Shifting his position in an attempt to stretch the long legs that carried his six-and-a-half foot frame, Horace asked, “Was it true about the curse? I have read that Boston did not win a World Series from the time their owner, Harry Frazee, sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees in 1919 until the full moon turned blood red during game four of the 2004 series.” Horace’s eyes shone with fascination. “There were bizarre rumors of animal sacrifices made in Hawthorne by Red Sox players and fans at the foot of Babe Ruth’s grave.”
“Curse shmurse,” Thomas replied. “There ain’t no such thing and there weren’t any damned sacrifices. That was all hype and coincidence, includin’ the eclipse of the moon.”
“Do you not think it odd,” Horace persisted, “that your Red Sox won three championships in this same park between 1912 and 1918 and never won another championship in that entire century?”
“Oh, been doing some real boning up on the Sox have ya?” Although he sounded a little annoyed, amusement crept across Thomas’s face. “I might’ve known you’d get into that ‘Curse of the Bambino’ crapola.”
“Call it what you will, Thomas Franklin, but I assure you there are things in this world which cannot be explained by pure science and logic. In my country, to dispute such things is to invite catastrophe. We learn from what was and accept what is without the cynicism that is so prevalent in the western world. The magic of the Egyptian high priests is well documented in your Bible, I believe. Moses appeared in the court —”
“Yeah, yeah, I saw The Ten Commandments,” Thomas interrupted. “So let it be written, so let it be done, blah, blah, blah. And what’s this ‘your Bible’ stuff? It ain’t my Bible. I never wrote a single verse. Personally, I don’t buy any of that mumbo jumbo about the parting of the Red Sea. Now, if it ain’t asking too much, why don’t ya just try to enjoy America’s greatest contribution to the world of sports?”
Horace wanted to ask about the girl named Jeanne who Thomas had mentioned, but his plans were interrupted as everyone in the stadium rose for the National Anthem. His keen eyes panned across thousands of fans from every walk of life, transformed into a unified group with a single purpose.
He had read the history books. He understood the nuances of this democratic society, but he hadn’t personally experienced the principles of the American dream—life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness—embraced by such a large throng in one venue. He could feel the solidarity, the pride, the sense of belonging to something important. The fans gathered for this event believed that their ancestors, and now they, were a part of the greatest nation on the Earth.
Since arriving on these shores, many things about America had impressed Horace, but this patriotic display etched itself forever in his memory. Appreciating the experience as only a foreigner could, Horace listened as the gathered throng sang about ancient warriors inspired at dawn by the sight of their country’s flag. These people have heard this song a thousand times, yet they sing it now as if they were going into battle. This is what I want for Egypt, Horace thought.
Spellbound, the towering Egyptian remained standing even after the umpire yelled, “Play ball!” Behind him, a fan broke the spell, shouting, “Hey, Goliath, how about sittin’ down so’s the rest of us can see?”
As the leadoff hitter for the Yankees tapped his cleats and headed for the batter’s box, Horace squeezed into his seat and nudged Thomas in the arm. “We invented this game, you know. Over 3,000 years before the first documented proof of baseball being played in Pittsfield, in 1791. I admit it may not have been exactly the same, but the similarities are amazing. We called it “Batting the Ball.” Raising his cup, as if to offer a toast, he continued, “During those games, we consumed large quantities of Heneket, which you now refer to as beer.”
Thomas opened his mouth to take a bite of his mustard-laden hot dog, but stopped long enough to say, “You sure the name of that game wasn’t Breakin’ Your Balls? I mean c’mon Horace, every time I tell or show you something good about this country, you always gotta one-up me with something to prove Egypt is or was better. Next thing you’ll tell me is Egypt invented the hot dog!”
Horace leaned towards Thomas, eager to reply, but Thomas stopped him. Like a cop on a Boston street corner halting traffic, he held his hand palm out, and said, “Don’t even think about it!”
Chapter Three
In a scene that would make a perfect cover for an issue of Architectural Digest, a white, Battenberg lace tablecloth covered the long dining table. Upon it, the elegant goblets and china gleamed beneath a twinkling lead-crystal chandelier.
The sound of ocean waves breaking on the nearby shore wafted in through opened windows on this unusually temperate and sunny holiday. In the background, soft classical music played by a tuxedoed, live string quartet set the mood for the Franklin family’s Thanksgiving feast, attended by friends and colleagues of U. N. Ambassador Franklin and his wife, Sonya.
Their only son, Thomas, had been told he could invite two guests. He chose Horace and Jeanne Mosley, an attractive history major in her junior year at MIT. He and Jeanne frequently studied together. Both were baseball fans and shared a passion for the Red Sox. But, so far, to Thomas’s dismay, that was the only passion they shared.
Thomas didn’t consider himself shy, but didn’t want to risk their friendship by expressing his innermost feelings. Sometimes, however, he caught Jeanne looking at him in a way that caused him to wonder if she might not harbor similar desires.
~~~
Among the celebrities attending the Franklin’s holiday celebration was Vice President Christopher Gillpatrick, who had recently announced his candidacy for the Democratic presidential nomination. Those in-the-know speculated he would select Ambassador Franklin as his running mate.
Also on the guest list was the vice president’s identical twin brother, Senator Kevin Gillpatrick, a second term Democrat from Massachusetts. Accompanying Kevin was his lovely wife Shannon and their teenaged daughter, Chloe.
To the amazement and disappointment of the nation’s gossip columnists, Christopher had divorced six years earlier without any juicy accusations of infidelity. He and his ex simply admitted that his political responsibilites prevented him from being the kind of “stay at home” husband she envisioned when they fell in love.
The only vaguely “scandalous” story the press dug up concerned the vice president’s penchant for playing juvenile games. He owned a plastic suction dart gun, which he used to shoot unsuspecting female White House interns. Gillpatrick vigorously protested the story, insisting he shot male interns as well, and had been known to shoot President Daley.
~~~
After dinner, Horace spoke to the vice president. He infiltrated a cluster of men smoking expensive cigars and swirling snifters of brandy or cognac in one corner of the richly appointed library. Trimmed in sea foam green and furnished with maritime paintings, antiques, and salt-water aquariums, the room’s theme proclaimed the majesty and power of the oceans.
Seated in a generously padded leather chair with one leg crossed over the other, the vice president fielded a question concerning the continued dependence of the United States on foreign sources of oil. He finished with an amusing anecdote that left his audience chuckling.
At that moment, the towering young Egyptian chose to step forward. Showing respect by bending slightly forward at the waist, he said, “Mr. Vice President, I am Horace Khenemetankh, of Egypt. I am here as a guest of Thomas Franklin and his family. Respectfully sir, I submit, you must see the folly of current policies regarding the Middle East. As long as the United States blindly supports Israel, the entire block of oil-producing countries, which offer far more in the way of monetary and military assistance, will reject the majority of the initiatives you propose.”
An uncomfortable murmur rippled through the library as Horace continued. “By supporting Israel, the United States is pouring petrol on the smoldering coals of the peace process. President Daley’s strategies have done nothing more
than perpetuate the volatile situation. Isn’t it time to rethink your alliance with the Jews?”
The casual mood of those gathered about the vice president shifted. Shocked silence and expressions of surprised concern surfaced as they waited to hear his response.
Gillpatrick took a sip of cognac and smacked his lips. He waived his once illegal, hand-made Cuban cigar ceremoniously in the air, making sure he had everyone’s attention before answering in his Kennedy-esque, Hyannis port accent.
“Visiting us from the land of the Pharaohs are you? Well, young man, let me say that this great country welcomes you and your opinions. I’m sure you understand the values of friendship and loyalty. After all, you’re here today because of your association with the Franklins and their fondness for you. Horace, sometimes world affairs mirror personal relationships. You can’t simply drop an old, faithful friend to placate another acquaintance who may presently have more to offer.”
The seasoned politician rose from his chair and continued, “A long-lasting friendship between people, or countries, is something to be treasured and appreciated, not unlike the relationship between the people of Boston and Fenway Park. What a travesty it would be to do away with the history and memories of Fenway just to have something newer and bigger. To put this in terms that you can relate to, Horace, why not just bulldoze the amazing pyramids and temples of Egypt while we’re at it, eh? Today, we could build larger, more impressive structures that would mimic the old ones, couldn’t we? That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
Gillpatrick puffed on his cigar and surveyed the room, which fell so quiet the bubbling of air in the aquariums became noticeable. The blinking, wide-eyed spectators stared at the vice president, at Horace, and each other like a flock of owls until he added, “I think not.”
Relief flowed through the room, as welcome as the resumption of fresh air in an oxygen-deprived, deep sea diver’s bell helmet. A few clapped, others chuckled. The vice president’s twin, Kevin, raised his snifter of brandy and exclaimed, “That’s my brother! Did he belt that one right over the Green Monster, or what?”
~~~
Everyone in the library approved of the vice president’s answer. Everyone except Horace, who smiled and politely nodded. Outwardly he displayed what appeared to be genuine admiration. Inwardly however, he despised the way the vice president glibly sidestepped the issue.
Before he turned away from the vice president, Horace noticed two secret service agents stationed in separate corners of the room. Impervious to their scrutiny, he winked at one of the agents, signifying his awareness of their vigilance. With a polite bow, he abandoned the library, leaving the gossip mongers to their scuttlebutt.
~~~
Standing in front of a crystal punch bowl, Jeanne Mosley spied Horace returning from the library. Judging by the speed of his long strides, she suspected trouble. Horace looks upset, she thought, but couldn’t be sure. He possessed what Thomas called the ultimate poker face — as emotionless as the Sphinx. She fashioned an excuse to break away from two White House interns who were boring her to death.
A raven-haired beauty with unblemished skin as fair as finely-sanded alabaster, Jeanne glided across the room in a cloud of white chiffon and pearls. Nearing Horace, she asked, “You did it, didn’t you?”
Horace flashed a smile, projecting charm and innocence. “Did what?”
“You waited for the perfect moment, used your friendship with the Franklins to command a few moments of the vice president’s time, and then showed your true colors. You blindsided him in front of everyone with your inappropriate ‘drop the Jews’ proposal, didn’t you?” Jeanne wagged a disapproving finger. “I warned you not to do it.”
“Yes, you did, Miss Mosley, but truly, you should have been there. Why, for a moment the air became as still and quiet as Seti’s tomb. I nearly laughed out loud.”
“Well, how did he respond?” she asked, unsure as to whether she wanted to hear the answer, but knowing he would tell her.
“As you predicted,” he replied. “With all the pompous composure of a fat cat. He waved his cigar like a baton and made some convoluted analogy about the relationship between the people of Boston and Fenway Park. He never attempted to address the benefits of abandoning Israel and forming an alliance with the major oil producers.”
“Did you honestly think he would?” she asked.
They both turned towards Thomas, who approached at a fast pace, rubbing his wrinkled brow with his left hand. “I’ll be lucky if I’m ever allowed to invite anyone to another holiday affair. Horace, how could you be so insensitive? You’re my guest. I’m responsible for what you do and say! My mother,” Thomas pointed upstairs, “has gone up to her bedroom, threatening to swoon!”
“I am not sure what you have been told, Thomas Franklin,” Horace spread his arms as if professing innocence. “But let me assure you that I merely posed a question, and, I might add, in a far more respectful manner than your journalists often display.”
“That’s their job,” Jeanne stepped in front of Thomas. “They’re supposed to ask tough questions, but what you did was, well,” seeking the right word, she held her breath for a moment and then blurted out, “inexcusable!”
Horace asked, “Why do you say this, Jeanne Mosley? I merely asked a question, I assure you. I showed no disrespect. My demeanor was not one of an agitator.”
Jeanne emphasized her words by poking her index finger into his chest. “You tried to make the vice president look bad. You used Thomas to achieve your own objectives!” Her green eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t like those tactics, no matter how noble you think they are!”
She stormed off towards the stairs, then stopped and turned half-way around after mounting the first few steps. Placing one hand on the polished, cherry-wood railing, she said, “Thomas, I’m going up to check on your mother. The poor dear, she must be devastated.”
Pointing at Horace, she added, “And, by the way, you can forget about the movies this weekend!”
~~~
The two young men stood side by side as she ascended the carpeted staircase. When she reached the top, Thomas turned to Horace. “Going to the movies, were we?”
While his chiseled features usually reflected self-assurance and a stone-like portrayal of stoicism, a hint of frustration appeared on Horace’s face. “In my country,” he whispered, “insolence of that nature from a female not born of royal blood would not be tolerated.”
Looking appalled, Thomas replied, “So, maybe she is royalty. Who are you to say? And incidentally, if you haven’t figured it out, this attitude you have towards women won’t win you many points in this country. In fact, that kind of thinking could explain why your country is no longer a world leader. In this country, most of us have learned to respect people for what they can do, rather than for their sex, or the color of their skin.”
Annoyed by the lecture, Horace glared at Thomas. “If you knew your history, Thomas Franklin, you would know that ancient Egypt set the pace for all countries when it came to women’s rights. After barely a hundred years as a world leader, you Americans think you have it all figured out. When your country has existed as a major world power for more than 3,000 years, then you can preach your idealistic sermons. As for my behavior, I never intended to cause any embarrassment. I hope you know that I hold you and your family in the highest regard.” Horace sighed and glanced toward the top of the stairs. “Should I go up to see your mother and apologize?”
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea, right now. But, if you really want to make amends, you might go apologize to Vice President Gillpatrick, or find my father and let him know you’re sorry.”
Horace smiled. “In the immortal words of Rameses, according to Cecil B. Demille...” he bent forward at the waist. “‘So let it be written...’”
“Yeah, ‘So let it be done’.’” Thomas finished the quote, but sounded more than a little unsure of Horace’s intentions.
~~~
The vice president remained seated, one elbow propped on an antique reading table, listening politely to Ambassador Benjamin Jefferson Franklin’s detailed description of how he acquired one of the antique, deep sea diving helmets on display in the library. Horace paused in the doorway as one of the secret service agents, a stocky man with short, blonde hair approached him.
“Excuse me, sir,” Horace said, bowing slightly. “I would like to speak to the vice president, if I may.”
“The vice president is busy at the moment with Ambassador Franklin. He’s asked not to be disturbed,” the agent replied.
Recalling movies Thomas had forced him to watch, Horace thought the big guy looked like he belonged in The Blues Brothers, or maybe Men in Black. All he needed was a pair of sunglasses.
“Surely there must be some way, Agent—?”
“Collins,” the agent answered. “And the only way is if the vice president approves it.”
“Could you at least ask? Regretfully, I made some remarks earlier that —”
“I noticed.” Collins said, unsympathetically. “I can’t leave this post until the other agent gets back.”
“I saw him in the hallway. He didn’t look well.”
“Stomach trouble,” the agent shrugged. “He’ll be back in a minute.”
~~~
Horace waited outside until the second agent returned, holding his stomach. His sour expression proclaimed how he felt.
While the second agent remained at the door with Horace, Collins approached the vice president and Ambassador Franklin. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he pointed in Horace’s direction. “The young man at the door has requested a brief audience with the vice president. I told him you had asked not to be interrupted. I can tell him to leave or to wait a while...”
Ambassador Franklin waved and said, “I know this young man, Agent Collins. It’s okay if he joins us for a few moments. Thank you.”
As Horace approached, the vice president called out, “Ah, yes, the young Pharaoh,” and then turned to the ambassador. “You say you actually know this boy, Benjamin?”
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 2