THE  HAPPY  WANDERER - V

PYRAMIDS, TEMPLES, and TOMBS

© 2008

BY:  GERRY YOUNG

ASSISTED BY:  TICKIE

[To Drew in Yorkshire, England, my LOVE and THANKS for all the hours he has spent working and re-working the grammar, punctuation, and points-of-view, particularly making me aware that once or twice or thrice again, I’ve gotten into some character’s head, other than Gerry’s, when I oughtn’t to have done so;  perhaps … SOMEDAY … I’ll learn.  Perhaps!]

CHAPTER  TEN

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" the newcomer yelled at the four brothers who were still reclining or sitting around the table as Gerry, Ted, Muti, and their host Hashim al-Hajjaji, exited the dining salon.

"Awww, fuck!  We're in deep shit, now," the four brothers mumbled, together.  "Where'n fuck did HE come from?"

The seven gorgeous androgynous studs scampered away and disappeared through the pastel panels.

Calming himself, the newcomer eased onto his right middle finger an ancient talisman-ring of alchemical gold—transmuted from copper and iron—and inlaid with Ruby, Obsidian, Emerald, and Jade—each stone in the shape of a pyramid.  Then he easily and simultaneously raised both feet from the floor and crossed them under himself, as one of the Persian rugs that adorned the floor, seemed to float up to just under his feet and buttocks, to support him, midair.

The brothers sat wide-eyed and bewildered, their mouths hanging open in astonishment.  Not a muscle flexed.  Not a sound issued forth.

Without looking in the direction, he raised his right hand high above his head but toward the musicians behind the sheer scrim.  As he slowly lowered his open palm, the soft light within the alcove dimmed to darkness, and the music gently muted to silence.  He and the four brothers were alone … for the moment.

The brothers all sat stunned, shocked, mystified at what they were observing.  Their jaws dropped, but still, not a sound was uttered as they gawked at what could only be considered an apparition before them.  But it was no spectre.  It was Tariq Pasha in the flesh.

Calmly, he closed his eyes, and tilted his head back as his left hand rose to rest on his right shoulder, and his right hand then rose to rest on his left shoulder.

"Fire.  Earth.  Air.  Water," he called in a strong, deep, resonant voice that seemed to gripp their minds and dug into the very guts of the brothers.  "Ifrit.  Jann.  Shaitan.  Marid," he repeated in an unknown tongue, probably the language of the ancient hieroglyphs carved in stone throughout his country.  Instantly, as the names were intoned, four black beasts appeared around the room.  A serpent, suspended in the air but apparently standing on its tail, hissed and spread its hooded, fanged head, dripping its deadly venom.  A camel, its lips curled back showing its yellowed teeth, spit its nauseating, sour curd, splattering the four living statues.  A jackal crouched, ready to spring and attack.  And a horse, it, too, with its lips curled back, snorted and pawed the air as it reared on its hind legs.

Tariq lowered his head and opened wide his glassy eyes, then thrust the back of his right hand toward the four men.  The stones in his ring glowed bright.  Eerie fingers of smoky essence—blood red, midnight black, sickly green, and ghostly aquamarine—snaked their way from the stones toward the four McAllister brothers who were frozen with fright.

He continued his unintelligible incantation, and the four beasts slowly transmuted into four giant Djinn.  Their strong, naked upper bodies were of the color of blue;  a wisp of black hair rose vertically from the center of the crowns of their otherwise shaved heads;  their lower bodies were legless, but with appendages appropriate to their nature.  From the Ifrit (the serpent), flames of cold fire descended to, but did not even singe the carpets on the floor.  From the Jann (the camel), a whirlpool of sand descended toward, but disappeared before touching the same.  From the Shaitan (the jackal), a wind-devil swirled and undulated like a small tornado, though it disturbed nothing around it … for the moment.  And from the Marid (the horse), an upside-down waterspout pointed the way to Hades and the horrors or the underworld.

The four Djinn moved toward the four frightened men, sitting like stone statues, unable to move.

"La' la' la' la'," Tariq said. 

They returned, slowly moving backwards, to where they had been.

Tariq glared at the McAllisters, his eyes flashing with sparks of opalescent fire.  His wrathful voice lambasted them, "THREE TIMES!"  The china, crystal, and gold-ware rattled from the power of his spoken words, then settled once again upon the opulent table.

His chest heaved as he sucked in a great breath …  then, silence.  His lips extended into a narrow nozzle-shape, and from deep within himself came the sound and force of a wind-storm—a strange wind-storm, indeed, for none of the sheer panels of the walled fabrics quivered even a hair.  Nothing on the table was disturbed.  The flaming wicks in the brass chandelier above the table danced their usual ballet, unaffected.

But for the McAllisters, their fears were multiplied again and again as their leathers were shredded and ripped from their bodies by unseen hands or by the horrendous power of the storm roaring from Tariq's mouth.  Every hair on their bodies—their heads, eyelids, arms, hands, legs, feet, chests, abs, and yes, even their armpits and cocks and balls and assholes—was painfully snatched out … individually, as only tweezers can do.  And finally, their cocks and balls pained each of them to soundless screams.  For this, they were permitted to look down and see their "jewels" liquefying into nothing but gaping slits, dripping, oozing the foul, sticky, bubbling white residue tinged with their own paled blood onto the cushions on which they sat—slits to be fucked and abused again and again.  But gone were their fucking rods and sperm makers.

The pain was intolerable but they were not allowed the benefit of blessed unconsciousness.

"You—you slime buckets—" Tariq ranted, "have three times brought shame to this country and to this tour.  Your perverse actions in Alexandria, your obscene behavior at the Ramses Hilton, and now, your vulgar language and inappropriate attitudes at an elegant dinner in the home of one of our most prominent citizens.  You Americans say, 'Three strikes, and you're out.'  I am more lenient.  Hear me, and hear me well for the last time.  There are four of you.  There are four Djinn at my bid and call.  You have profaned this land three times.  One more … ONLY one more instance of your abhorrent behavior and dress … and you will never see the light of day again.  Now be gone."

He nodded to the Djinn and they moved to the silent, wide-eyed men who were trembling in what could only be surmised as in dreaded fear of their fates.

Tariq Pasha jerked his right hand back and calmly replaced it on his left shoulder.  In an instant, the glow from the stones in his ancient talisman-ring, the four men, AND the four Djinn had vanished.

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Al-Hajjaji led the way.  Muti, attentive as always to the needs of 'free men', put his right arm around Gerry's waist, his left hand just under Gerry's mouth, and rushed him from the dining area to the nearest guest bathroom only a few steps away.  Ted followed at the rear, his tail tucked between his legs like a little devoted puppy dog.

Their host held the door open. 

On entering, Gerry was near panic;  the facilities were unlike any he had ever seen.  A large room, bare except for the absolute necessities, perhaps twelve feet square.  Spotless.  Immaculate.   Sterile.  Well-lit with the ever-present hanging light fixture of filigreed brass.  The walls were covered in magnificent Trompe L'Oiel * paintings, reflecting the realism of bas-relief stone sculptures that adorn temples in India and Cambodia—naked men with naked women, women with women, men with men … in every conceivable position of loving, sexual gratification of the partner/s, but there were no representations at all of humans engaged with animals.

The room even 'smelled' clean, almost medicinal, perhaps of wintergreen.

Seen but 'unseen' by Gerry—his subconscious mind registering everything while his conscious mind focused on the need to regurgitate the contents of his stomach—a young male house-servant sat on the floor in the far-right corner, his legs crossed in a casual lotus position inoffensively exposing his juvenile 'family jewels'.  He scrambled to stand and attend, retrieving two or three folded towels from one of the several brass shelves near the washbasin.  Barefoot, his head was shaven except for a single thick braid of obsidian-black hair, reminiscent of the ancient 'sidelock' of  ancient Egyptian young royal princes, hanging over his left ear.  Other than a plain silver collar, he wore only a single garment – the classic Egyptian kilt of white trimmed in gold.

But the privy itself was nowhere to be seen;  instead, the top of what resembled a bidet was flush with the tan marble-tiled floor, and near the opposite wall.  'How in hell do I use that?' Gerry wondered;  a hurried frown crossed his brow.

In answer to his unspoken words, Muti lead him toward the 'squat toilet'.  "Kneel down, Gerry," he whispered.  "It's clean.  Sanitary.  There's no need for concern."

Gerry's stomach convulsed and the sour, watery contents spewed forth – most of it into the bowels of the porcelain 'thing' in the floor, but a few spatters marked the rim and surrounding tiles.  Gerry heaved once more, but only a dry reflux came forth.  After a moment's hesitation, he rose to an upright kneeling position wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still shaking with emotional conflict brought on by … well … by what he had just seen from across the table. 

Muti nodded to the kilted servant.

In an instant he was there.  He, too, knelt and offered Muti one of the towels;  the servant then began wiping the purge from the floor.

"Here.  Let me wipe your face," Muti suggested to his American friend.

"I'll do that."  Ted had, at last, rushed to Gerry's aid and knelt beside him, taking the towel from Muti.  "You okay now, babe?"

Once Ted had finished, Gerry gave a slight nod;  his unfocused eyes gazed into the nothingness straight ahead.  Then, at Muti's suggestion, they rose and headed toward the simple, stainless steel pedestal sink. 

Again, the servant hurried to his duty;  taken from a shelf, another towel was dampened and wrung-out.  Gerry held the cool cloth against his own face;  through the moist fabric, he inhaled the calming, fresh scent of the room.

Finally, Hashim al-Hajjaji, the host, stepped from the open doorway into the lavatory and toward Gerry.  "Are you all right now, my friend?"  His tone was compassionate;  his words, at least, sounded  genuine.

"Yes, Sir," Gerry answered with a nod, but without looking at the man.

"Hashim, please, Gerry."

"Hashim," came the response as Gerry looked at him, nodded and feigned a weak smile.

"That's better.  Now, do you feel well enough to return to dinner?  Or, I can order my staff to prepare a broth to ease your stomach."

Gerry looked down and thought for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of staying or leaving. He did not want to insult his host by abandoning the exotic dinner that was laid on the table, but neither did he want another reminder of the traumas he had experienced in Rockland, Maine and in San Francisco.  He turned to Ted.

"Would you mind if we left and returned to the hotel?"

"Not at all, babe;  not at all."  Ted looked at al-Hajjaji, "but how would we get back?"

"I understand, my friends.  Do not concern yourselves with leaving what would have been … or rather, what might have been … a delightful introduction to cuisine of another culture.  I shall have my driver—"

"Sayyid Hashim?   Master Hashim?"  Muti dared to interject without first being spoken to.

"TAYEB.  YES."  Al-Hajjaji's eyes flamed an angry glare at the servant.

"Forgive my speaking out of place, Sir, but my Master has provided the limousine for … for his new friends."  Muti had bowed his head in servility while he spoke.

"Ah, yes.  Shokran.  Thank you, Muti, for reminding me," al-Hajjaji smiled as he gently touched the servant's chin and lifted his head so they could look into each other's eyes.  "Your Master's praise for you is well deserved."

"Thank YOU, Sayyid Hashim.  Shokran."  Muti hurriedly knelt and was only inches away from kissing one of al-Hajjaji's sandaled feet when the Master reached down and guided the servant to a standing position.

"No, no, my boy.  This is neither the time nor the place for that.  As a representative of your … your … 'Master,' I should have remembered that you, too, are a guest here."

Muti blushed.

With frowns and invisible question marks across their faces, Gerry and Ted looked toward each other.  Gerry thought to himself, 'Something strange is going on here. Things are being hinted at that aren't being spoken about.  Like Muti's so-called Master.  Nobody's saying his name.  Who IS he, I wonder?'

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When Ted and Muti helped Gerry into the waiting limousine, Gerry's first impulse was to lie on the wide seat with his head in Ted's lap.  He looked like a Wraith—sickly white—as if all the blood had been drained from his body.  Even his well-manicured nails had completely turned as white as his lunulas—the little half-moons at the base of the nails.

Soon, the chauffeur had brought the black limousine back into the stop-and-go, bumper-to-bumper Cairene traffic again.

Sitting in the jump seat opposite, Muti faced Ted and asked,  "What brought all that on?  You enjoyed the soup—or so you said—and Gerry didn't have that much in his stomach."

"Long story, Muti," Ted replied, "but I think he should be the one to tell you … if and when he wants to."

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to…."

"It's nothing against you, and nothing to apologize for, my friend, but Gerry's had a couple of very bad personal experiences in his life, and I don't feel I should be the one to share the details with you.  Please understand," Ted reiterated once again.

"I do."

With the rapid swerving from lane to lane—as is typical with Cairene drivers—Gerry began to feel nauseous again.  Quickly sitting up, he looked around for a barf bag.  There was none to be found.  His abdominal contractions continued and grew even stronger—he could even taste the bitter, acidic remnants from earlier.  Suddenly throwing his head between his knees, he then heaved toward the luxuriously carpeted floor of the limousine.  But nothing came up—it was a dry retch.  'Thank God,' he thought to himself.

Immediately, Muti opened the small refrigerator behind the driver's seat and retrieved a decanter of chilled hibiscus tea.  He poured no more than a couple shots into a heavy crystal tumbler.  "Here.  Drink this, Gerry;  it will help."

Gerry grimaced a bit, drawing back.

"Come on, drink it.  It will take the sour taste out of your mouth and stomach.  You'll begin to feel better quite soon." In the privacy of the limousine, Muti spoke as the friend that Gerry and Ted had several times insisted upon.

As soon as he had consumed the tea, he began to feel better;  the color began to return to his face and the rest of his body.

"May I have more?" he asked.

"Of course," Muti responded as he poured more into the glass in Gerry's extended hand.  "Ted?" he asked, offering another tumbler.

"Not right now, but thank you, Muti.  Thank you for taking care of us."

"That's my job," Muti remarked with a small chuckle, then in a more caring way, he added, "It is my great pleasure to serve you both."  A pleasant, gentle smile and a far-away look was on his face.  His tone sounded genuine—not as if by rote, and not as if his words were contrived.

After returning the decanter to the small refrigerator, Muti held out his hands to the Americans.  A simple smile crossed his curved lips.  The two visitors to his country reached out and received the warmth and friendship of a not-so-ordinary Egyptian 'servant'.

<><><> 

With Gerry's unpleasant experience disappearing further and further behind them, they soon arrived back at the main entrance of the Ramses Hilton.

"I'm starved," Gerry announced as he took his leave from the limousine.

"Me, too," Ted agreed.

"Are you sure you want something to eat, Gerry …?" Muti asked.

"Yeah," he answered with a sigh.  "I'd love a good ol' American hamburger."

"Ummm, that sounds great," Ted agreed, licking his lips.  "AND a greasy order of French Fries."  He rubbed his tummy.

 "Then, may I suggest the Garden Court Café just off the hotel lobby?  It has the best American food of any of the several restaurants here in the Ramses," Muti continued.

"Lead the way," Gerry and Ted said in unison.

"But … my … my friends..." Muti fumbled with his words, "… a mere sla… SERVANT," he corrected himself, "should not…."

"That's the magic word … FRIEND," Ted broke into what Muti was saying.  Gerry nodded in agreement.  "We three are FRIENDS.  There's no need for formality between us."

"But…" Muti tried to continue.

"No 'but's'," Gerry corrected, "but THIS one."  He gently slapped Muti on the butt.

They had entered the hotel lobby through the huge glass doors, and Ted moved to Muti's right, Gerry to his left, the three hip-to-hip.  Ted slipped his left hand across the lower back of Muti's waist, and Gerry slipped HIS right hand around Muti's back.  "Now," Gerry said, "put your arms behind our backs." 

Hesitantly, Muti obeyed.

"And now…" Ted began.

"… begin with the left foot," Gerry continued, "and lead us to the café."

After a couple of corrective steps, the three were in-sync with each other.  Muti giggled.  Gerry was obviously feeling better.  And Ted was beaming even though some hotel guests and staff glared at the three young men enjoying themselves, one of whom—with his studded leather collar—was a slave!

To be continued...

Footnote:  http://www.designsbydj.com/tromp.htm

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Comments welcome, please drop the author a note: 

Posted: 10/31/08