by Tom Robbins
“You don’t say?” clucked Buddy, his head buzzing with scriptures and historical facts that he could quote to the President to prove that Ezekiel’s visions were rising like catfish all around them, that fire and brimstone were set to rain, and that those disarmament treaties that delayed that earth-burning rain succeeded only in spotting points to the anti-Christ.
As the limo glided past the neo-Tudor edifices of Tally Ho Estates, the vice president explained that were Buddy and the Third Temple Platoon to attack the Dome of the Rock in the near future, there was every indication that the President would join with Russia, would side with the evil Gog, itself, to try to forestall the nuclear purge of which Zechariah had spoken so graphically, and which the destruction of the heathen mosque ought to precipitate, if things were allowed to run their rightful course.
The Veep warned Bud that to level the Dome of the Rock while the current president was in office was to risk gumming up the works. He asked Bud—he ordered Bud—to be patient just awhile longer, to wait until there was someone more enlightened in the White House. And he indicated that that might not necessarily be as many years away as Bud might think.
The lights of the airfield, haloed like Nordic madonnas in the frosty air, could be seen again when Buddy was warned, further, against the prideful folly of unilateral action. “I admire your courage, but, look, Pat and Jerry have got a, uh, stake in this, too, and frankly they’re a notch higher up the chain of command than you. We have to all pull together. Understood?”
“Guaranteed, sir. Verily, verily I say unto you—”
But before he could so much as blow the spit out of his saxophone, the vice president interrupted. “Say, reverend,” he asked, “who do you like in the Super Bowl?”
“Indianapolis,” blurted Buddy hopefully, then instantly regretted it. Something in the Veep’s tone when he said, “That’s real cute, fellow,” led Bud to believe that the Colts hadn’t made it that year.
When the limo came to rest on the tarmac again, Buddy’s host pumped his hand. “God bless you,” he said, and the door flew open as if on cue. Forty yards away, the Lear jet was already warming its engines.
“Any questions?” an agent asked, as Bud was buckled into his seat.
“Nope. Well, er, yeah, there’s one puny item that’s been a-troublin’ me. You boys obviously been nosin’ ’round inside my apartment.
Now, I ain’t complainin’. Y’all had to do it, y’all was jest doin’ y’all’s job. Y’all been in my place on more’n one occasion, most likely, and I was jest wonderin’: at any time did you happen to remove from the premises—for your own good reasons, naturally—a spoon, a little bitty silver spoon, and a colored stick? The stick wouldda had funny little horns on it.”
From the way the agents looked at him, and then at one another, Buddy couldn’t help but fear that whatever credibility he had had with the powers on high had probably now been squandered.
WHAT WAS THAT SOUND? That rustling noise? It could be heard in the icy North, where there was not one leaf left upon one tree, it could be heard in the South, where the crinoline skirts lay deep in mothballs, as still and quiet as wool. It could be heard from sea to shining sea, o’er purple mountains’ majesty and upon the fruited plain. What was it? Why, it was the rustle of thousands of bags of potato chips being pulled from supermarket racks; it was the rustle of plastic bags being filled with beer and soda pop and quarts of hard liquor; it was the rustle of newspaper pages fanning as readers turned eagerly to the sports section; it was the rustle of currency changing hands as tickets were scalped for forty times their face value and two hundred and seventy million dollars were wagered upon one or the other of two professional football teams. It was the rustle of Super Bowl week, drowning out the sobs of the homeless, the jabber of the mad, the death rattle of AIDS victims, and the sad, disgraceful news from Israel a.k.a. Palestine; drowning out, too, the motorboat idlings of happy infants, the whoops of lottery winners, the buttery grunts of lovers, the prayers of the traditionally devout, and the chants of those who repeated (and repeated) exotic syllables in meditation centers, rustic retreats, and at least one underwear drawer; drowning out commercial negotiations, classroom lectures, rap, rock, and reggae, not to mention normal dinner table conversation. The rustle caused symphonies to cancel concerts, brides to postpone weddings, and persons unlucky enough to have been born on January 23 to despair of anybody remembering them that year. The rustle grew in volume as the week passed, not only in America but in numerous foreign lands, although the pitch was obviously more mighty in New Orleans, where the Super Bowl would actually be played, than in, say, Ouagadougou, where fans who normally spoke Fulani or Bobo would yell “Touchydown!” in the TV bars of tiny tropical hotels.
Yes, hundreds of concerts, weddings, birthday observances, and political speeches really would be rescheduled so as not to be eclipsed by the Super Bowl, which would be watched by one hundred and forty million Americans. Yet, at Isaac & Ishmael’s, the Jerusalem-style restaurant diagonally across the street from the United Nations headquarters building in New York City, Salome, the belly dancer, hadn’t budged, despite the rustle all about her. She would dance at three o’clock, and those who wished to watch her had better be there. Others could watch football in a windy courtyard or camped on some sofa, dipping carrot sticks into bowls of weary substances only marginally more appealing than baba ghanoug.
One victim of the I & I dilemma thought he had it figured out. “We’ve been overlooking something, chaps,” he said. “I mean, how long is this Dance of the Seven Veils going to last? Twenty minutes? Not much more than that, I’ll assure you. We can have our cake and eat it, some of us. Me, I’m watching her dance, then I’m popping outside for three fine quarters of football plus the halftime show. I’m paying Dr. Farouk to hold me a seat.”
Shaftoe chuckled sardonically. “You think you’re the first sucker to think of that? Farouk’s probably gone and sold that seat he’s holding to a dozen fools like you. He’s from that part of the world, man. He knows that that dance can go on for hours. And once you start watching, baby, you don’t walk out till it’s over. Not for nothing.”
“Surely for the Super Bowl . . .”
Shaftoe laughed again. “She-ee-it. What you know about football? Why, I—” The detective fell silent and returned to his beer.
ON FRIDAY NIGHT, Salome’s performance was not up to par. Moody and distracted, she shimmied at half-speed and twice dropped her tambourine. She glanced repeatedly at the mural on the wall behind her, but it neither relaxed nor inspired her. On Saturday night, the night when New Orleans, New York, and at least one other American city were practically one giant Super Bowl party, she failed to show up at all.
“She has the small fever,” the bandleader explained.
“The girl always looks like she has a slight fever,” said Abu to Spike. “That is what is so arousing about her.”
Singer Bonnie Raitt, one of the celebrities in attendance, got up and entertained the audience by improvising blues to a Middle Eastern beat. She was a hit with both the suburbanites and the hip, as well as the tourists, but the regulars went home early, grumbling about Salome.
“What if she doesn’t show up tomorrow? What if she chickens out? Suppose she’s got the flu?”
They turned to Shaftoe, but he had nothing to say.
ON SUNDAY MORNING, the sun came up like an engineering project, hoisted with considerable strain up a scaffolding of thin, icy cloud. The sun seemed huge and flat and rough and pale, like the face of a newly constructed dam. Behind it an Amazon of snow roiled and spat, churning to get free.
Patsy was Ellen Cherry’s alarm clock. Always awake by seven, Patsy would arise to run through her Jane Fonda workout. Then she would shower, apply cosmetics (never without the thought that Verlin might be spinning in his grave), prepare breakfast, and wake her daughter. On this morning, when Ellen Cherry finished in the bathroom and sat down to cinnamon toast, she found Patsy flipping through the
yellow pages, hunting for a Baptist church within walking distance. She had to admit that it was as much habit as anything else.
“Forget it, mama. You want to go to services next Sunday, fine, we’ll find you a place. But, hey, today’s the big day at the I and I. I mean, the big day. People are gonna be going crazy down there. I’m going in early, just as soon as I eat. You ought to go in with me, because we can use the help, and it might even be interesting, you never can tell.”
However crazy Ellen Cherry imagined the scene at Isaac & Ishmael’s might be, it was crazier, still. When she arrived, Patsy in tow, at five past ten, there already was a line out front, stretching down the block and around the corner onto East Forty-ninth. Those who had queued up for the telecast could be distinguished from those intent upon the notorious dance, the former being loud, half-tipsy, and attired in deliberately sloppy duds, while the latter were more refined in deportment and dress, although they, too, maintained a festive air. A third and less populous group seemed anxious, hesitant, nervously subdued. They were the ones who had yet to make up their minds.
Escorted by security guards, Ellen Cherry and Patsy hurried down the alley and into the courtyard. It had been transformed into an outdoor café, covered by an awning striped in the colors of the New York team. The hefty heaters were humming and glowing, each instantly zapping the odd blowing snowflake that drifted into it like a moth into a flame. The mural-sized television set was already on, as if to gather momentum. Mother and daughter paused for a second to look at it. Some sort of pregame spectacle was being telecast, a preview, the announcer said, of the halftime extravaganza, which that year was to salute America’s growing Hispanic community. Ellen Cherry believed that she recognized the featured performer. “Well, I’ll be double damned!” she marveled. “That looks like ol’ Raoul. Raoul the doorman.”
Spike increased the volume, whereupon the hunk in the tight silver jumpsuit with the red Puerto Rican sash, the homeboy who was surrounded by scores of dancers and rock ’n’ roll musicians and who, except for the absence of a porkpie hat, so resembled Raoul Ritz could be heard to sing:
My heart is a Third World country
And your love is a tourist from Switzerland.
Never trust a country that won’t allow live poultry
To ride on its buses.
Oh, never trust a country
That won’t permit live poultry to ride on the bus.
Inside the kitchen, Roland Abu Hadee was actually in his shirt-sleeves. The jacket to his conservative pinstriped suit dangling from a hook, Abu was grinding chick-peas with one hand, chopping cucumbers with the other. Nabila, his wife, also was helping prep for the chef. Patsy patted them each on the back, grabbed a knife, and joined in. “Anything a southern gal knows, it’s how to cut up a fryer,” she said.
Ellen Cherry went into the dining room to lend Teddy a hand with the setups. “I didn’t know Raoul Ritz had a hit song,” she said.
“Where’ve you been?”
That was a good question. She looked to the mural for a clue. She had to enter it through the beak of an owl.
Other staff members began filtering in. They all worked furiously. While the game and the dance weren’t scheduled to commence until three, the restaurant would open its doors at noon. Spike Cohen made certain that they opened on time.
The crowd, many of its members distinguished officials of the United Nations, galloped in like a stampede of wild mustangs. They pushed, shoved, and fought over the prime tables like teenagers at a heavy metal cafeteria. Many ended up in the courtyard by default. It was less contentious out there than in the dining room and bar, probably because every seat within a quarter mile of the giant TV was a good one. Nobody had spotted Detective Shaftoe on line outside, but suddenly there he was, perched on the bar stool closest to the bandstand, ordering falafel and a Maccabee. One of the Greeks suggested that he had hidden all night in the men’s room. “You dudes been reading too many Trojan horse stories,” said Shaftoe. In any case, he’d made his choice.
At 12:12, Spike instructed the security guards to block the door. There were at least a hundred people still clamoring to get in, but the occupancy number dictated by the fire marshal already had been exceeded. Those who had gained admission to the dining room and bar were whooping and chattering. Beneath the rambunctious gaiety, however, the atmosphere was decidedly tense. Some patrons seemed secretly afraid to be there, although the root of their fear was not easily determined. Perhaps they were worried about violence. Perhaps it was something less solid.
Spike went out on the sidewalk to meet the press. “The Super Bowl’s showing out back,” he explained. “Inside, the little dancing lady is doing something special. In a nutshell.” He shrugged. The reporters weren’t satisfied. They had gotten wind of the Dance of the Seven Veils and badgered for details. Spike told them what he knew, which was precious little, then switched the subject to the I & I experiment. “In the past, my Arab partner and me have said it’s a gesture only that we’re making here, that we have no illusions about changing the large picture. To tell you the truth, I’m not so sure. This continent of North America, what did it used to be? A torrid swamp, am I right? For millions of years it was a jungle. Then in one minute, one minute, it was all covered up with ice from top to tush. You know your history? Very, very fast, things can be changing. A continent. A human life. So, the Jews and the Arabs are at each other’s throats for years into the thousands. So what? So what it’s so long? It could change in one minute. One minute, I’m telling you. It’s for the remote possibility of that minute that we stay in business.”
“But, Mr. Cohen, when Salome drops the seventh veil, will she be nude?”
“Mr. Cohen, you got a silver platter in there?”
“Hoo boy!”
After reiterating that the media was banned, at Salome’s request, Spike went back inside.
“Nothing here,” a reporter grumbled. The others agreed.
Meanwhile, Ellen Cherry was locked into fast-forward, moving like a slapstick character in a silent film. Orders for food and drink were buffeting her like the surf at Drowned Waitress Beach. In her career in food service, she had never worked at quite that pace.
“Jesus!” she exclaimed. “If this keeps up, I’ll be medical waste by the end of the day. They’ll just shovel me into that incinerator out back of Bellevue.”
For better or for worse, it would not keep up. In fact, Ellen Cherry was to discover that while fans in the courtyard would continue to munch and swill throughout the Super Bowl, appetites indoors would taper off dramatically. Once the first veil had fallen, hardly anyone called for anything, except mercy.
At 2:54, there was a roar out on United Nations Plaza, causing the revelers in the I & I to suddenly stiffen and crane their necks. There was a certain amount of concomitant spillage. It sounded like a ruckus out there. The dining room, conversely, was silent and edgy. At 2:55, the front door was flung open by a security guard, and the word “koksaghyz” was coughed into the restaurant, followed by the word “megakaryoblast.”
That’s how they looked, Salome and her chaperon: like strange words on a road sign or a page that a reader could only wonder at but hardly define or pronounce. Many in the I & I thumbed hastily through the pocket dictionaries of their life’s experience, searching for meanings to which they might relate. But would “koksaghyz” seem any less exotic once one learned it was a dandelion of Central Asia? And to be informed that a “megakaryoblast” was simply an immature megakaryocyte was not much help at all. Better, perhaps, to take the words at face value, to let the senses deal with them, or the tip of the spine. The rational mind just got in the way. Besides, a better word for the chaperon, throwing her elbows and swinging her dog coffin of a purse, may have been “ducatoon.” At least “ducatoon” was evocative of her waddle and her squawky aggravation.
But never mind the megakaryoblastic ducatoonish behemoth. Once she had escorted her charge to the bandstand, she vanished behind the
orchestra and was forgotten. All eyes were on the koksaghyz; tender, solitary, trembling in the smoke. And speaking of eyes, eyes were nearly all that one could see of her. Salome was so thoroughly swaddled in scarves of gauzy purple silk that only her hands, her bare feet, and her eyes were exposed. Every ring, bell, and bracelet had been removed from her extremities, and her eyes, which resembled shot glasses of warm Hershey syrup, were given over to ansoopia, which is to say, were rolled almost violently upward (think of the heavenward eyeballings of first-time sinners or the traumatic posturing of El Greco saints). She just stood there fidgeting, the ansoopial koksaghyz, fixed upon the ceiling from which the bamboo had flown, stood there wrapped like a conch-shell burrito in the purple-red dyes of Canaan/Phoenicia, stood there for several minutes, picking at her seat, regarding the fresh plaster, until at exactly 3:00 P.M., at precisely the moment that the New York kicker’s toe met the ovoid flank of the virgin football, the orchestra struck up her tune.
For the first time, Salome looked at the audience. The French undersecretary winked at her, and Shaftoe sucked in his breath. Of the faces that stared back at her, two of every three were male, and although they had chosen her over the Super Bowl, still, most were flushed with the ruddy concerns of their gender: concerns of possession, profit, and conquest. Salome turned slowly to the mural, where a more lunar sensibility was represented: a loose poetic text of seasons and renewal. Imperceptible to the audience, she emitted a soft, low howl. She rattled her tambourine.
Then, she danced.
