Mumbo Jumbo (11 page)

A few months later Hinckle Von Vampton has familiarized himself with Afro-American literature of the 20s. He has written the 14 people who are sending the book about in a chain. None has answered however. The mails are terribly slow. Often it seems that the U.S. government service national state and local is in a state of collapse. (In Boston there is a police strike.) But as soon as he received the book he would burn it. And if that didn’t dissolve it the Talking Android would certainly remove its steam.

He has already interviewed 3 candidates for the position of Talking Android, the 2nd phase of the plan to stamp out Jes Grew. They had declined; explaining that as potential victims they did not feel that they would be immune to its drawing power. Well, there are 3 months left; surely someone will turn up. Hinckle’s disguise in Manhattan circles is that of Negrophile, patron-of-the-arts and of course controversial publisher of the
Benign Monster
magazine. He has attended many parties and come in contact with the poets, novelists, even being invited to a reception at Irvington-on-Hudson, and finding the Hostess “charming” and “vivacious.” The circulation of the magazine has soared since the article or story about Wa-Wa who went down to the railroad station and was handled by all of those conductors.

Tonight, he sits in his dressing gown, picking at a snack of tiny non-poisonous snakes, crocodile eggs and Nile crabs, provided for him by W. W. Jefferson’s other duty. As he sits enjoying this meal, he thinks about his next plans in recruitment.

Don’t know what to do with W.W. If he wasn’t so good at gathering these er…er…delicacies. What’s this? mmmmmm-mmmmmmmmmmm-MMM! Weeds gathered at the grave site of a recently dead infant? Why I haven’t savored this since…well since those parties we used to have many many years ago in our private guarded Chapter House…W.W. would be all right if he’d just avoid those Marxist-Engelian and sociological clichés. Economics, integration, separation…capitalism. No one took this seriously. Why, this Soviet business would blow over. Each day the
New York Times
experts were predicting that the monarchy would be returned to power and when this happened then his magazine would seem out of step with the times which was ½ of its appeal—being-in. His column only did 1 thing…confuse the state of Black letters which was good because then they would be isolated and he could be like the wolf approaching the sheep who wanders away from the variegated herd. Yes indeed W.W.’s column which pitted 1 writer against the other called “The Pat Juber”…saying each new writer made the former resemble…how had W.W. put it, “resemble interlocutor in a minstrel show?” This column had its good points, but W.W. didn’t seem to have that razzle-dazzle. That jargon he used bored people…A…here comes the dope now.

Hinckle Von Vampton is content. He daubs his 2 faint pink lines where lips should be.

I don’t know what I would do without you, W.W., he says between jawfuls to W.W. who is refilling Von Vampton’s cup of tea. Where were you able to find these morsels which so intrigue my palate?

I’m glad you like them, Mr. Von Vampton. When you told me you had the junkie tongue for these types of food I sought them out. It turned out that they were near me all the time. You see when you told me that Mr. Marx and Mr. Engels were dead it was such a blow to me I went to this potter’s field out in the country to meditate. There was a swamp near by the tombstones and there I found many crawling things.

Well, they are indeed delicious, W.W., and I must advise you that many people like your column “The Pat Juber.” It really stirs things up. But there’s 1 thing though, W.W.

What is that, Publisher Von Vampton? W.W. says, standing before Hinckle’s desk.

You know our readership isn’t as bright as you are. The books you read and all of those articles. You quote Kant, James and Hegel very well but don’t you think that you ought to liven it up a bit with some of that raggle-taggle. A little ingredient of scandal…

The next issue, Mr. Von Vampton, there will indeed be some spice. I am going to get some of these niggers who are writing these nasty plays like Wallace Thurman. He wrote some play called
Harlem
in which these bonzos be rubbing up against each other.

Why would you object to that, W.W.? Why any month we might run a picture of a nice boyish young disrobed thing. We’ve been banned in Boston for pornography. Why would you want to include your material in our magazine but then abhor the same freedom when it occurs among your playwrights.

Look, Mr. Von Vampton. It comes down to this. If I have to be contradictory using the real 1 time and ideal the other then that’s the way I would be. I will use any vehicle at all so that I won’t have to return to that farm and spend the rest of my life milking cows and distributing feed.

Excellent, W.W., excellent. I never thought of it that way… of course I should have known.

I have some more articles to write for the forthcoming issue, Mr. Von Vampton, I will retire to my office in the rear.

Most impressive,
Hinckle thinks.
Perhaps…no that was out of the question…W.W. was too dark. This was the 1920s, black is out, colored is in. Besides Jes Grew absorbs Black as Black does Jes Grew. Others must try harder. But this was a marvelous thing he had just witnessed. A Black Pragmatist. Perhaps soon the slave-master will learn that he doesn’t have to use his offspring mulatto children to curb and refine Jes Grew activity. He can use White talking out of Black instead of the Brown or White talking out of Black. No 1 will be wise. A new kind of robot. The mulattoes were always held in suspicion by the Blacks anyway, but a Black Pragmatist could be anything he chose to be. Why that was freedom, wasn’t it?

W.W., before you leave, I have been reading Abdul Sufi Hamid. I can’t decipher some of the dialect and the esoteric references. What is your assessment of him?

O he writes stirring poems. Apocalypse. Moors triumphant, riding elephants as they conquer southern Europe. Black women whom he equates with the Queen of Sheba! He is really a dynamo, Publisher Hinckle Von Vampton.

What do you think he is saying, Woodrow? Hinckle moves the tray to the center of his long desk topped with a gas lamp.

He’s telling them niggers that they will never be ready and that nothing will come of them and that if they take a drink from time to time it will enervate their brains and every time they go to bed with a woman that the corners of the room will fill with nests of Gog and Magog.

Excellent, now I understand those lines of his very well. What’s his views on the plague?

He says it involves too much dancing and should be stamped out, with force if necessary.

Good. Good. I will give him an entire page in the next issue. Accompanying photo. The works. Maybe some flappers kicking up their legs beside his scowl.
Maybe even the Talking Android!

He’s a little off though, Publisher Hinckle Von Vampton.

Look W.W., will you cut out that Publisher Von Vampton nonsense. You’re up North now. Call me Hink. Now what’s this about him being mad?

He’s going about telling everyone that he is compiling some sort of anthology that will upset the nation. Some strange text he’s assembled about this Jes Grew thing. He said it would be the anthology of the century.

Hinckle Von Vampton staggers to his feet, the patch nearly slipping from the black hollow where his left eye used to be. The eye had been dislodged when the ancient foe drove a lance through it.

He what?

He says he has this anthology the nigger says has hieroglyphics and strange drawings written all over it. He says only 14 other people have seen it and that some crazy White man has paid them monthly checks to keep sending the anthology around. For some strange reason 1 of the 14 gave the anthology to Abdul.

Hinckle Von Vampton rises, drags himself to the fireplace and leans against the wall above it. He is wheezing, gasping for breath. His respiratory system feels jammed with something so thick that had it been a plumbing system all of the Drāno in the world couldn’t relieve its burden.

Is there anything wrong, Hink?

These old war pains, W.W. I get them from time to time. Old war wounds.

O I didn’t know that you fought in the last war, sir.

I didn’t. I received them in another, loftier crusade. What war was that, Hink, the Spanish-American War?

I…I…How do you think that this Harding election will affect the Negroes, W.W.? Hinckle says in at attempt to change the subject.

Why…it’s funny that you should mention it, sir, they all call him the Race President.

What?

He was at a Rent Party I hear and was dipping his fork into the chitterlings and drinking liquor along with everybody else. Why that man is copacetic with me, Publisher Hink.

Hink?

Hinckle Von Vampton, sir?

Publisher Hinckle Von Vampton?

W.W. runs from the room to obtain aid for his employer who is stretched out on the floor, cold.

T
HE MU’TAFIKAH ARE HOLDING
a meeting in the basement of a 3-story building located at the edge of “Chinatown.” Upstairs is a store which deals in religious articles. Above this is a gun store; at the top, an advertising firm which deals in soap accounts. If Western History were a 3-story building located in downtown Manhattan during the 1920s it would resemble this little architectural number.

3 men, under an almost maroon red light, kneel on the basement’s concrete floor. Berbelang and Thor’s raincoats hang from a coat rack near the door. Propped against the wall are their dripping, black umbrellas. Some of the women
Mu’tafikah
in Garbo hats and speaking in brittle unadorned voices are standing around a long wooden table in the rear of the basement. Under a soft lamp they are coolly planning excursions into the Cloisters the Frick and the Met.

On the table lies a Nimba mask made of Guinea wood they’ve seized from a private collection belonging to a society woman on Park Ave. Other
Mu’tafikah
are carefully packing items. They are to be sent to a contact “Frank” somewhere in the Pacific Islands who will in turn ship them to their rightful owners in Asia. “Tam” a Nigerian musician and writer will return 5,000 masks and wood sculpture to Africa. He had begun by lifting a Benin bronze plaque with leopard from the Linden-Museum in Stuttgart, Germany. Before museum heads could warn their continental colleagues of his presence in Europe, he and his aides, posing as innocuous exchange students, had repatriated masks and figures—carried to Europe as booty from Nigeria, Gold Coast, Upper Volta and the Ivory Coast—from where they were exhibited in the pirate dens called museums located in Zurich, Florence, England and in a private collection in Milan. The Tristan Tzara collection, Paris; the Rietberg Museum, Zurich; Berlin’s Museum für Völkerkunde; Budapest’s Néprajzi; the Náprstkovo Museum, Prague; the Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, Leiden—none are spared invasions into their “primitive” collections by these cool soft-spoken, colorfully dressed Africans. Moving swiftly about Europe with the aid of sympathetic White students and intellectuals (yet unaffected by 1 of America’s deadlier and more ravaging germs: racism), they reap a harvest of their countrymen’s stolen work. (Their task is in many ways easier; for example, they don’t have to lift heavy sculpture or canvases. Some pieces are only a few inches.) The Jean-Pierre Hallet Collection of Kongolese sculpture is picked clean.

So effective is Tam that respectable, opulent chiselers must protect collections, locked up in their villas, with round-the-clock guards. Another man, a South African trumpeter, “Hugh,” is in L.A. transmitting Black American sounds on home. He realizes that the essential Pan-Africanism is artists relating across continents their craft, drumbeats from the aeons, sounds that are still with us.

Seneca masks are lying on another table. A delegation from the Cayuga and Onondaga Grand River Reservations in Canada are arriving shortly to return these to their tribes.

In another corner, some other
Mu’tafikah
are planning to invade the forthcoming Pre-Cortesian exhibit to be held at a leading museum. They want the Pulque Beaker, the Plumed Serpent with the controversial human face, some terra-cotta water spirits and mosaic knife handles. They repeat the names of the items aloud, the sound resembling subdued chanting. Berbelang always requests that the items to be liberated be committed to memory. In this way not a single item will be left behind. This group is also dealing with a momentous engineering feat—that of removing the 4½ ton Olmec head. They must think of a way to deliver it to Central America.

Berbelang, Yellow Jack and Thor Wintergreen are awaiting the arrival of another member of their team, José Fuentes. Soon there is a knock at the door. They hear Fuentes give the password.

Fuentes enters, shaking the rain from his seaman’s cap. He brings in a package that’s 6 feet 8 inches high, 2 feet 1 inch across.

What is it, Fuentes? Berbelang asks as the other teams look up from their work and toward Fuentes who, after hanging his raincoat on the rack, begins to open the package.

“The Hermit of a Chasm of the Forest” done delicately on rice paper. I relieved it from the Philadelphia Museum where it was on loan from the Cologne Museum of Far Eastern Art. I walked right past the guard.

Berbelang, Yellow Jack, Thor and Fuentes begin to examine the map of the Center of Art Detention that’s spread out on the floor. They pass a drinking vessel shaped like an Inca warrior’s head and filled with good old California vermouth; it’d been given by South American
Mu’tafikah
to the North American branch in recognition of their work and devotion to the cause.