As I made arrangements to take off for Wyoming, another note, postmarked Langley, VA, but with no return address, arrived. The plain index card inside said, in plain block letters:
“Jake—We’re even up.”
A check drawn on the U.S. Treasury accompanied the note. I don’t want to sound ungrateful; it was a decent amount of money but a little embarrassing. Judging from my own experience, it was plain why the KGB had an easier time recruiting spies than the CIA did.
Not that I was some kind of spy, of course. It did strike me, though, that if word got out that I was being paid by both the CIA and the KGB, my career as a freelance whatever might henceforth face complications.
THE END
Editor’s Afterword (Amended)
Some controversies arose following the release of the previous book in the series, Fonko’s Errand Go Boom, which must be addressed. Colleagues in the English Literature Department called my attention to several passages in the book that, they claimed, were direct quotes from James Joyce’s classic book, Ulysses, and they showed me corresponding passages, four of them, in the two books to prove their case. As you know, my arrangement with Tinderboxed Press entailed my turning over to them my raw materials compiled from Jake Fonko’s recounting and my further research, analysis and interpretations, upon which they assume subsequent responsibility for producing publishable versions of his exploits.
As it turned out, one of their editorial assistants holds a graduate degree in English Literature. Her MA thesis has an interesting story behind it. It seems she started college aiming at a degree in speech therapy, a sop to her parents, who, paying her tuition, stipulated she choose a major that would result in a job upon graduation. However, the scientific aspects of speech therapy soon bored her, and she switched her major to English Lit. She qualified for a modest scholarship, which mollified her parents and encouraged her to continue in that field. The topic of her MA thesis reflected her bifurcated background: “James Joyce: Modernist Genius or Asperger Sufferer?” So the assignment on Fonko’s Errand Go Boom was right down her alley, and in several instances she took it upon herself to improve, shall we say, the materials provided to her. She also slipped in an allusion to Irish playwright Samuel Beckett.
But she resolutely denied abridging Mr. Fonko’s excursion through the streets of Dublin, and he, too, claimed that he followed the route exactly as described, similar though it may seem to Leopold Bloom’s famously fateful day. I asked him if he had ever read Ulysses, and he said no, but admitted he had seen the movie. “Kirk Douglas was great,” he said.
So I avow innocence of plagiarism, and I contend that no harm was done. In fact, I rather liked her little embellishments, and I intend some day to read Ulysses myself. As for the rest of the book, my back-checking came up with no reason to doubt that his recounting of his Belfast adventures was, as always, a true and factual account. My calls to Mr. Steven Spielberg seeking confirmation that he did indeed feature Mr. Fonko’s DeLorean sportscar in Back to the Future went unreturned. And George Chutney had carried out Mrs. Thatcher’s instructions to the extent that no trace of Jake Fonko remains in Northern Ireland (exactly as Jake had described). Everything else, as best as I could determine, reflected the facts, as unlikely as some of them may seem. To give just one example, that Barbra Streisand would crawl into a movie theater under the box office turnstile might strain anyone’s credulity. However, my research assistant, Dr. Bertha Sikorski, turned up an article about the Malibu Theater in the Wall Street Journal that reported an occasion on which Ms. Streisand did exactly that. The article did not mention Jake Fonko being present, but why should it have?
Controversies erupted concerning the present book, Fonko in the Sun, that are not so easily passed over. Immediately upon the book’s release, I was deluged with irate, sometimes apoplectic telephone calls, letters and emails from scholars and critics all across the nation. The gist of the complaints was that the book abounds with quotations, plots, scenes, characters and allusions stolen from a spectrum of literature and cinema, in particular the works of Ernest Hemingway (To Have and Have Not, The Old Man and the Sea), Graham Greene (Our Man in Havana, The Comedians), Ian Fleming (Dr. No), Harry Belafonte (The Banana Boat Song), a snippet from West Side Story, among others. Especially egregious, many claim, was the book’s opening scene, a barroom shootout reproduced almost word for word from To Have and Have Not.
I will admit that my review of the book’s pre-release draft was cursory. I had just received the turndown of my application for a position in the history department at Western North Dakota Normal College. Shortly thereafter, Sallye, my wife of many years, left me to pursue her bliss as a potter at a commune in New Mexico. I was depressed and distracted and for that reason paid only perfunctory attention to my scholarly work, including the final review of the forthcoming book. The uproar brought me back into focus, and, returning to Fonko in the Sun, I was appalled by what I found. The critics were only too correct. How could such a travesty have happened?
Tinderboxed Press launched a thorough investigation and promptly reported back. The editors assigned to winnowing through my materials and compiling them into a publishable book had decided that Mr. Fonko’s account here and there contained gaps or lacked detail or, given the helter-skelter nature of his adventures, even continuity. As it happened, when Mr. Fonko and I were transcribing that part of his recollections, my interest in the Caribbean Islands was aroused. I had never been there and was taken with his descriptions of that exotic setting, so I read widely and deeply (for example, the works noted above) and included along with the transcriptions copious notes, references and ancillary materials. In an effort to produce a more coherent and readable book, the editors folded some of my reference notes and ancillary materials directly into the narrative. WITH NO PROPER ATTRIBUTIONS!
By the time this scandal came to light, it was too late to withdraw, or even revise, Fonko in the Sun. However, Tinderboxed Press allowed me to amend the Afterword I had prepared, so as to address these extremely sensitive and serious issues. I sincerely apologize for all problems and authorial lapses, and I promise followers of Mr. Fonko’s exploits and adventures that I will in the future diligently endeavor to make certain such will never happen again. And let me assure everyone that, apart from these editorial derelictions, Fonko in the Sun is, like the previous Jake Fonko memoirs, a true and factual account.
In light of my recent personal vicissitudes, I am now planning a two-week sojourn at the Club Med on Martinique Island. I think it may be just what the doctor ordered, in a manner of speaking, to repair my shattered sensibilities. I may even ask Dr. Sikorski if a little break might appeal to her. Her thus far unsuccessful quest for a full-time post in the current employment situation has been deeply dispiriting, she tells me.
B. Hesse Pflingger, PhD
Professor of Contemporary History
California State University, Cucamonga
Book 5: Fonko Bolo
Trigger Warning
The following text may contain content some readers may find offensive, disgusting, hurtful, humiliating, nauseating, revolting, disorienting, frustrating, threatening, distressful, confusing and/or self-esteem-diminishing, including but not limited to: (1) thoughts, phrases, words, code words, penumbras, emanations, dog whistles, implications, omissions, graphic representations, memes and/or microaggressions that may be interpreted as threatening, traumatizing, judgmentalist, sexist, racist, ageist, genderist, ableist, heightist, weightest, ideologist, religionist, philosophist, speciesist, climateist, militarist, capitalist, corporatist, consumerist or promoting of guns, violence, social injustice, unwanted sexual invasions, or environmentally unfriendly or unsound behavior related to nutrition or personal health and safety of oneself or others; (2) stereotypes of persons, places, races, nationalities, regions, eras, lifestyles, continents, ethnic affiliations, political movements and/or unspecified animate and inanimate objects; and (
3) facts and/or narratives that may be contradictory of, or contrary to, or deviant from, facts, counter-narratives, beliefs, fantasies and/or conceits that a reader may find comforting, reassuring or fulfilling. Aside from that, this book is safe, informative and enjoyable for anyone to read.
Prelude to the Story
East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, said Rudyard Kipling famously. I’m from the West. I met the East. Damn near killed me, more than once. Considering the adventures I’ve had in The East—Vietnam, Cambodia, India, China, Tibet, Japan, North Korea—I’m like a modern-day Marco Polo. After what I went through in the Philippines, they might well call me “Fonko Bolo.”
*
We’ll get to that presently. First, let’s bring my story up to date. After the fourth time it happened, I began considering the possibility that waking up in strange places, wondering where I was and how I got there, might be an occupational hazard for free-lance whatevers like myself. I came to, on a rude charpoy—a thin pad supported by crisscrossed cords in a wood frame—wearing only a dhoti, one of those Mahatma Gandhi diapers. I was scratched, slashed and bruised, aching in every part of my abused carcass. My left wrist and right ankle didn’t seem to be working well. The cords of the charpoy bit deeply into my savaged flesh through the filthy, tattered pad. Though it was stifling hot I couldn’t stop shivering. I raised my head up through the pain and looked around. I lay in a dimly-lit room crammed with men of all ages suffering every form of distress, disability, disease and desperation. It reeked to high heaven.
Next to me a husk of a man on a torn, stained mattress pad drooled and gurgled. He was emaciated, his bare ribcage covered with open sores and lesions, his arms and legs reduced to bones and tendons tightly encased by distressed black skin. Several wounds fed a little puddle of blood and pus on the pad beside him. He writhed in agony yet nevertheless sported a beatific smile.
“Having a good day there, friend?” I asked. “They dope you up pretty good?”
“Dope?” he replied in a sing-songy Indian lilt.
“Pain-killing drugs,” I said.
“Oh no, they have given me no medications, nothing to ease my pain.”
“Taking good care of you, though?”
“Oh yes, very good care. They bring me thin rice gruel and tepid water. They clean up my soil and issue a fresh garment every now and then. Just the other day a barber came and shaved us men here.”
“And that makes you smile so widely?”
“I have never slept in a proper bed in my entire life,” he said. “They found me lying on a rubbish heap, helpless and hopeless, where I had collapsed while searching for scraps to eat, and brought me here. They assure me now I will die like a human being, beautifully.”
Well, there’s something to be said for that, but where the hell was I? I said, “Hello.” Nothing. I repeated it louder.
A small woman in a white nun’s habit floated quietly in and approached my bunk. “Why are you making all this commotion?” she asked solicitously. She also had that Indian lilt to her English.
“I’m sorry. I just want to know where I am.”
“You are in the hospice of our Missionary in Calcutta, India,” she said.
“Aren’t hospices where they take people who are dying?”
“Yes. That is true. You speak strangely. You are not of this country?”
“No, I’m an American, and as far as I know, I am not dying.”
She seemed flustered. “There must be some mistake. We brought you here because you seemed to be dying.”
“I’m pretty banged up, that’s for sure. I think I have a broken wrist and a broken ankle. I could use a drink of water. I’m very thirsty.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll bring you some water straightaway. It would be good if you talked to Mother. I will summon her.”
“Mother …?”
“Yes. She will know what to do. Your situation is not what we thought, and I am at a loss. She will know. I’ll return directly.” And she floated ghost-like away out the door. Presently she returned with a glass in her hand, accompanied by a short, bent, ancient Sister with downcast eyes wearing a white habit with a blue border.
“I am Mother,” said the older woman softly. “Or you can call me Ma. How are you feeling today?” (I’ll call her “Mother” here—her humbleness dictated avoiding personal publicity so I’ll not elaborate on that)
The younger nun offered me the glass. I took it in my right hand, but propping myself up on my left arm was very painful. The water tasted warm and putrid, but it was water, which I needed badly. If it gave me dysentery how much worse off would I be? Not enough to notice. “I’ve had better days,” I replied.
“Every day is a blessing from Jesus,” Mother assured me. “Our bad ones bring us closer to His suffering. And, you see, He has already relieved your distress. When we first found you our hopes were not high. How did you come to be lying, dying in a gutter of the worst slum in Calcutta?”
“That’s a long story, but the immediate cause was that I gave a $100 bill to a beggar.”
“My goodness. Why did you do that?”
“A, er, friend requested that I do so, on his behalf. He told me that a Calcutta beggar once saved his life, and that was his way of repaying the kindness.”
“Yes, a kindness multiplies many times. So how did that lead to your distress?” She had that quality of seeming to giving me her rapt and undivided attention, as if I was the most important person in the world—a knack also characteristic of top-notch politicians, salesmen and con artists.
“I couldn’t tell one beggar from another, there being so many and all so miserable. So I picked out one at random. He accepted the bill, looked at it and exclaimed loudly, ‘A Benjamin! This man gave me a Benjamin!’ Other beggars rose from their perches and came over to look. More appeared from the shadows, from alleyways, from under doorstoops, seemingly materializing from nowhere, until a large crowd of clamoring derelicts had gathered, me at the center of it. ‘A Benjamin!’ all were exclaiming. They passed it from hand to hand, until one wizened old fellow, apparently a leader of sorts, examined it closely through thick glasses. ‘This bill is false!’ he shouted, and crowd’s mood of awe and amazement turned into a wave of anger. How could a Calcutta beggar identify a counterfeit U. S. $100 bill?”
“Those slumdogs know their currencies,” Mother assured me. “They cannot afford not to, being desperately poor … the great majority, anyway. Please continue. What happened next?”
“That’s the last thing I remember.”
“Those poor men felt disappointed and, worse than that, betrayed. To raise their spirits and then dash them like that! That is why they gave you such a going-over. It is sad that they did not honor the spirit of love and charity that accompanied your gift, but so few feel appreciation for good intentions. Sorry to say, it is the way of the world. Some of our Sisters found you lying there among the garbage in the street, stripped naked, unconscious and abandoned. Thinking you were a dying untouchable, they borrowed a wheelbarrow and brought you here. We cleaned you up a little, covered you for decency sake and installed you in the hospice. I am pleased that you recovered, but your situation is somewhat irregular. What shall we do, I wonder?”
“Let me suggest we start by putting casts on my wrist and ankle, and dosing me with antiseptics and antibiotics?”
“I am sorry, Mr…?”
“Fonko. Jake Fonko. Please call me Jake.”
“I am sorry, Jake, but our Mission does not function as a hospital. We dedicate ourselves to ministering to the spiritual needs of the world’s poorest and most forlorn, and they number in legions. Here in Calcutta six million people live in wretched mud and straw shanties, and a half million live on the sidewalks—they cannot even afford wretched shanties. No, we cannot hope to cure the world’s material ills, so we do not try. Rather,
to the world’s forlorn and abandoned we dispense love and spiritual solace, spreading the message that even in their poverty, pain and misery, no matter how dire, Jesus loves each and every one, enfolding their suffering unto His own. We have Missions all over the world, including in your own country. We minister to AIDs victims in New York City and drug addicts in Washington D.C., for example. You may find it hard to believe, but America, despite its lavish wealth, desperately needs our help. Spiritual poverty is mankind’s biggest curse of all, and your country has that like few others.”
“Could you contact the American consulate on my behalf?”
“Though we have many dealings with America, we have never had an American, er, guest in our hospice before. I am known at the consulate, and I will send a message, and we will see what can be done. What would you like the message to say?”
I gave her my name and the contact numbers for Mom and Evanston, and Dad, back in Los Angeles, with the request that the consulate send word of my whereabouts and situation. “Could someone from the consulate come here to talk to me?” I asked.
“They might send someone eventually, but they have never shown much enthusiasm for venturing into this district, except for ceremonial occasions and photo opportunities. Anything else?”
“A little something to eat, perhaps? And put some splints on my broken bones?”
“One of the Sisters will attend to it,” she said. She put her hand atop my head with affectionate pressure (aggravating lumps and bruises and open scalp wounds) and admonished me to feel Jesus’s love. Noticing my wince, she soothed, “We believe that every stab of pain is a kiss from Jesus.” Please in your prayers beseech Him to stop kissing me, I didn’t say. She gave me a wide, sincere smile and left me to my thoughts.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 20
