Part twenty-four of the Ishmael Gradsdovic papers finds Mr. G. covering mid-east peace after a review of his literary career...
The first piece of creative writing that I can remember having written was entitled "The Japs, They've Found Us." It concerned the trials of an American man and woman held in a Japanese POW camp during WWII who had to tunnel their way out with spoons, and sleep without pillows (actually, in the story's chivalric and romantic climax, the male lead offers the use of his rolled-up trousers to the female lead for pillowing) in the dark pit of their own devising, expecting at any moment to be awakened by the hot lead slung by their heartless captors. It was lavishly illustrated with the flags of the warring countries and drawings of guns. The critical reception, from my teacher, was mostly positive, although it was noted that most writers at my elementary school felt that four-letter curses, even while under fire from the vicious yellow enemy, distracted from rather than added to the overall artistic effect.
My first and only unfinished novel occupied much of my free writing time in junior high and up through my freshman year. It was a case study in pubescent Freudian imagery. War has been declared between the U.S. and the Soviet Union, and the parents of a group of small-town teenagers have somehow become privy to the knowledge that missiles are at this very moment on their way. They send their offspring up into the hills to hide in an abandoned, yet somewhat well-stocked mine shaft. Following the earth-shaking concussions, felt as visceral shudders even within the depths of the cave, comes deep soul-searching and worry over the fate of the parents who have apparently sacrificed their lives for their children. A sealed envelope is opened, giving advice about how best to survive the radioactive world. Another sealed envelope is opened after sufficient days have passed, with the instruction to continue the species. But apocalypse is an anaphrodesiac and it is some time before the well-ratioed mix can descend into shameless hedonism (at this point our dutiful narrator is compelled to inject some personal distaste into the story), only to be severely chastened by the courageous gentleman who has risked life and chromosome while the orgy was on to scout out the flattened and smoldering town for food and supplies. A pregnancy and a heart-rending death from radiation poisoning later, the remainder of our band of luckless survivors is searching for another band of paranoid but living human beings to share this charred world.
Later there was the band of guerillas: an old man with bladder trouble, a competent but distant leader, a young woman and her proud younger brother, all holed up in a small dark cellar of a building in the occupied city. Our protagoniste awakens early, cramped from troubled sleep; the cellar is too small, and everybody is sleeping in a pile against one another. She keeps her eyes closed so the others will think she is still asleep and she sees shadows on her eyelids from shadows on the curtain of the tiny street-level window and she hears garrulous voices of two occupation soldiers on leave going sightseeing. The night before she was out on the town, shmoozing it up with the brass, meeting some sad-faced, slightly drunk gentleman with a lot of patches and badges who just wished the war was over and he could take her far away from here to a place where buildings stay standing and people live out lives of boredom and saving money. Then, in the part of the park that the fire didn't reach, by the pond where the ducks used to raise ducklings, she kisses him and offers him her body. The others of her band appear in her field of vision, blotting out the far-away stars she used to wish upon as a child, they strike a quick and fatal blow to the enemy officer, the young brother continuing to pummel and kick the corpse in disgust. Stoicly, our heroine returns, unable to share even in the grim-faced regret-tinged triumph of her companions this time, to the cellar where the old man who is not very strong but who used to be in the army and knows how to repair a rifle will struggle with his bladder again in the morning.
Last night, while most of you were asleep, and while, in fact, I was as well, I was the U.S. representative at a party being thrown jointly by Jordan's King Hussein and Yassir Arafat to celebrate the peace processes both leaders have been dancing with Israel.
The digs were splendid and exotic in their own way, but also modest by what I consider a King's standards. Dress was clean and crisp and colorful, but substantially less starched than the tie & tails thing that diplomatic parties have become in the states. It seemed mostly like a group of important people secure behind teams of bodyguards letting down their hair to have a good time.
I was sitting off to the right of the featured guests, but still facing the majority of attendees. I don't even speak the language, but my position as the U.S.'s only representative gave me an honored seat. No hardcore diplomacy needed here, just be polite and enjoy the party. A kitten approaches me, adorable, I reach out my hand and beckon it nearer with baby talk. It turns to me sadly and says, "you only like me because I'm cute. What if I were ugly, what would you say then? How does anybody know who I am inside?"
King Hussein's son has been recruited to serve symbolically. Two thick ponchos, each in the distinctive traditional styles of Jordan & Palestine respectively, have been thrown over the boy's shoulders. Two long ribbons have been attached to the boy's back, and the two leaders are each holding an end, as if the reins of a horse. They hold this pose for some time, hamming it up for the cameras. This is a symbol of the peace process. The boy looks as though he deeply resents the whole affair, and when the ponchos are removed, he slinks away.
I overhear a television newsman describing the momentous historic occasion in English, probably for CNN. With very little formal announcement, the Mad Woman Singer enters stage left, walking slowly, eyes tightly shut, stout and old, she has a beautiful voice. She's singing something vaguely Persian a capella, and it's haunting and bittersweet even though I have no way of knowing the words. She's flipping an omelet the size and shape of a small pillow in a cast iron skillet as she walks and sings.
An American tourist walks by in shorts and sandals, momentarily blocking my view. I hear her mutter "that doesn't look too tasty," but she is ignored by the rest of those in attendance, who are enraptured, as I am, by the melody.
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