Diabolic Digest
Episode III –
Deserting
ship
Date: 1st August 2000
Time: 7:55 am
Place: Border gates
As told to Khaled Diab
It’s a beautiful
morning – the sort of morning custom-made for a stroll. The sun,
unsurprisingly, is out. The sun’s rays, surprisingly, are young, gentle and
caressing – for now. The smog is an almost invisible underpresence. However,
I’m not cut out for mornings.
Kahka,
contrary to what Herriditoz says, believes my ancestors were probably owls;
wise but not quite Iflatoun (Plato) material. She’s advised me to take up
residence in an attic room and not because it fits the image of the tragedy of
my wasted genius (no arsenic-laced sonatas for me) but rather to better
facilitate my eventual transformation into a bat.
Blind as a
bat but nowhere near as leathery, Otter is startled awake. Bewilderment is
written across his face. Blurry-eyed, he tries to figure out what the commotion
is all about. Not used to such early movements, he appears to think the
Michelin Man has mysteriously come to life. Suddenly, his soft Siamese fur
stands on end. His body tenses and winds up like a loaded spring. He looks like
he’s just seen (Sensed?) a ghost that he will bravely and blindly fight. He is
not reassured until he hears,
“It’s OK.
It’s only me, Otter.”
He rubs his
forehead with one perplexed paw. He is even more baffled by my swift exit from
the bathroom (no drainstorming, no effervescent thoughts mixed in with the
ever-present gases) and my packing him into his cat box. I lure Double-Click
with a piece of old cheese, straight from Luna’s uncle’s dairy in Tuscany,
which she sniffs at disapprovingly before subjecting me to a harsh flutter of
her long lashes. I open up the mouse side-box. Double-Click hops in to find her
favourite yellow cheese. Disciplined as always, she does her gruelling morning
workout on the treadmill before she allows herself the pleasure of breakfast.
It could’ve
been a fine morning to be outdoors, if it weren’t for the weary, burdening
vibes given off by the immense crowd who are in the process of mounting a bold
but, for most, futile attempt to penetrate the gateway to Never-Never Land – to
leave Blunderland and head for Wonderland.
The border
gates are set to open within the next five minutes. The heaving snake of people
grows alert like a serpent awaiting a one-way ticket to paradise. Sadly, most
of the assembled crowd stand as much chance of getting past this gateway as
Satan has of getting through the Pearly Gates – and the gatekeeper here won’t
be as gentle or considerate as the hallowed St Peter.
The head of the snake stirs to life and a
tremor travels, like a nervous signal, down the snake’s long body that
stretches as far as the eye can see and round the corner. I stand across the
street observing the head of the snake exchange a drowsy expression filled with
tedium for a more sinister look of barely concealed frustration and urgency.
Those at the head of the snake have learnt
through bitter experience that they have to start their vigil the evening
before if they are to get in during the short three hours the gates are open.
Those at the tail of the queue are the innocent novices who do not quite
realise what an ordeal they are in for: to see their goal slip through their
fingers just as it comes within arm’s reach, to see the getaway gateway to the
land of opportunity slam firmly in their faces. Getting in and getting through
do not automatically follow on from one another and there is no guarantee that
your queuing won’t have been in vain.
Those standing in line all carry the
identifying bundle of weathered papers and the characteristic expression of
withered wariness. Strategically positioned are the streetwise and
entrepreneurial consultants (or hawkers, depending on which side of the fence
you are). They help those who pay the necessary consultation fees fill out the
endless and bewildering reams of forms and documentation. New age priests and
scribes who prepare you for your encounter with the 41 judges who weigh your
papers against a feather.
An old woman is propped up by her young niece.
Her eyes are red and raw and her voice is cracked and wavering with emotion and
old-age as she protests, “I want to see my son. Why won’t they let me see my
son?”
Behind her stands a man in an expensive looking
suit. His face is also soaked, not with the salty output of his tear-ducts, but
with the drenching downpour from his suppressed sweat pores. He looks blankly
over the head of the little old lady, as if she wasn’t there. A couple who had
been sleeping quite endearingly against each other are stirred from their
slumbers by the beeping of a wrist alarm.
An excessively skinny man slams a backgammon
set shut in the middle of a game he is losing. His partner is incensed. He
doesn’t buy the excuse that they have to ready themselves so as not to lose
their place when the queue starts moving. They engage in a loud and verbose argument,
which is only resolved with the impatient and aloof intervention of a
grumpy-looking ex-pasha who wonders to himself what he’s doing in the midst of
all this riffraff. The two men agree
and eject him from the queue and he is only allowed back in when the crowd
starts making conciliatory noises.
A nerve deep inside me is touched by this
demonstration of peaceful co-existence. Then I realise that this is not the
time for reflective introspection. I look at the endless queue. If I join the
end, I will never make it to the gate on time. I consider letting the
gatekeeper know that I am Haflatoun but, then, as always, Kahka’s cynical tones
hold me in check. She would turn in her bakery to know that I was courting the
bureaucracy; that I was, even if minimally, conforming to their vision of the
world that lacks rhyme or reason, that is specifically designed to oppress the
commoner.
But I am not Kahka and I must see my Luna. Her
face looms dominantly in my mind’s eye. She was reliably sighted in that great
confederation of states known as USE-U – miserable and dejected in the
ceaseless rain. After two seconds of intense thought, I decide to unleash my
secret weapon....
According to insider information that I have
become privy to, the Consul is an avid cat lover. I put my application papers
in the keg hanging from Otter’s neck. I give Double-Click precise instructions
as to the route to the Consul’s office. I slip my secret raiding party through
the railings and watch proudly as my brave little soldiers go to battle. I view
all the proceedings (a zillion times more clearly than Otter) through the
miniature camera I attached to Otter’s right ear. Everything is OK until an
embassy tomcat notices Double-Click on Otter’s back. I see tommy’s underside
fly threateningly (if rather majestically) over Otter’s head. Miraculously,
Double-Click’s super-rodent reactions avert certain desaddlement.
On my watch viewfinder, I see two well-polished
shoes shuffling agitatedly and impatiently behind a pane of bullet-proof glass.
Then I see another pair of gleaming Italian shoes swaying like two lost
lifeboats at sea. “...out to sea”, “...up the creek without a paddle”, “...like
going to sea in a sieve”, “... your deck has to be in ship-shape condition”,
“... well your ship has sunk on her maiden voyage” – a tirade of nautical
metaphors float down from the desk above. The poor applicant’s feet cringe
visibly. He obviously didn’t expect to be interviewed by an ex-navy man whose
career, unfortunately for all, was cut tragically short. Luckily for the
applicant, he didn’t fall into the hands of the interrogators and inquisitors
of the embassy. The old consul may be intolerably senile, but he is pretty much
harmless. To coin a nautical metaphor, better to suffer the impotent flapping
sails of an immobile flagship than the cannons of a man-o-war.
Such semantics are of little concern to my
courageous duo. Double-Click, fully briefed, manoeuvres Otter towards the
Consul. Otter, doing what he does best, plays for affection. He rubs up against
the consul’s well-pressed slacks, almost impaling himself on the lethal crease.
A rumbling purr vibrates the cat’s body and is conducted through an impassive,
spotlessly white trouser-leg to find its way to that dominant area up in his
brain reserved for creatures of the feline persuasion. The little-boy lost set
of the consul’s face melts away, an involuntary sigh of relief escapes the poor
victim sitting across from him, who now thinks the old captain has finally
found north and is going to grant him a visa.
Instead, a beaming, if chinless, face looks
down at Otter. It bears the rather confused insignia of proud loftiness and
blank infantile joy that only generations of land and money can carry off
without a semblance of awkward self-consciousness.
Due to a malfunctioning relay and the challenge
of handling two stimuli simultaneously, not forgetting that the two stimuli are
in fact contradictory ones and, therefore, an over-taxing burden on the
Consul’s limited faculties, it takes him some moments to register
Double-Click’s presence.
A few precious moments later, he realises that
he, in fact, has had a life-long revulsion and fear of mice. Only then does his
instinct for self-preservation kick in (now you can see why he was ousted from
the navy). His legs jolt involuntarily and they disappear from sight. Up on his
desk somewhere, he yelps helplessly. The applicant’s feet freeze in
bewilderment, then he turns on his heels and you can’t see him for dust.
Suddenly, a siren pierces the tense silence.
The old captain must have accidentally stepped on the emergency alarm button on
the desk.
Outside, marines emerge out of the woodwork,
out of the blue and out of nowhere. The place is suddenly swarming with the
regimented beat of heavy feet. The crowd is dispersed and the soldiers dash
inside. Now I understand what rapid reaction forces means.
Unwittingly, Double-Click has given me the
diversion/distraction I need. I rush to find a phone booth where I can change
into my urban guerrilla outfit, but I can’t find one that has a door.
Desperate, I run into a guard post. I don’t know how Superman managed to change
so quickly in such a tight space. Maybe it was a skill he picked up in that
tiny pod on his long journey from Krypton.
As I am changing, my elbow accidentally nudges
the wall several times. Then, without prior notice, I find the floor
disappearing from under my feet. Next thing I know, I find myself in a heap on
gleaming, pristine tiles. A split second later, my stomach crashes heavily into
me. I collect myself (physically, that is), get up and dust myself off
(although there is no dust to speak of – that clean is the floor. But that’s
what people tend to do after a heavy fall). My eyes explore my new
surroundings. Again, I have to collect myself (this time metaphorically).
I am standing in an enormous, subterranean
storehouse with thick steel walls. All around are miles upon miles of shelves
bulging with food and other supplies: tinned, canned, in vacuum-sealed packets,
boxes and cartons. There is everything from gourmet, cordon-bleu,
a-feast-for-the-eyes-but-not-for-the-stomach delicacies, to your basics: beans,
bread and cereals. My eye is caught by a mountain of cans of self-chilling ice tea.
I take a couple as souvenirs to add to my ethnographic collection.
It takes me a precious three minutes to find my
way out of this glorified supermarket. I have to reprogram the timelock before
the door will hiss open.
I emerge in the midst of total mayhem. Soldiers
dash up and down corridors trying to find the cause of the alarm. Following the
blueprints I have memorised, I make hasty progress towards the Consul’s office.
Atop his desk, the Consul is ranting deliriously, “Ahoy! There are enough lifeboats.
Women and children first.” Pointing at me, “You, sir, are not a woman!” Then,
frantically, “Drown the mice! Drown the mice!”
I pull him, protesting, off his desk. I pick my
passport up off the floor and, after shaking him out of his frenzy, I say, “Visa!”
“Mutiny! Mutiny!” he yells.
“I just need to find my Luna,” I counter
defensively.
“You swines! I would rather walk the plank than
submit my good vessel to this piracy.”
Against my normally peaceful nature, I say, “So
you shall” before decking him.
With not a moment to lose, I sit down at the
computer and print off a visa which I stick into my passport. I retrieve Otter
and Double-Click from under the desk. With Otter in my arms and Double-Click
perched on my shoulder, I beat a hasty retreat like some sort of 21st
Century pirate. Mission: Accomplished.
This piece appeared in the August 2000 issue of
Egypt’s Insight magazine.
ã2004 K. Diab. Unless otherwise stated, all the content on this website
is the copyright of Khaled Diab.