The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 40)

CHAPTER 40:

TESTES-MONY

A fizzing sound, a muffled thunderclap, a cloud of smoke and there was Ka’b crouching in front of the door, his hands thrown up in front of his face desperately trying to protect his eyes from the bite of Wheatley’s one-hundred percent Mujahideen pizzle-whip! “Stop! Stop!” he cried. “It’s me—Ka’b!”

Wheatley let her whip trail to the floor. “Ka’b?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here on business!” cried Ka’b. “Put away the buggy whip!”

“Buggy whip?” said Wheatley. “You call this a buggy whip?” Suddenly she was angry. “ I’ll show you what a buggy whip is!” She flicked the lash at the old man’s toes.

Ka’b looked helplessly at Piffy. “Make her stop or I’m going home!” he wailed.

Wheatley glared at the little old man. “This is not a buggy whip!” she said. “It’s a genuine one-hundred-percent Mujahideen-pizzle whip made from the carefully selected pizzles of dead Mujahideen. Do you know how much craftsmanship goes into the making of these things? Do you know how much drying and salting it takes? Plenty, I’ll tell you! And you call it buggy whip? Hah!”

Ka’b winced. “Okay, okay!” he said. “It’s whatever you say it is! I wouldn’t know a Mujahideen’s pizzle from a goat’s corpus cavernosum.”

Wheatley coiled her whip and attached it to her belt. “There’s not much difference, Methuselah,” she said, “except a goat’s pizzle smells better.” She was enjoying herself.

Piffy shook his head sadly. He’d been afraid that something like this would happen.

Ka’b stepped away from the door. There was a gash on his cheek and his robe was in shreds; one sleeve was hanging by a thread and there was a gap in the southern hemisphere that was exposing more of his lunar landscape than he would have liked.

“You should have knocked,” said Piffy.

“I did,” said Ka’b. “Nobody answered.”

“We were having a disagreement,” said Wheatley.

“I guessed that,” said Ka’b. “I could hear you from the elevator.”

“The elevator?” said Wheatley. “Since when does your kind use an elevator?”

Ka’b did not deign to answer. He rearranged the folds of his robe to preserve a modicum of decency. He glanced round the apartment; eyed the dog in the birdcage. “Well,” he said, “isn’t somebody going to tell me what the argument was about?”

Piffy sighed. “Wheatley wants to sneak me into the Madrassas on the back of a donkey stuffed in an empty jar of cooking oil,” he said.

“On the back of a donkey?” said Ka’b.

“Yes,” said Piffy.

“The equus africanus asinus?” said Ka’b.

“Yes,” said Piffy.

Ka’b nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s too late now,” he said, “but you should chosen a mule. They are stronger and more reliable than donkeys. And they don’t smell as bad and they are easier to keep clean. As for the cooking oil, if you buy it wholesale and sell it at ten percent above the market price you should make a tidy little profit.”

“I expect to,” said Wheatley.

“A profit?” said Piffy. “What is this…Wall Street Week in Review? I ask a simple question and I get Louis Rukeyser?”

“One must get by in this mercenary world,” said Ka’b.

“It wouldn’t be so mercenary if there weren’t so many people trying to get by,” said Piffy.

“Your point is well taken,” said Ka’b. He fiddled with the gap in his robe “But I was not summoned here to decide the great economic questions of the 21^st Century—I am here to turn a muddle-headed middle-aged man into a ten-year-old boy.” He looked at Piffy. “I trust you are ready?”

“This I’ve got to see,” smirked Wheatley.

“You will have to forgive me for being hasty,” said Ka’b. “I do not like to perform these transformations. They are contrary to human nature. I try to get them over with as quickly as possible.” Once again he looked at Piffy. “So…if you are ready…”

“I’m ready,” said Piffy. “And the quicker the better.” He put his hand on Ka’b ‘s chest.

Wheatley W. Wheatley snickered. “That isn’t where you put your hand, kid,” she said.

“I am sure the gentleman knows the procedure,” said Ka’b. And he raised his robe to the required height.

Piffy winced. Something curdled in his stomach. What had he been thinking? Ka’b wasn’t Asma bint Marwan of the sturdy thighs and the bounteous breasts; he was a father figure, a patriarch—a man! He differed anatomically from bint Marwan. It wouldn’t be a bounteous breast that he would have to caress, to grab hold of! It would have to be a…

Oh, Jeez! He swallowed nervously. He remembered the people in the Bible reaching under Abraham’s robe to make testimony. Yeah! Testes-mony! He would have to put his hand down there—

Yuck! It would be disgusting! It would be like reaching into a prairie dog hole full of snakes, into a clogged garbage disposal full of rotting fish, into the mind of Anderson Cooper or Ed Schultz! For a moment he was ready to call the whole thing off. The anguish must have shown on his face.

But there was Aisha…his darling little Aisha…he must do this for Aisha…

“Don’t worry,” said Ka’b. “It will be over before you know it. You won’t feel a thing. You will retain your current mental faculties, such as they are, and your knowledge base, the history of who you are and what you are, will be intact to the present time, but you will be blessed or cursed with the body you had when you were ten years old.”

Piffy sighed. He reached under Ka’b’s robe. What would Grandma Piffy say if she could see him now? Worse, what would she think? She would probably shake her head and read something from the Bible

Yeah…sure…maybe…what did the good book say?

“Put your hand under my thigh, and I will make you swear by the Lord…”

He hoped Aisha would appreciate what he was doing for her though he would never be able to tell her about it. How could he? How could he tell her anything? How could he tell anybody anything?

He began counting…one, two…he was familiar with the ritual…he had done it how many times now? He couldn’t remember. He reached ten before he realized it.

At first he didn’t feel any different. Then he noticed that instead of looking down at Ka’b he was staring him straight in the eye and Wheatley W. Wheatley looked monstrous, all breasts and thighs, a huge black slouch hat casting fearful shadows over her colorless face.

He glanced in the mirror. He wasn’t a bad looking kid—really. He could have passed for Carl Alfalfa Switzer minus the cowlick. But he was so small, so frail; so vulnerable! He wouldn’t stand a chance against the Ahmads and the Saids. It wouldn’t be easy out there.

Ka’b adjusted his robes. “You can understand why I am loath to perform these little makeovers in the streets of an Islamic city,” he said. “They frown on such activities.”

“You haven’t been where I’ve been,” smirked Wheatley. “The Imams and the Mullahs all have their little girly boys stuffed away in a mosque basement somewhere. Paradise is full of youths of perpetual freshness. Too many Muslim men are men without women and they behave like men without women…there is more than enough buggery in Gaza to go around. You take your average Muslim teenager, stuff his head full of the Qur’an, let him surf the Internet for a couple of months and you’ve got the makings of a first class sexist chauvinist pig with a penchant for little boys.”

Ka’b did not like such language. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I have business elsewhere.”

”Rap next time,” said Wheatley. “It will be healthier.” She turned to Piffy. “Come on, kid. We have to make arrangements with Duldul. He will be in charge of the donkey. A lot depends on him.”

“Duldul?” said Ka’b. “Wasn’t that the name of Muhammad’s first mule?”

“So?” said Wheatley.

Ka’b shook his head. “It’s a bad omen,” he said.

“You’re a bad omen,” said Wheatley.

“Yes, aren’t we all,” said Ka’b. He gathered his robe about him as best he could, took up his umbrella and not wanting to risk the nitrogen-sucking explosion that might result should he use the bumbershoot to expedite his return to the Elysian Fields, he left through the door.

Wheatley watched the little man’s every move. When he was gone she shook her head in amusement. “Isn’t he the odd duck,” she said.

Odd duck, thought Piffy? If Ka’b was an odd duck then what was Wheatley with her enormous slouch hat, her black clothes and her whip if not a misalliance between an old Charles Addams cartoon and a Dogpatch nightmare? She was scarier than Vampira and more threatening than Elsa Lancaster in the Bride of Frankenstein. He would have said something but he was only ten years old and he wanted to stay on the good side of the only ally he had in all of Gaza City.

“Well, kid,” she said, “let’s go through this thing one more time.”

Of course one more time wasn’t anywhere near enough. Wheatley was a perfectionist and a stern taskmaster. They rehearsed and they rehearsed and then they rehearsed again. They went over everything that could happen on the way to the Madrassas, everything that might happen in the Madrassas, how Aisha was to be rescued, the escape, where they would go, what they would wear, the people they were to contact, right down to what Piffy was to order in the restaurant in Cairo where he would meet Ka’b and be transubstantiated into the adult Bernard Piffy. It was exhausting.

And then it was time to go and Wheatley donned her burka. That’s right—her burka! She was as tough as a ten-penny nail soaked in vinegar but she wasn’t crazy. The life expectancy of women that wore huge black slouch hats and carried bullwhips and exposed more breast than Yasmin Fostok in a pole dance had not been tested in the Middle East but the general consensus was that it would be short and violent.

Piffy took one last look in the mirror. He tugged his Kufi beanie over his head. He was ready.

So was Wheatley. She grinned. “Let’s go, kid!” she said.

Piffy picked up the cage with puppy dog.

“You’re taking the mutt with you?” she asked

“Of course,” said Piffy. “He’s the only protection I’ve got.”

“You’re crazy, kid,” she said. “You’re crazy.”

But it was too late to argue.

They moved silently through the dark alleys of Gaza. Duldul was waiting for them at Donkeys Are Us Sales and Services. The street was deserted. The entire area smelled of donkey sweat.

Duldul was smiling. The donkey’s name was Condoleezza, he said, and the two fifty-gallon jars were already strapped to Condi’s back.

Piffy could see that—he wasn’t blind. He eyed Duldul suspiciously. He remembered Ka’b’s warning and he did not like the looks of this fellow. He was short, squat and ugly and he had a droopy eyelid. He had a sudden vision of Jack Elam sneaking up on John Wayne with a foot-and-a-half long Bowie knife. He wanted to yell, “Look out, Duke!” and then he remembered that in his current embodiment he was the Duke, albeit a ten-year-old Duke. He shuddered. This was scarier than he had anticipated.

Duldul winked at ten-year-old—he even winked like Jack Elam. Piffy swallowed nervously. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Nice looking kid you got here,” Duldul said to Wheatley. “And the right size too; he will be a perfect fit.”

Piffy eyed the fifty-gallon jar. “How do I get in that darn thing?” he asked.

Duldul produced a small ladder and while Wheatley removed the lid from the jar, Piffy set puppy dog on the ground and climbed up on the ladder. It was awkward—everything tilted, first one way and then the other and Condoleezza refused to remain perfectly still—but with the help of Duldul and Wheatley, Piffy managed to slide into the container and scrunch himself into a fetal position.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. “It stinks in here,” he said.

“They all stink,” said Duldul, “but I got something to take care of that.” He reached into his pocket, produced a white pellet and dropped it into the jar. It hit the bottom and broke and a sweet smell was soon rising up the sides of the container.

“Hey! Wait a minute—“ said Piffy. “I forgot puppy dog!” He started up from his fetal position, but Duldul pushed him back down.

“Chauncey didn’t say anything about a dog, Kuffar swine,” he hissed and the lid came down, was locked securely in place and Piffy was sealed inside.

Just like that!

“Chauncey?” mumbled Piffy.

Somebody said “Bon voyage.” It must have been Wheatley.

The ten-year-old was puzzled. Chauncey? Was Chauncey here? How could that be? His nose had started to run. He didn’t like it a one damn bit! Something was wrong! His throat was as dry as dust and the sweet smell had become a sickening stench. He swallowed.

He was getting sleepy…incredibly sleepy. But how could that be…he was too scared to be sleepy…he was like Opie Taylor alone at home watching a Frankenstein movie at two o’clock in the morning! Yet he could scarcely keep his eyes open! If he wasn’t careful he would fall asleep…lose consciousness…

He tried moving his arms but there wasn’t enough room for him to do much of anything…he couldn’t even pry at the lid…damn!

Then it dawned on him…they had put one over on him! Ka’b had said Duldul was a bad omen…Duldul…Chauncey…the Kharma With Darma Show…Good Grief! He was going to die! Yes, that’s what was going to happen…he was going to die…what a schmuck he had been…he would get Wheatley for this…it was her fault…but he was so sleepy…so sleepy…so damn sleepy…and it was getting hard to breathe…damn them…damn them…

Damn…them…all…to …hell…

Wheatley watched as Duldul led Condoleezza down the street and around the corner. “What a crazy kid,” she said. “He’s going to get himself killed one of these days.”