I have no idea how long I slept, but now I’m awake, risen by the bed-side phone. These phones have stopped ringing a long time ago unless it’s from the reception desk, meaning a visitor is calling whose name is something like Shah Ruk Khan. He has an Indian accent and informs me that he’s ordered “on the highest authority to present a gift to the young sirs-—a bestowal from His Serene Highness.” Three minutes later a midget with a turban enters the room, ushered in by manager Luigi himself, and followed by a nerdy-looking porter pushing a dolly. On the dolly sits a very large box, wrapped cross-wise in silky red ribbon, looking like an over-sized Christmas present. Jamie raises his eyes from his math book. Luigi exits with some ado.
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| "The statue is bound to live an interesting life of its own." |
The midget turban-—oriental tails in white colors, pantaloon trouser from 1001 Nights, dim, yet fierce dark eyes-—bows elaborately. He submits his heart-felt apologies for taking the precious time of the young, distinguished sirs, but it has pleased his Serene Highness to extend the humblest bestowal upon the Esquire Dexter Williamson Berkeley and his good friend, the Esquire James Hardy Hansom. He bows some more at the queer pair on the canopied bed, at the space left between Jamie and me, meaning he doesn’t know who is who.
“How do you know our names?” Jamie asks.
The turban ignores the question. Whether we would be willing to accept said bestowal, he asks. I look at Jamie. “Sure,” my good friend answers. “What is it?”
The turban motions the porter, who proceeds to undo the red-ribbon bow atop the box. The cover is lifted, and the sides fall apart to reveal a life-size figure, naked by all accounts, and resembling somebody or something we already know, namely the statue of Michelangelo’s David. Unlike the marbled original, however, this simulacrum isn’t Carrara-white, but skin-toned, resembling a real human, if you will, and in its right hand it clinches a little black box, looking like a remote control.
“A compact manifold,” Jamie says with his involuntary sense of humor. “Always useful.”
The turban raises a hand, harrumphs. “The bestowal is shaped according to the most priceless statue known to mankind,” he holds forth. “It represents stupendously more, however, as it has been fashioned according to the latest principles of foreign-returned craftsmanship.” Sacred vows and a certain sense of showmanship bind him (the turban) to a sealed mouth, but the young sirs should not be surprised if the statue is bound to live an interesting life of its own. And should that happen, His Highness, or-—should His Highness happen to be engaged otherwise, which is quite often the case, naturally-—his most distinguished underlings-—courtiers at the very top of the servile food chain-—would be happy to answer any questions at hand, were it by telephone, electronic mail, or other channels of world-wide communication.
With this, the turban fingers in a side-pocket and hands me a calling call, naming His Serene Highness Haiba Kusho Moja, PoZ. There’s also a 255-prefixed number and an email address, which—-something of a downer—-reads: info@palace.zb. I hand the card to Jamie.
“PoZ,” Jamie ask the turban, “what does that mean?”
“Prince of Zanzibar,” the turban replies.
“Zanzibar,” Jamie says, “that's an island off the African east coast, isn’t it, not far from Kenya?”
“Most certainly so, young sir,” the turban replies. He now passes a glance at the porter, who points at the black box in David’s—-the statue’s—-hand.
“Ooh, yes,” the turban says. “I have no plans to intrude any further on the valuable time of the young sirs, however…” He motions the porter who motions at the statue which springs to life—-I’m not making this up—-springs to life and hands its box to the porter. The porter, in turn, hands it to the turban. The turban stares at the thing, hands it back to the porter, and nods ostentatiously, the way Laurel always nods at Hardy (in these silent flicks). The porter clears his throat, adjust his spectacles, and says with a quaky voice, not Indian-accented but British, Cockney perhaps: “Lads, he’s the best we can do at the moment. We call him Daviddo. Davvido is the local pet name for David, David of Michelangelo fame, I s’ppose you know. Daviddo is ay queer prototype, beta, I’d say, although some blokes at the lab call him alpha. So, lads, watch out. If anything unforeseen happens, push the red button here”—-he holds up the face of device, a typical media-remote decorated with many buttons, several red buttons included—-“and the bloody thing will stop.” He pauses, cackles: “But first, enroll in a good Japanese engineering school.”
“Huh?” Jamie asks.
“Just a joke, lads. He’s not Japanese”---the nerd cackles some more, pointing at Daviddo---“but he’s, uh, foreign-returned. Good Luck.” He hands the remote to Jamie.
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