come off of your high horse, buster, and stop this pretending…

Look, Thor answers, rising. They are my friends. I believe in their way and reject yours. I can’t sleep at night for the thoughts of your foul deeds. Feeding the Tasmanians to dogs, for food…