Barra had picked up the telephone. “Operator, I wish to place a call to Bamakanougou in Guanaya. Bama-kah-noo-goo, operator, in Guanaya. That certainly is in Africa, operator, yes. No doubt about it.” He put his hand over the mouth of the phone, as he stared at Jimmy Jay. “In fifteen minutes, you’ll be surrounded by the baddest snakes on this earth. My man, the Doctor, does not play around. He’s no small boy. He’s serious.”
A chill vibrated across the back of Jimmy Jay’s body from ear to ear, shoulder to shoulder. The muscles in the back of his neck were dancing. He felt he teetered at the edge of a gaping canyon. He was vertiginous. The floor seemed about to move from under him. He sank back into the easy chair. He breathed with difficulty now. He spoke in a shouted whisper. “Snakes—snakes! I told you, goddammit, I’m deathly afraid of snakes!”
“They won’t bite you, babay. They’ll be there with you wherever you go, for your protection. I’m talking about mambas. They’re deadlier than the cobra or the rattlesnake. They’ll make the CIA wish they’d never heard of James Jay Leander Johnson of Lolliloppi, Mississippi.” Barra laughed at the look on Jimmy Jay’s face. A Black man turning as green in the face as tarnished copper. “You can walk through the valley of death and fear no evil, for the Doctor will be with you in the form of mambas.”
“No snakes! No goddamn snakes!” Jimmy shouted limply. “I hate snakes! I hate snakes!”
Barra said, “You can’t ask the Doctor for protection and dictate the terms of treatment. I mean the Doctor knows his business, and bad snakes are his most effective weapon. And you’d better keep your hatred of snakes a secret, I mean keep your feeling about them under wraps. These snakes are very sensitive. I tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll tell him to send you some unobtrusive snakes, the quiet ones that don’t be hissing all over the place.”
He still could not believe that he, James Jay Leander Johnson, a.k.a. Prime Minister Jaja Okwu Olivamaki of the Independent People’s Democratic Republic of Guanaya, the suave, sophisticated one, worldly-wise, with savoir faire to spare and even squander, was actually having this serious conversation about snakes and Juju. It was absolutely incredible. And yet he heard himself say, seriously, “There is no earthy way I could hide my distaste for snakes. Forget about the Juju. Forget about the snakes. Forget the Doctor.” His voice was trembling.
Barra had put the phone back in its cradle. “You really mean that? You prefer to take your chances with the CIA than to deal with some friendly snakes, who are willing to lay down their lives for your protection?”
Maria Efwa said, “Leave him alone, Barra. He told you to forget it.”
Barra said, “It is up to Himself, Your Excellency. He is the Prime Minister, after all.”
Jimmy’s voice had grown stronger. “I’m the Prime Minister, and I say, forget about it. Drop it.” Perspiration still poured from him.
The telephone rang. Jimmy Jay’s secretary, Mr. Tobey, picked it up. “Yes, this is His Excellency’s suite. You’re ready for that call to Bamakanougou?”
Barra took the phone from him. “Never mind, operator. Cancel the call to Bamakanougou. Terribly sorry about that.”
23
Somehow, he knew this day would be entirely different. The premonitions were all there. The frightful dreams he dreamed all night. Perhaps he should have accepted the Great Witch Doctor’s “snake” protection Barra Abingiba had so generously offered him. He had been awakened that morning by the staccato drumbeat of the rain against the pretty picture windows. Torrents of rain cascading up against the tall majestic glass encasements. Somehow, he thought, ironically, the executive suite of the famous Waldorf should have secured him from the ominous sounds of an autumn thunderstorm. He made his way to the window and stared down at the dreary Manhattan morning. The traffic down there looked like drowning vermin scurrying frantically around like rats and cockroaches. He thought, Obviously the ship is sinking. An ominous omen.
He listened to the news on WLIB. David Lampell and Carl Ferguson telling you where everything was at. Judy Simmons would be along shortly. Pablo Guzman later on. It was raining all along the Eastern Seaboard. The traffic was jammed on the Grand Central Parkway. Likewise, on FDR Drive as was the Interboro coming out of Brooklyn. A smashup on the Major Deegan had traffic tied up coming in from the Bronx. Otherwise everything was cool. Nevertheless, he somehow got through the rain-drenched morning. A tea-and-crumpeted meeting with his delegation on his upcoming trip to Lolliloppi. Breakfast. The New York Times. He made his way through section A all the way to the obit page. He sighed, happily, relieved to see that he was not listed, which meant that he was still among the living. The Times’ obit page always reassured him, unrealistically, of his continued immortality. What did he need with Barra’s Juju man?
A session with Maria Efwa on Africa and southern folklore, the striking similarities. The growing realization of his deepening involvement with Her Excellency, emotionally. He thought of the Duke of Ellington’s I GOT IT BAD AND THAT AIN’T GOOD. He imagined he could hear the voice of Etta Jones. They went into a heavy discussion of the southern Black church and its dancing, its shouts, its hollers, its tambourines to glory and its drums and saxophones. He told her that one day before they went back to the Old Country, they must get up to one of those swinging shouting storefront churches on 125th Street in Harlem, which was African and southern at its very essence.
Then almost unknowingly, mesmerized by eyes and mouth and majesty, perhaps witchcrafted even, he watched Himself, with amazement, take her hands into his own and heard Himself say softly, fervently, “You are without a doubt, the most beautiful woman who ever favored this ungrateful earth with her queenly presence.”
Her dark sweet face flushed, her lovely eyes almost in panic, fleetingly. “Your Excellency! We must never lose perspective regarding our relationship. Besides, you know I am a married woman. I’m married to one of the most revered men in Africa.” Still bewitched, he took each of her darkly beautiful slender hands and kissed the fingers gently one by one.
Even as he said, “Forgive me. Truly I did lose perspective, for the moment. It isn’t easy, you know. We are thrown together so very often. And you are extravagantly, outrageously, beautiful, and I am helplessly susceptible to beauty. I’m so hopelessly susceptible, I feel sorry for myself.”
She conceded, matter-of-factly, “I’m aware it isn’t easy. However, we must persevere.” Then she said, more firmly, “There is simply no way there could ever be anything romantic or emotional between us. Please don’t make it more difficult than it has to be. Promise me?” She was so damn composed, always in complete control of her emotions, her intellectuality.
His (so-called) Excellency promised, sorrowfully. He felt that time and circumstance were ganging up against him. Born to lose, and he was losing her before he had won her in the first damn place. Maria Efwa had grown on him like a sweet though dangerous addiction, bit by bit, moment by moment; she had cast a spell on him, and he had been powerless to resist it, even as he watched it happening and warned himself against it. If he could just take one sip, it would be the first and last sweet sip, because he was too strong and wise to allow himself to become a full-scale alcoholic, he thoroughly and foolishly convinced himself. It was the reasoning of all addicts, the way all addiction started.
First, he’d been consumed back there in his Bamakanougou hospital bed by the absolute perfection of her physicality, even as he desperately searched for flaws. Her ample and curvaceous lips. Perhaps they were too plentiful (thick fat lips were ugly lips he had once thought). Her wine-red lips were sensuous and sensual. Her eyes so deep and dark and intense, staring at you, penetrating. (He thought definitely her eyes were crossed. How could a cross-eyed woman bewitch Jimmy Jay?) He tried to find some imperfection in the way she walked, the way she carried, dignifiedly, this splendid miracle of architecture. Ah-ha! She was pigeon-toed! She was long-legged, she was high-assed, and she was slim and roundly structured. See how she stands wide-leggedly. A
contradiction! How could one be slim and round? It didn’t help poor Jimmy Jay at all. Even her so-called imperfections were absolutely perfect.
Secondly, he had been witchcrafted by her awesome erudition. She was a perambulating encyclopedia of knowledge, African folklore, infinite wisdoms; European presumptions, eternal idiocies, he learned from her. It was an erudition she felt no need to boast about. It was just there all sorted out and available, compartmentalized, waiting eagerly to be used by her, when the occasion called for it.
And then there was most of all the grandiose totality of her African spirituality. Put it all together, and she was Africa personified. Undeniable. Irresistible. Now he understood profoundly the meaning of WE SHALL OVERCOME. He had gone there, a desperate lost and lonely pilgrim, looking for his Africa, and he’d found Maria Efwa.
Of course, he told himself he knew no one on earth was that close to perfection, physically, intellectually, spiritually. Not even the African gods could have wrought such a heavenly creation. The knowledge of it could not save him from the witchcraft with which she affected him. He was hopelessly mesmerized.
* * *
Later that morning he was going through his personal mail when he came across a familiar handwriting. His hands began to tremble. His heartbeat quickened; he heard a throbbing thunder in his earlobes. He swallowed hard and deeply, as he nervously took the letter from its envelope.
Dear Mr. Prime Minister, a.k.a. James Jay Leander Johnson:
I have watched your recent career with great interest, especially that aspect of it, i.e., His Excellency the Prime Minister of Guanaya. You were magnificent at the Armory, reminiscent of the era of the great Paul Robeson. I do recall though another time when you were Jimmy Jay of Lolliloppi, Mississippi, sans beard, and we were rather close and even intimate here in New York when you had ambitions as a folk singer. I must discuss with you a matter of grave and paramount importance. I hope that we can handle this matter as discreetly as possible. I shouldn’t like to take this to the media and cause an international embarrassment for you and your delegation.
Please call me at 950-8517. I shall await your call, but I shall not wait forever.
As ever fondly,
Love
Debby (Bostick)
His hand continued to shake, as he read the letter over and over several times. Every comma, every word, every sentence, every nuance, stubbornly remained unchanged. Wave after wave of feelings and remembrances washed over him like the rain outside his windows. Deborah Cassandra Bostick. Otherwise, the day of autumnal thunderstorm was uneventful until that evening after dinner, when a phone call came in on his direct line.
He heard a voice say, “Jimmy darling! How wonderful to hear your voice.” He saw her face before him now. The deep and forever darkening brownness of her eyes, always brilliantly alive with mischief, the glowing reddish-ebony brownness of the darkness of her lovely face. Her skin tones, black on brown on ebony with deep burgundy overtones and undertones as if wrought by African sun–rayed afternoons. The eyes, the mouth, the soft oval face—Debby Bostick was the image of Maria Efwa, a fact he had not remembered till this moment. And was it an actual fact or a figment of his imagination? Even their voices were astonishingly alike, he thought, as chill after thrill after chill raced across his back from shoulder to shoulder. She brought him back to earth with “Jimmy! It’s me—Debby Bostick.”
He answered feebly, “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I’m Jaja—”
As if she hadn’t heard. “Jimmy! This is me! This is Debby! Debby Bostick. I don’t know what this Prime Minister business is all about, but I do know Jimmy Jay Leander Johnson when I see him, and I saw you at the Armory, and I’ve got to see you once alone, in person, I must see you at least one time before you go back to Africa.”
“But, lady,” he began to mumble.
“I’m not a lady!” the lady shouted, excitedly. “I’m Debby Bostick. Deborah Cassandra Bostick, and I’m going to have a baby, your baby! Our baby! I know you’re just tickled pink. I—”
He was leaking perspiration now. “Madame, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I know of no person by the name of Deborah Bostick. And pink I will never be tickled. It isn’t possible, physically. I—”
“So that’s the way it’s going to be, is it? I’ll have to go to the media after all. I’m a media woman, as you know, and I have connections with people in print, on television and radio, that is, if you’d prefer me to make a federal case of it.” She paused to catch up with her breath. “I had thought we could have a quiet evening, dinner at my apartment. Talk about old times friendly like. But if you prefer me to go public, well—”
It was painful for him to try to brush her off like this, but what else could he do? “Miss, what did you say your name was? Deborah Bostick? Well, Miss Bostick, I’ll get back to you on this matter of mistaken identity, only of course to spare you and my delegation unnecessary embarrassment. I’m sure we’ll be able to clear everything up. But I have your phone number. And I’ll call you later.”
She said, “All right. Good night, Jimmy. Hear from you later.”
He said good night and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He called the group together and laid the facts before them. Showed them the letter. Told them of the phone call.
“Well,” Maria Efwa commented, after she had read the letter and listened to his explanation. “You certainly have got yourself into a proper mess.”
“We are in a proper mess,” he reminded all of them.
Mamadou Tangi asked, “Will she carry out her threat, or is she merely bluffing?”
“I don’t think there is any doubt about it. She certainly can, and she surely will.”
Maria Efwa smiled ironically, “A woman scorned—and about to have a child for you. I think the least you have to do is to make discreet arrangements to see the lady.” She laughed lightly. “Clearly we selected a Casanova to be our acting Prime Minister.”
Mamadou Tangi said, “Clearly.” Sarcastically.
Barra Abingiba reminded them, “It wasn’t his idea in the first place. You cats selected him. Remember? Nobody quizzed him on the state of his virginity or lack of it.”
His Wife’s Bottom said, surprisingly, “Exactly so.”
Jimmy Jay said, “Thank you so much.”
Mamadou Tangi said, “Well, Casanova, you’d better call her back and make the necessary arrangements.”
* * *
The arrangements were made. A man about his height and build dressed as an Arab sheik in dark glasses visited them about five o’clock three evenings later. They sneaked Jimmy Jay out of the hotel dressed as an Arab emir about an hour later, dark shades and all and under heavy Guanayan security. Cool Horace drove him uptown under the cover of lowering darkness along the softly lighted streets past the taverns up Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard past the funeral parlors and the churches, crossing over 125th Street past the people thronging the avenue past more taverns past more funeral parlors and inevitably more churches, with a car full of Guanayan SS men in unobtrusive pursuit. There were already two security men in the car with His (so-called) Excellency. And a limousine in front of them. One might have gotten the impression that they were securing him against himself, preventing him from splitting the coop. But then, he thought, those in pursuit might very well be of American denomination. Now turning right at 135th Street going past the YMCA past the Schomburg Center at the other end of the block, now across people-thronged Lenox Avenue, thinking warmly of Margaret Walker’s immortal FOR MY PEOPLE.
They dropped him off in front of the highly priced high-rise apartments, Lenox Terrace, the very same apartment building that housed the famous Percy Sutton, formerly borough president of Manhattan and presently chairman of the board of Inner City Broadcasting. He thought of Claude McKay and Home to Harlem, and he truly felt at home, in Harlem. Cool Horace would wait outside in the car. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Jimmy Jay advised. The two Guanayan SS men in
the car with him escorted him to the elevator, and up to the eleventh floor, where they would remain outside the door until he came out two hours later.
Now he stood before the door where she lived. All over his forehead and his shoulders he had broken out into bullets of perspiration. Yet he shivered. He pushed upon the button lightly, as if he wanted no one to hear him. He thought, What the hell—and pushed determinedly the second time.
It felt like centuries before he heard a voice from inside. “Who is it?”
His heartbeat quickened. He almost answered, “This is Jimmy Jay.” He thought, what if he was walking into a well-laid trap? What if the CIA or Carlton Carson and his Secret Service were there to leap out of a corner and lay hold of him? He was thinking, What if—what if, when the door opened and one of the most beautiful women who ever walked this earth was standing there, all five feet five of midnight eyes and dark-brown ebony textured skin, her face aglow with moonlit smiles, and saying simply, “Come in, Jimmy.”
Her beauty rendered him speechless, momentarily, “A simple case of mistaken identity, I can assure you, Madame.” He sounded phony even to himself. Unconvincing.
She closed the door behind him as he entered. Then she went into his arms and all up against him. And she could tell that he remembered, as Himself responded rigidly. “Oh Jimmy! Jimmy? Jimmy Jay! Jimmy Jay!” She put her softened hands around his neck and brought his head down toward hers, his mouth to meet her eager lips. Thrusting eagerly expertly with her agile tongue. For a moment he imagined she was Her Excellency Maria Efwa, and he wanted desperately for his imagination to unfold into reality.
She stepped back from him and she looked him up and down and began to laugh uncontrollably. “What on earth are you doing in that ridiculous getup? Halloween was last Saturday night. What are you supposed to be disguised as this time, the sheik of Arabee? Are you King Fahd’s second cousin?” She began to laugh again and threw herself upon the couch with laughter.
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