Mumbo Jumbo

by Ishmael Reed

  What’s troubling you, Peter?

  Well Charlotte, in order to understand you must realize that before I joined your act I had a past. Before becoming a familiar adhesive to you, your insurance, the electric blanket which covers the long winter nights of your act, my sperm really got around.

  Get to the point Peter, the heart of the matter.

  Charlotte, it’s not that I don’t think we’re a good team. With my struts, grinds, and shuffles and your torch and palmistry we are going a long way. I received the Craw Tickler of the Year award from the Drama critics; and millionaires call on you for you to teach them dilute dances of The Work. Why, all the Fat Cats, Swells, and S.O.B.s out on Manhattan’s Milky Way catch our act. I am the best Pick on the T.O.B.A., better than Sophie Tucker’s Picks, or Gussie Francis’ Picks. Why, the other Picks call me a Pick’s Pick, thus my name Doctor Peter Pick…

  Peter please, what’s the matter? Charlotte asks, seeing tears well in the little fellow’s light-brown eyes.

  Charlotte, I have been all kinds of Picks to you. I’ve been your Sore Pick your Happy Pick your Vicious Pick. I have made stage love to you as well as made denigrating remarks regarding your morals and your anatomy in the presence of bankers with diamond stickpins on their chests, Rotarians, and visiting knights. Why, we leave them in the aisles, Charlotte. But Charlotte, I think that we ought to turn the act around. Stand it on its head. Upside-down the Plantation.

  How’s that, Peter?

  Why don’t you conjure me and go through the motions of putting me down. The Angel will pass and he will be of no assistance. The demon will also pass and he too will be of no help. Then you whisper into my ear, I read the words and then you disappear. And for those who missed the first act we can have a summary of the preceding show done in the beginning, as they do on the serials…

  You certainly keep up, Peter. Why, I think that’s a wonderful idea.

  You mean you like it?

  Of course Peter, we will begin tonight.

  O thank you Charlotte…

  And wait here. Charlotte goes into the bedroom and returns with a tattered little blue-covered book.

  This is PaPa LaBas’ Blue Back: A Speller, required reading at Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral. Perhaps there’s something that you can use when sending me back to make it appear more convincing.

  O thank you Charlotte! You know I always wanted to be a choreographer but with Jes Grew about no one would heed my labanotations. Maybe Stagecraft will be a new career for me. Perhaps it is easier to switch the conflicts about than educate the masses to a new melody.

  Peter, you do have a gift.

  Let’s drink to our new act, Charlotte.

  Upon Charlotte’s call the maid enters the room.

  O there you are, Suzie Mae. Would you please serve Doctor Peter Pick another drink.

  The Irish maid, who ain’t been in the country long enough to learn good English, replies in her semiliterate manner. Why natural, Miss Charlotte. Natural.

  S.R.: UPON HEARING ETHEL WATERS SING “THAT DA-DA-STRAIN” AND A JAZZ BAND PLAY “PAPA DE-DA-DA” EUROPEAN PAINTERS TAKE JES GREW ABROAD. IT HAS BECOME WHAT THE WALLFLOWER ORDER FEARED: PANDEMIC. AT HOME, YOUNG PEOPLE CHEER THE BAYERDOFFER DEVILS WHO’VE CHALLENGED GRAND OPERA TO A DUEL AT THE METROPOLITAN THEATER IN LOS ANGELES… THOUSANDS BOO VERDI’S TRIUMPH AS A HOMETOWN DECISION… THE LOOTING CONTINUES UNTIL DAWN… WORLD-WIDE MU’TAFIKAH GIVE JES GREW ENCOURAGEMENT BY PUTTING IT UP TAKING IT IN AND HIDING IT OUT… ON WALL STREET SAXOPHONES MAKE A STRONG RALLY WHILE VIOLINS ARE DOWN. THE BALLET LINGERS ON DEATH ROW AND… THIS JUST IN! OUTBREAKS OF JES GREW 60 MILES FROM NEW YORK CITY. 30,000 CASES REPORTED INCLUDING COWS, CHICKENS, SHEEP AND HORSES, DISPROVING SPECULATIONS THAT ITS EFFECTS ARE CONFINED TO THE HUMAN SPECIES. EVEN THE SAP IN THE MAPLE TREES MOVES NASTY. LOCAL CHURCHES SCHEDULE LAST-MINUTE MIDNIGHT SERVICES TO INDULGE IN PRAYERFUL ANTIDOTES AGAINST THE PLAGUE. Mary Lou Williams composed a “Roman Catholic Jazz Mass” while outside in the rain, on the night of the performance, J.G.C.s chanted, “Mary Lou, Mary Lou, what’s wrong with you?”—I.R.)

  29

  THERE IS A KNOCK at the Mu’tafìkah basement door. A husky Black man of about 45 with folds in a hanging jaw accompanied by 2 others of similar physical mold enters the basement headquarters. He wears a camelhair overcoat; black kid gloves and light-colored snap brim hat with a creased top and narrow black pointed-toe shoes covered with arabesque pattern.

  His eyes wander about the ceiling. He then stares straight ahead at the people working at the tables. Packing masks, wood sculpture and other amulets.

  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.”

  30

  HARD-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 di
d 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…