Mumbo Jumbo (27 page)

Why, who would believe such nonsense; it’s the silliest, most fatuous thing I ever heard!

Listen folks. I’m the easiest guy in town to get along with, Hinckle says, turning to the guests. I just brought “Safecracker” Gould up here in blackface because I wanted to introduce the new Coon musical he is writing. The name of which will be
Harlem Tom Toms.
Those of you who are media people understand the benefits of promotion, don’t you? An ancient manuscript being sent around in circles. Absurd…who would have given it to Abdul in the 1st place.

I did.

The crowd turns to…to…Buddy Jackson!!

Jackson makes his way to the front of the crowd.

I was known on your list as Willie B. Johnson. I never met you but each month I received your checks which I gave to widow women and children who had no shoes. You see I am the Grand Master of the Boyer Grand Lodge #1 inaugurated March 18, 1845, by the Prince Hall Grand Lodge or African Lodge #1 chartered in 1776 by the Duke of Cumberland, Grand Master of the Grand Lodge of England. I am a representative of the United Brothers of Friendship, Sisters of the Mysterious 10, Daughters of the Prairie of the Benevolent Protective Herd of Buffaloes of the World, United Order of the Fisherman of Galilee of the Eastern and Western Hemispheres; I am a delegate from the Eastern Star, Grand Fountain Order of True Reformers and a troubleshooter for the locals: Crystal Fount, Rose of Sharon, Lily of the Valley, Good Intent, Ark of Safety, Neversink, Hand in Hand, Gassaway, Rising Star of the East and Mount Pisgah…at your service, Buddy says bowing, removing his checked-cloth cap and cigar.

Smiling, Black Herman, PaPa LaBas and Buddy Jackson exchange the ancient Black handshake, the vulva embracing the phallus.

But you’re nothing but a cheap hoodlum, a brown-skinned society matron covered with foxskins shouted arnchy from the rear.

Shut up you, Black Herman reprimands the woman, now embarrassed and shaking all over.

Permit me to introduce my Deputy Grand Warden, Junior Grand Warden, Grand Treasurer and Grand Secretary. Several men step forward, 2 of them the 1s who had abandoned their wigs in front of the Plantation Club the night Schlitz the “Sarge of Yorktown” got his.

But how did you become interested in the case, Buddy? LaBas asks.

The Caucasian lodges downtown didn’t want anything to do with us. They refused to recognize our lodges even though we had been chartered by Prince Hall who in turn was chartered by England. We didn’t want to be around them anyway; at least most of us didn’t. When our New York lodge requested a state charter they refused on grounds that we were “illegitimate.” They kept pulling this “exclusive territorial jurisdiction” business on us which means that there can only be 1 lodge in a state—their lodge. If this were true most of their lodges would be illegitimate and as a matter of fact according to Masonic scholars they are. They had 1 of their people, General Albert Pike, term us “inferior brutes” in a tract he authored entitled “Morals and Dogma” and in Appendix 1 of the 1899 proceedings of the Grand Lodge of Illinois we were called “ignorant, uneducated, immoral and untruthful.” We broke away from their National Compact, a document of questionable repute, and we changed our name from General Boyer Lodge named for a Haitian General to the United Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons. We still wondered why they kept up their assault even when we made it plain that we didn’t want anything to do with them. We decided to run their Caucasian lodge members out of Harlem. The members included everyone from Schlitz the “Sarge of Yorktown” to the Police Commissioner.

We felt that if we could run our own lodges, which involved bookkeeping, rules and regulations, that we could run our own businesses. But still the vicious campaign against us continued unmitigated. So you know what we did?

What, PaPa LaBas asks, keeping the pistol on Hinckle and “Safecracker” Gould, the grease paint now commingled with the sweat of Gould’s perspiring face.

We had some of our light-skinned brothers. You know, some of those invisible legions which extend all the way to the highest offices in the land. The loyal Blacks who are passing for White; soldiers of our 5th column that George Schuyler writes about—Prince Hall, the founder of the African Lodge #1, resembled a White man himself…well anyway we had the fair mulatto brothers infiltrate their Caucasian lodges and then we found out why they didn’t want us around and didn’t want us fooling with Masonry and naming our lodges Temple of Solomon so and so.

We found out about this Knights Templar, a Grand Master who had entered the country in 1890, and how he shunned them when they invited him to be with them because he looked down upon their knowledge of The Work. We learned what we always suspected, that the Masonic mysteries were of a Blacker origin than we thought and that this man had in his possession a Black sacred Book and how they were worried that we would find out and wouldn’t learn that the reason they wanted us out of the mysteries was because they were our mysteries! Get to that. They were accusing us of trespassing upon our own property. We didn’t care actually. We had invented our own texts and slang which are subject to the ridicule of their scholars who nevertheless always seem to want to hang out around us and come to our meetings and poke into our ceremonies. The Charter of the Daughters of the Eastern Star as you know is written in our mystery language which they call slang or dialect. 1 of the brothers told us 1 night that even the Catholic Mass was based upon a Black Egyptian celebration. Well, when they kind of suspected that we knew what was going on, they sent in the Sarge of Yorktown and his boys to do their Dirty Work. To get rid of me and my officers. It may have looked like a gang war but in reality it was a struggle between who were in the Know. The White man will never admit his real references. He will steal everything you have and still call you those names. He will drag out standards and talk about propriety. You can imagine my surprise when the Book came to me with Hinckle’s instructions. I decided to play along, sending it around for 14 times and accepting his fee, but on the 15th round I learned that Abdul knew the Egyptian writing and I gave it to him.

Much of the party by now is sitting on the steps leading to the upper bedrooms. Some have returned to another room where they are dancing. Others listen intently.

I am still skeptical, the Guianese art critic says. It could still be a trick. If you have the Book let us see it.

The others join in a chorus, requesting that LaBas show them the Book he found beneath the center of the Cotton Club’s dance floor.

Why certainly, PaPa LaBas answers. Herman, while I watch these 2 culprits will you please go and get…

His gangly assistant T Malice rushes into the room—

P
APA LABAS! BLACK HERMAN!
Jes Grew is dissolved! It’s all on the radio.

What! PaPa LaBas turns to Black Herman.

Aha! exclaims the Guianese art critic. That proves that your premise is not based upon sound empirical fact, he says, arching even the British accent. In times of social turbulence men like you always abandon reason and fall back upon Mumbo Jumbo. For if this Jes Grew delusion of yours was seeking its Work as you so crudely put it, and you were in possession of The Work then why has it fallen flat on its face? Answer that one!

Yes, answer that one, Hinckle and Hubert echo the Guianese art critic.

Now surrounded by supporters, the Guianese art critic Hank Rolling continues.

You don’t have to answer nothing, LaBas. Herman. Me and my men will help you carry these culprits to the lock-up if you want.

No, we will prove to these people that the Book is real. Otherwise they won’t take us seriously. Herman replies, rejecting Buddy Jackson’s offer.

The Guianese stands with some of the other guests. He has his arms folded and is tapping his foot. That scornful, triumphant smile again.

Go get the Book, T!

T Malice goes out to the car and returns with a huge gleaming box covered with snakes and scorpions shaped of sparkling gems.

The ladies intake their breath at such a gorgeous display. On the top can be seen the Knights Templar seal; 2 Knights riding Beaseauh, the Templars’ piebald horse. T Malice places the box down in the center of the floor and removes the 1st box, an iron box, and the 2nd box, which is bronze and shines so that they have to turn the ceiling lights down. And within this box is a sycamore box and under the sycamore, ebony, and under this ivory, then silver and finally gold and then…empty!!

The desecraters Hinckle and Gould exchange smiles.

We will deliver these men anyway, PaPa LaBas says as he and Black Herman begin to push Hinckle Von Hampton and Gould toward the door.

This is illegal, you can’t remove these men on the basis of such flimsy evidence, the Guianese protests, attempting to place his body between Gould, Vampton and their captors.

Buddy Jackson removes a blackjack from his back pocket and slugs the art critic, who sinks to the floor.

Just as LaBas and Herman and their assistants, the 6 unidentified men, and T Malice reach the door, it opens and in walk some proletariat Black women and their little children. The little children point to Hubert “Safecracker” Gould, author of a children’s anthology, 1-time carpetbagger, now “radical education expert” and former charter member of the Knights Templar known by this esteemed body as “the Caucasian blackamoor.”

That’s him, that’s the man, mommy, a pigtailed little girl cries, pointing out Hubert “Safecracker” Gould. He took our homework and hung around the school playground, taking down everything we said on a recorder.

The mamas rush across the room and commence bamming Hubert “Safecracker” Gould all about the arms and legs with their umbrellas.

No! Wait, sisters! Black Herman cautions, let us have him before you jump on him, we’ll take care of the child molester, be assured. Someone may call upon your children to give accounts of his deeds, but for now we’ll take care of him.

Black Herman, one of the mothers warns, wagging her finger in his face, you’d better do something with this man or else it’s going to be me and you.

Gratified that they will receive justice, the women leave the house.

Black Herman and LaBas leave with their captives but just before exiting the “Queen of Ubangi’s home” LaBas turns and gazes once again at this gathering which illuminated the florescence of the 20s like sapphire does, a stone sometimes confused with lapis lazuli, turquoise, and hyacinth but good as protection against spirits which would do us harm; the stone that steadies our nerves and wards off the Evil Eye.

Guarded by 3 men in each car, LaBas’ Locomobile and Herman’s President Straight 8, the party heads for Manhattan.

You’ll never make this stick. Biff Musclewhite is in Europe but he will return and he will release us from you so-called, would-be detectives, Vampton threatens, smiles confidently.

LaBas doesn’t pay heed to the prisoner he is carrying. When T Malice reaches 125th St. in Harlem the Locomobile turns right then downtown and another right toward a deserted pier.

Hey where are you going? The Tombs is downtown!

Well, as you said. LaBas answered, we’re jacklegged detectives and don’t have a license from New York authorities, but we have jurisdiction in Haiti though. We are delivering you to Other Authorities.

But…I don’t understand?

You’ll understand.

They reach the street of the deserted pier. It is midnight, blood on the moon.

What’s the meaning of this? Hinckle says as he is shoved out of the car. Black Herman and the others are removing Hubert “Safecracker” Gould from the President Straight 8. By this time he has been so harassed he is rumpled like a Harpo Marx caricature.

The men push the prisoners up the ramp of
The Black Plume
and into the stateroom. Benoit Battraville enters.

He feigns surprise. What have I done to deserve such a visit by such distinguished guests?

I’ll sue…I have connections. Why this ship is docked here illegally…you’d better let us go, I know plenty of people on high, Hinckle says.

Just a minute Hinckle, Benoit replies. We are going to take you on a little excursion.

Black Herman and LaBas, having delivered their promises, turn to leave.

There are some little children; Hubert “Safecracker” Gould solicited some manuscripts of theirs. If you want them to give evidence they will be glad to testify, LaBas offers.

Very good, Herman and LaBas. Thank you for your cooperation but I don’t think that we will need them.

LaBas pauses. You know Jes Grew is waning. What do you think happened, Benoit?

I know but I can’t say. I don’t think that we Haitians should intervene in your internal affairs. You will find out, figure it out for yourself, all that we can do is provide you with a base, being closer to Africa than yourselves.

The 3 men shake hands.

Well goodbye, Herman, LaBas, I wish you much success and luck. Remember to serve your own loas.

1 thing, LaBas asks. You said there was 1 more co-conspirator in town. How are you going to deal with him?

Ti Bouton is going to take care of him personally. A rare command performance by the master.

Hearing the protests of Hubert Gould and Hinckle, the 2 men leave the ship.

Why I’ll…I’ll take this all the way to the Supreme Court, Hinckle protests.

Yeah, me too, Hinckle, the Knight agrees with his Grand Master.

LaBas and Herman walk toward their cars.

I guess I won’t be seeing you for a year or so, LaBas.

Where are you on your way to?

Some Indian priests want me to recover a jewel missing from the great Buddha’s forehead. A Seek-Out job which should keep me busy for the next few months.

Call when you return.

Will do, Black Herman says, climbing into his car and driving away.

LaBas and T Malice head toward the Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral.

What do you suppose went wrong?

I don’t know, T, we should have opened the trunk which contained the Book but we were so excited we didn’t. Foolish.

When they reach Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral and start to enter they are accosted by a beggar, a white-haired, ragged beggar. The little Black man looks as if he hadn’t bathed in months, his clothes are in tatters, the buttons on his shabby overcoat missing. He looks as if he bore the pain of the ages in his eyes.