When he came back, he flopped on the couch, leaned back, took a big swallow of his beer and began his report. “We went to see the new Virtual John Wayne film. I found that to be quite an exhilarating experience.”
“Yeah?” Thomas prodded. “Anything else exhilarating happen on your date?”
“You would consider the majority of the events as pretty tame. At times it felt a little awkward. You know how first dates can be.”
Thomas seemed unconvinced. “The old, getting-to-know-you routine, huh? Sometimes that can be okay and sometimes it can be a real croc. Which was it, Horace? A croc? C’mon tell me the hissss-tory of your tame, uneventful date. Go ahead, Horace, rattle it off.”
“So, she called?” Horace asked.
“Yep.”
“What did she say?”
“I’d like to hear your side of the story,” Thomas said. He set his beer on the table next to his recliner and crossed his arms in front of his chest. On his face he wore a smug, expectant expression.
After listening to the whole story without interrupting, Thomas got up to get them both another beer. From the kitchen he said, “That’s a pretty weird first date, Mister Crocodile Dundee. Kinda hard to believe, but it parallels what Jeanne said.”
Before easing into his chair, Thomas handed Horace a second bottle of Samuel Adams and stared at him. “So, what is it with you, man? I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time, what are you doing in this country? Why are you studying at MIT?”
“I am unsure, Thomas. All I know is...and I should not tell this to anyone, so please, do not mention this to Jeanne — I am expected to return Egypt to its former glory. I’m supposed to be some kind of messiah.”
“You’re supposed to be a messiah? Okay,” Thomas agreed, his voice thick with sarcasm. “And my dad wants me to run for president, someday. Parents always have these unrealistic expectations...”
“I have never met my parents. I do not know who they are, or where they might be. I do not know if they are alive or dead. I have been instructed to graduate at the top of my class and then I’m to return to Egypt before I lose my virginity.”
That got Thomas’s attention. His eyebrows arched. “Let me get this straight, Horace. You’re supposed to graduate with honors and totally avoid nookie?”
Horace stared down at his beer, embarrassed. “Yes.”
“As long as you study your ass off, I can’t think of any reason you wouldn’t be able to achieve both goals, no problem.” Thomas continued, “Just be sure to take each of your dates to the zoo, especially the reptile section.”
Horace looked up again, obviously annoyed. “Here I am, telling you my deepest secrets, and you—”
“Yeah, Yeah, I know. I’m not being a very good friend, am I? I’m sorry man. But hey, maybe they have a real hottie waiting for you back home and they don’t want you bringing any American cooties home to your Egyptian cutie, huh? What do you think?”
“I have never given it any thought, to be honest, but what am I to do if Jeanne Mosley...”
“I wouldn’t worry about that after today,” Thomas said.
“Did she say anything?” Horace asked. “Anything about being physically repulsed by what happened?”
“No way,” Thomas assured his friend. “She wouldn’t do that. Jeanne’s too kind. But still...”
“Still what?”
“I wouldn’t bet the pyramids on making her your ‘Desert Rose’.”
“Does she tell you everything?” Horace asked.
“Yeah, pretty much. So get over it, guy. She ain’t the only star twinkling in the night sky, you know.”
Horace looked down and shook his head. “But the sky at night will never look as good without her.”
Thomas waved his hand dismissively. “Forget about it, will ya? Let’s concentrate on finding someone else who might be interested in your big dipper.”
~~~
Horace couldn’t forget about it. The next morning he called Jeanne at seven.
“Hello?”
“Good morning Jeanne, did I awaken you?”
“Horace, what time is it?”
“Time for breakfast. I have fresh croissants and Starbucks Guatemala Antigua coffee waiting for you.”
“Where are you, Horace?”
“I am standing outside your door. If you would be so kind as to open it, I would be happy to share this delicious treat with you. I also have your newspaper.”
“Horace, I’m not dressed, my hair is a mess, I can’t—”
“I can wait while you brush your teeth and make yourself presentable, but the coffee is getting cold.”
Moments later the door cracked open. As he stepped in, Horace caught a glimpse of Jeanne. Holding a pink terrycloth robe around her, she padded down her hallway in bare feet. “Go sit at the table while I pull myself together. We can stick the coffee in the microwave.”
Horace shut the door, placed the newspaper on the table, and sat down. He waited patiently, his hands folded on the table in front of him. Pleased that Jeanne did not act repulsed by his presence, he asked, “Are you happy to see me, Jeanne Mosley?”
“Yeah, just thrilled, Horace,” came the sarcastic answer from the bathroom. “Absolutely, totally thrilled. I’m all into spontaneity, you know. But next time, would you mind giving me a little warning. Like, five minutes woulda been nice.”
“Yes, yes, I will make a note of that. Next time I will be sure to give you five minutes. What time do you normally wake up?”
“Depends on whether I have a class, how late I was up, and how much I had to drink the previous night. Now, read the paper or watch TV while I get ready.”
Horace refrained from speaking while he heard the whirring sound of an electric toothbrush, followed by the sound of gargling. A few moments later he heard a toilet flush. After unwrapping the newspaper, Horace gazed at the front page headlines, one of which he thought Jeanne would appreciate.
Speaking loud enough to be heard through the bathroom’s closed door, he said, “It says on the front page that the Red Sox have agreed to a contract committing them to play at least another twenty years in Fenway Park. I suppose that will make Thomas, Ambassador Franklin, and Vice President Gillpatrick happy.”
“It makes me happy too,” Jeanne shouted. The bathroom door clicked open, and she came around the corner. She had brushed her black hair and donned a Boston Red Sox uniform top that hung to mid-thigh, covering her gray cotton shorts.
Jeanne placed the Starbucks cups in the microwave. “To what do I owe the honor of this early morning visit, Horace?”
“Did you not say it would be okay for me to call? I can leave and come back later.”
“No, silly.” She pushed the start button on the microwave. “You’re here. You might as well stay.” She reached into a cabinet for a couple of paper plates.
When the microwave beeped, Jeanne removed the cups and replaced them with the two large croissants, wrapped in a paper towel.
Chiding her heating method, Horace wagged his index finger. “Those would be better toasted in the oven.”
“Yesterday you were a florist, now you’re a chef? Maybe so, but it takes too long for the oven to heat up.”
Horace shook his head. “You Americans — always in a rush. Historians of the future will note that we Egyptians made pyramids. You made fast food.”
“And, let’s not forget a place where all men are created equal to pursue their dreams.” Jeanne removed the croissants from the microwave and brought them to the table before going back for the coffee. “Oops, one more thing,” she said, as she set the Starbucks cups down. She returned to the kitchen, grabbed a jar of strawberry jam and the ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’ spray, and returned to finally enjoy her breakfast.
“Mmmm. Oh, yeah,” she said, closing her eyes as she relished her first sip of coffee. “Almost worth waking up for.” After a big yawn, she opened her eyes again. “Why did you come over this early?”
“
I have been up for hours this morning, Jeanne. There are rituals that I have been taught by the lector priests who have instructed me. Magic is best performed in the morning, you know.”
“Magic?” Jeanne inquired, her mouth filled with a bite of her croissant. She raised a hand to cover her mouth as she commented, “A florist, a chef, and now you’re a magician? What can’t you do?”
“I am neither experienced nor knowledgeable in many subjects. After speaking with Thomas last night, I realized how awkward I am at the sensitive art of love. I feared your reaction—”
“There you go again, Horace. You’re so quick to criticize the American people for being in a hurry, but,” she gazed up at the ceiling. “Oh brother, how do I say this without hurting your feelings, Mister Sensitive Artist?”
Jeanne leaned back in her seat and chewed her bottom lip. “If you must think of this as art, then think of it this way.” She leaned forward again and clasped her hands. “Great art, and love, can’t be rushed. When he painted the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling, do you think Leonardo Da Vinci worried more about how fast he could finish, or how good it would look?”
“But Jeanne, you do not understand. While I do not condone haste, in this case I am bound by inflexible time constraints. After I graduate in May, I am expected to leave the United States.”
“So? How does that apply to us?”
Horace reached out to squeeze her hand. “I want you to return with me to Egypt.”
Chapter Six
His face a portrait of skepticism, Thomas squinted at his watch-phone. “C’mon, Jeanne, you’re making that up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Maybe Horace implied it to see how you’d react, but he didn’t come right out and say it, did he?”
“You’ve never seen such a naive, love-struck expression. He held my hand, stared at me with those big, golden-brown eyes, and said, ‘I want you to return with me to Egypt.’”
“Do you need me to help you pack?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Well, what did you say?”
“I told him no...kinda.”
“Kinda?”
“I got flustered when he touched my hand. It felt like — I don’t know, something came over me.”
“You could have said you’re in your junior year and have to finish school. Or, your mom needs you to come home this summer, since your dad isn’t around to help out. You might have...” Thomas stopped. “He didn’t ask you to marry him, did he?”
“No. But it sure felt like a proposal. Oh my God, he’s in love with me. What am I gonna do?”
“Have babies with big brown eyes and big noses?” Thomas chuckled.
Following a moment of frigid silence, Jeanne said, “Normally your sarcasm strikes me as pretty funny...”
“Hey, they might not inherit his nose. Maybe they’ll just be tall.”
“Thomas? Are you going to help me, or not?”
“He’s got big ears, too.”
“Aaargh!”
“All the better to hear you with, my dear, if you decide to bid him bon voyage.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why not?” Thomas probed. “Do you secretly want to go and can’t admit it?”
“No. Uh, maybe a little. Ohhh, I feel like I’m being pulled in two directions at once. I have to think.”
“Jeanne? What is there to think about?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I have to think about it, or what there is to think about, but I still have to think.”
~~~
With Christmas less than two weeks away, war appeared inevitable. Rather than peace on Earth, each newscast included live coverage from the Middle East of missiles being launched and fires burning out of control. Israeli and Palestinian attacks and counter attacks threatened to trigger a major confrontation.
Portions of Russia aligned with the Arabic nations supporting Palestine’s attempts to annex land occupied by the Israelis. As fighting escalated, Egypt and Jordan informed visiting Israeli citizens, ambassadors, and government officials that their safety could no longer be guaranteed.
Sitting on the couch in Jeanne’s apartment, Horace watched the latest interview with Vice President Gillpatrick, who continued to gain support in his quest to become the next American president. While he watched, Horace engaged in an animated phone conversation with those that funded his stay in the U. S. He gestured at the image of the vice president on the thin, plasma TV and spoke in his native tongue.
When Horace got off the phone, Jeanne set a tray of Fritos and cheese dip down on the coffee table in front of the couch and glanced at the TV. “Hey isn’t that big, blonde guy one of the secret service agents that protected the vice president at the Franklin house for Thanksgiving?”
“Yes, it is. I believe that is Agent Paul Collins. He allowed me to speak with the vice president and Ambassador Franklin after my little faux pas.” Horace scooped up some cheese dip with a chip and popped it into his mouth. After a few chews, he continued. “Collins will protect the vice president throughout the presidential campaign and perhaps for his entire tenure in the White House, should Gillpatrick be elected.”
“How would you know that?” Jeanne asked, and waited while Horace wolfed down another chip and chased it with a swallow of Coke.
“Perhaps I saw it in a documentary on cable, or in a movie. I believe they encourage familiarity so that the agents and those they protect will feel more comfortable and committed.”
He tossed another chip into his mouth, chewed a few times and picked up the micro-DVD from the coffee table next to the tray. Examining the tiny, jewel case for the movie, he changed the subject. “Jeanne, speaking of movies, who is this Chevy Chase, you and Thomas say is so funny? And what makes this movie, Christmas Vacation, so special?”
“It’s special because my dad and I loved it,” she replied. “At Christmas, my dad acted like Clark Griswold, that’s the guy Chevy Chase plays. Each Christmas he’d put up enough lights on our house to guide astronauts back to Earth from Mars.” Her voice filled with emotion and began to tremble. “Dad died in a car wreck a week before Christmas during my freshman year. He went out to get another string of lights, and the roads were icy...”
Her words trailed off as the emotions triggered by the memory became too painful. With her eyes glistening, she reached down to grab a napkin from the tray and turned away, walking back to the kitchen to hide her tears.
Horace got up from the couch, came up behind her, and squeezed her shoulders. “I didn’t even know your father died, Jeanne. You never told me.”
Jeanne spun around and stepped back from the arms that reached for her. “You never ask anything about my family, Horace. All you ever do is study, go to your stupid kung-fu or karate classes, worry about the Middle East, and try to impress me. You don’t seem to care about my past — about who I really am.”
She crossed the room and reached out to touch a delicate silver ball dangling from a branch on her Christmas tree. “If I went with you to Egypt, I’d be nothing more than an ornament you’d unpack and put on display for special occasions.” She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose into the napkin.
Befuddled, Horace held his massive hands out. “What is going on?” he pleaded.
“I don’t know. It’s like I’ve been on some mood-altering drug ever since the morning you brought those croissants. I’ve been waiting on you like a Stepford wife the past two weeks. But a few moments ago, when I started thinking about my dad, I felt like I woke up.”
Although her eyes were still wet, the sadness in them transformed into fiery resolve. She shook her index finger as her voice rose. “I’m not one of your subjects, Horace. I’m not your loyal subject or your slave!”
Bang, bang, bang.
To Horace, the pounding on the door felt like a reprieve from the gods. Thomas appeared in the doorway, singing the theme from Christmas Vacation. “It’s that time, Christmas time is here. Everybody knows there’s not a
better time of year...”
Stepping in out of the cold, Thomas stopped singing. His eyes darted back and forth between Jeanne and Horace. “Hey,” he said. “I brought the popcorn. Did you guys start the movie without me? ‘Cause it looks like you’ve really been yucking it up.”
~~~
Later that night, in the privacy of his own apartment, Horace stared at the 65 inch plasma monitor that hung on the wall in front of his work station. In the screen’s center, three men with shaven heads sat in ornate, gilded chairs that could have passed for thrones. Wearing long, gold-trimmed purple robes, they listened as their star pupil explained why he had requested this video conference.
“I have cast a simple spell that seems to have failed.” Hoping to conceal the depth of his emotions, Horace tried to project a casual profile. He raised a can of Coke to his lips, took a sip, and set it back down.
The central figure on the monitor bowed. In a gravelly voice he asked, “What circumstance necessitates this spell, Khenemetankh?”
“I seek to gain favor with a professor at MIT. She exhibits a predilection towards disgracing non-American students. I fear my grades could suffer if I am unable to exert my influence.”
The priest on the far right leaned towards the one in the middle and whispered something into his ear. The middle priest nodded and leaned to the priest on the left. When the three reached an accord, they faced the camera again.
The priest in the middle rubbed his chin. “This woman, in your opinion, did she seem to be under significant stress? Did this ‘professor’ exhibit an emotional outburst associated with someone she cared for when your Heka lost its power?”
“Yes,” Horace answered. “Indeed. She spoke of her father’s death, after which she proceeded to lose her temper with me for no explicable reason.”
Again, the three priests conferred, leaning forward now and then to stare at the image of their pupil. At last, the priest on the right spoke up. Though weakened by age, his thin, crackly voice remained full of conviction. “A strong emotional outburst, such as the one you have described, can break a poorly-cast spell. We shall work with you, my Lord, to improve your spell-casting skills, but you should know that we are aware of your deception.”
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 5
