Our Man in Alexandria

Our Man in Alexandria

June 17, 1998

Stan sat patiently in the hot shade, the canvas awning overhead
smelling like Cleopatra's wig and looking to be as old. Could be, Stan
thought. This is Alexandria, after all. Of course, they didn't have
motorbikes in Cleopatra's time, but mouldy canvas, bad water, and
coffee sludge were all possibilities. Stan closed his eyes and tried to
imagine himself in an old black-and-white Hollywood film, something
like Casablanca, but without the Germans. The heat shackled him to his
chair like a prisoner of war awaiting interrogation. 'Expecting coffee
to cool in this heat is a triumph of optimism over physics,' he
thought,' not unlike hoping Harriett would never come back from her
shopping. Sooner or later, she'll at least need more money, that's for
sure.'

Ostensibly, Stan and Harriett were in Egypt to provide a local arts and
crafts company with technical assistance. This was a fancy way of
saying that the American government needed to burn two billion dollars
per year somehow and call it foreign aid to Egypt or Israel might turn
into a grease spot by the sea. It was a good deal all around, though,
especially for Harriett. She got a free shopping spree and all the hen
parties she could stand. Stan got bed and exceedingly bored. Oh yes,
and the arts and crafts company got to show off their captive American
couple for a month.

Harriett hunched the last few yards to the empty chair next to Stan,
her head gently swaying from side to side like an elephant plodding
through the last few yards of parched earth to a familiar watering
hole. She sported a beige safari shirt-and-skirt from Eddie Bauer,
sensible sneakers from the Foot Locker, and a baby-blue canvas sun hat
purchased in the hotel gift shop. She carried this afternoon's loot in
the powder blue canvas carryall provided by the Corps of Retired
Professionals in Service, who had so generously funded this expedition.
The bag had C.O.R.P.S. stitched on both sides in black with a little
American flag underneath.

Harriett stood before her sleeping husband, grinning momentarily,
secure in the knowledge that his nap was about to end. She plopped the
carryall on the ground, exhaled loudly, and flopped onto the
wire-backed chair next to Stan, causing it to screech sharply on the
cement floor. Stan's eyes popped open, and he slowly gathered into an
upright position on his chair, muscles aching and head throbbing from
the heat and foul air.

"Back already?" he asked.

"No, Stan, I'm still out shopping," she puffed.

"Ah, yes, thank you for the clarification," Stan countered.

This was an old game they played. Harriett frequently used irony in
clever ways to get her point across. Stan found it just as irritating
today as the day she started it 40 long years ago.

Stan and Harriett met at college. Within one week, everyone who knew
them said "Stan-and-Harriett" as if it were one word describing one
person. They were not far wrong in many ways. Stan and Harriett were
just a couple of na?ve college kids. They'd never dated much in high
school, certainly had no romantic involvements. They were a one-word
couple for a year before graduation. After Stan's stint in the Army,
they married, still virgins, or at least that's what they'd thought
about each other. Stan did have that one fling with a Korean bar girl
in 1958, but he liked to think of it as research rather than romance.
The results had shown promise, but when he returned home, there was
Harriett, waiting to greet him with open arms, so he just put the whole
thing out of his mind.

Those open arms, how well he remembered those open arms. Looking back
on it, those open arms took on a sinister appearance. Sitting here in
the afternoon heat, Stan wondered why he'd settled for so little so
soon and kept it so long. It was not good to think about such things at
his age, but Stan could not help it. Carbon monoxide and coffee had
that effect on him.

"Well, are you going to order something for me, or do I have to do it
myself?" she asked.

"What would you like, dear?" Stan countered.

"Coffee and a bottle of mineral water, unopened! For God's sake, make
sure it is unopened. You know how these Arabs are, always trying to
cheat us with their little tricks."

"Maybe you should lower your voice a little bit, Harriett," Stan
suggested.

"Just order me something and leave me alone. I've had a long
day."

'Yeah, all that shopping is a real drainer,' Stan thought, and motioned
for the waiter. 'Now that I think of it,' Stan mused, 'Harriett was not
a virgin on our wedding day either, at least not verifiably so. She
told me it was an "accident" she'd had during dressage practice with
her favorite horse, Panter.' Stan recalled thinking her story sounded
like the first half of a "virgin mary" joke of some kind, but he didn't
press the point because it could have brought up too many uncomfortable
questions about his own goings-on in Korea.

"One coffee, just like mine, and a bottle of mineral water, unopened
please," Stan told the waiter, looking out the corner of his eye for
Harriett's customary tight-lipped nod of approval. The waiter plodded
away expressionless.

'Those tight lips, pursing like a wall-eyed bass, sheltering his world
like a poison umbrella, lord what I would give never to see those
pursed lips again,' Stan thought. 'And come to think of it, I wonder
who the real "Panter" might have been. I bet it was that darned Bobbie
Cummings! He got more ass in college than a toilet seat. Old Bobbie
Cummings-and-Goings we called him, and he'd earned it too.'

"Stan!" Harriett exclaimed. "Pay attention when I'm talking. I asked
you what you did while I was shopping."

"Oh not much, just sat here thinking."

Harriett pursed her lips again and looked away from Stan and into the
crowd. Across the street she saw a rather large man in a white suit and
red fez. He appeared to be looking directly at them. Harriet poked Stan
and told him to look. Stan caught a brief glimpse of the man just
before a passing cart laden with bolts of linen cloth cut off his view.
The waiter arrived just then. Harriett forgot all about the mystery man
and focused on complaining about her coffee and water. Stan looked back
after the cart had passed, but by then the man was gone.

June 19, 1998

Stan was cat-napping again in his customary place at the coffee shop.
By now he was used to the heat and the fumes, at least enough so that
he didn't faint when he stood up. The owner now provided him with a
special chair, not one of those wire-backed stools, but a proper chair,
suitable for resting one's eyes as well as one's feet. 'Unconsciousness
has its rewards,' Stan told himself as he drifted in and out of sleep.
'Jung had a point there, the collective unconscious, for sure,
something like a bunch of Frat House boys passing out at a mixer, yeah,
I've been there, wouldn't mind going back either, if I had the chance,
but only if I could hook up with Vivienne this time, not Harriett, no
not Harriett again, wouldn't be worth the trip.'

Stan came to with a little start, looking around guiltily. 'No Harriett
is good Harriett,' he thought, relieved to see that nothing had changed
in the previous six minutes. Stan sipped his perpetually hot coffee,
returned his head to the back of his chair, and drifted off
again.

'"Vivienne, oh Vivienne, You Must Have Known Vivienne, Vivienne The
??,"'Stan sang in his dreams. 'No, Vivienne was no tattooed lady,
Captain Spaulding, at least not that I know, never had the pleasure you
see, and that's the problem, Oh Vivienne, such a lovely girl, French,
that cute accent. We almost became Stan-and-Vivienne, not
Stan-and-Harriett, Stan-and-Vivienne. Ah the sound of that is so
lovely, like Vivienne, such a clever girl, the black hair and black
eyes, so deep, her smile so inviting, she lilted through life so light
and airy, clutching her books to her chest, on to the next class,
waving at me her toothy Hi-Stan-See-You-Later?."

Stan opened his eyes slowly, trying to focus through the tears. He
leaned forward pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket. As he
daubed the tears from his eyes, Stan gradually noticed a large figure
standing in front of him, blocking his view of the street. Stan put on
his glasses.

"Hello Mr. Symmington. Stanley Symmington, I believe it is? Yes, well,
Mr. Symmington, my name is Akim Akbar Majouli. May I present my card,"
the man said in a mildly jovial and overly familiar way, handing a
visiting card to Stan.

Stan took the card and held it in his right hand, focusing through his
bifocals on the embossed lettering.

Akim Akbar Majouli
Ancient Egyptian Antiquities
Specialist in Exquisite Reproductions
Alexandria Frankfurt Paris Bangkok

Stan looked up and immediately recognized the man in the white suit and
red fez. He would be hard to miss. The Sidney Greenstreet physique,
white suit, and what looked like a Shriner's fez were such a clich?
Stan had to stifle a laugh now that he was fully awake. Even the face
and voice were similar, but Akim Akbar Majouli had a larger nose,
darker skin, longer and stiffer hair, and his voice was much deeper and
more inflected. Clown or no clown, Stan sensed there might be good
reason not to dismiss him quite so easily.

"How did you know my name?" Stan asked.

"I make it my business to know all the Westerners in Alexandria,
especially potential customers," he said.

"Customers?" Stan asked looking down again at the card. "What makes you
think I might be a customer for?ah?.Ancient Egyptian Antiquities, is
it?"

"Ah, Mr. Symmington, the mysteries of the ages hold a fascination for
all of us, do they not? And of course, your charming wife is quite
interested in souvenirs of all kinds, is she not?"

"Souvenirs, yes, and local crafts, and for that matter anything she can
carry," Stan said, warming up to the stranger. "But I don't know about
'ancient antiquities,' reproductions or not. Jewelry, maybe, but we can
get all the arts and crafts stuff we want for free from our client, so
what do you have in mind?"

"Something much more, shall we say special, than mere arts and crafts,
Mr. Symmington, delightful though such items may be. Jewellery may be
part of it, but?well?I would rather show you. A picture is worth a
thousand words and all that. I promise you will be impressed, and it
will only take a few minutes of your time. My office is quite close-by.
You can be back in less than one hour, you have my word. And my office
is fully air-conditioned."

Stan didn't really trust Akim Akbar Majouli any further than he could
throw him, which in this case was no distance at all, but he was
intrigued. The offer of air-conditioning clinched the deal.

"OK, let's go, but we must be back in less than one hour for sure,"
Stan said. Akim smiled, bowed gently from his ample waist, and motioned
'after you kind sir' with his right arm.

In no time at all, it seemed to Stan, they arrived at a small two-story
stucco building sadly in need of whitewash, or a wash of any kind for
that matter. Akim unlocked and opened the door, motioning for Stan to
enter. A light went on as Stan stepped into the room, duly
air-conditioned as promised. It was a small office with third-hand
metal-and-plastic furniture, a water cooler and coffee machine, one
telephone, and two old metal filing cabinets. Stan was not
impressed.

"Don't mind this," Akim said. "This is only for show, in case someone
looks in from the street. That way, we can avoid burglars. Nothing much
here worth stealing is there?"

"No," Stan said flatly. He was thinking of leaving.

"Please follow me upstairs, Mr Symmington" Akim said starting for the
stairs and motioning Stan to follow. Stan hesitated, then shrugged
'what the heck,' and followed his host up the stairs.

'Better than the basement, if there is one,' Stan thought, climbing the
stairs. Stan was, shall we say, bemused and beginning to relax a bit.
He had concluded that Akim was a harmless eccentric of some kind,
probably a crook, but not a serious criminal. Besides, this was Stan's
little walk on the wild side. He could tell this story over and over
for years.

Upstairs was very different indeed. It looked like the sales office in
a funeral parlour during the time of the Pharaohs. Stan counted 12
coffins on display, but these were not just any old coffins. They were
caskets for mummies, just like he'd in the museums and on the Discovery
Channel. It looked like a scene from some Saturday morning cartoon. It
was all Stan could do to keep from laughing.

"So THIS is what you mean by ancient Egyptian antiquities? Caskets?
Impressive, but what am I supposed to do with a casket? It's too big
for carryon luggage," Stan said in mock indignation, trying to keep a
straight face.

"Your reaction is entirely understandable, but please do not pass
judgement just yet, Mr. Symmington. For example, what might you think
is inside these caskets? Perhaps you might expect to find wax
reproductions of Abbott and Costello? Or Boris Karloff? Or even Jim
Carey? Perhaps you think that if you open the lid to the casket in
front of you, Richard Nixon will sit up and stick his tongue out at
you? Please, go ahead an open it. You will not be hurt, I
promise."

Stan whinnied out a horse laugh he was sure could be heard three blocks
away and just kept on laughing. He bent forward holding his aching
stomach and leaned against the nearest casket with his right
hand.

"OK, I?.I'll?.bite?.," Stan managed to get out through the laughing.
Akim stood smiling silently as Stan laughed and lifted the lid of the
casket.

The lid barely opened an inch when it flung open all the way under its
own power. Stan stumbled back as Richard Nixon sprang to a sitting
position in the casket.

"I am not a crook!" the former President cried out, giving the victory
sign in both raised hands and shaking his jowls from side to side,
sticking his tongue out at Stan. "I am not a crook!" he repeated, sweat
forming on his upper lip. "I?..I?..I am not a crook, and stop playing
that 'Sock It To Me' clip. It was supposed to be a joke! Don't you
understand? A Joke!" And with that, Richard Nixon pulled the casket lid
down over himself with a sharp report and all was silent again.

Stan slowly regained his composure, leaning up against the wall,
sweating in the air-conditioned room, trying desperately not to wet his
trousers.

"WHAT WAS THAT?" he yelled.

Akim smiled and tapped three times on the floor with a black walking
stick. Tap, Tap, Tap.

All twelve caskets opened at once, twelve Richard Nixons sprang to a
seated position and repeated the "I am not a crook!" routine three
times, then flopped back into their caskets, pulling the lids down over
top of them with a single harmonic "phlump" sound. Again all was
silent, except for the gentle straining sound of the
air-conditioner.

"I call that the Synchronized Casket Chorus," Akim
observed."Impressive, is it not?"

Stan had stopped laughing. He stared at the silent caskets in
disbelief. He turned towards Akim, then to the caskets, then back to
Akim.

"OK. What was that all about?" he asked feigning menace like the
frightened schoolboy he was right then.

"Impressed, are you? I was hoping you would be. I may be the only
person alive today who could arrange such a magnificent display. And I
did it all for you, Mr Symmington," Akim intoned and bowed with a brief
flourish of his arms.

Stan looked back at the caskets and placed his hand at the edge of the
lid of the nearest one, as if about to open it. He looked questioningly
at Akim.

"Go ahead. You won't be hurt."

Stan slowly lifted the lid. Nothing. It was empty. No Nixon. No mummy.
Nothing. He raced from one casket to the next, pulling the lids off.
Nothing. They were all empty, and it looked like they had been empty
for a long time.

"Where did they go?" Stan asked.

"Questions can be such an unnecessary burden, Mr. Symmington. Let's
just say I arranged it for you, shall we? And very convincingly at
that, am I right, Mr. Symmington?"

"Yes, but I'm tempted to walk out of here right now," Stan said.

"You are free to do as you wish, but before you go, perhaps you would
at least like to consider my proposition?" Akim said smiling his little
smile.

Stan hesitated. He was well aware of the trajectory of this kind of
logic. It could carry him effortlessly from one small error in
judgement to the next until he had made a huge cumulative mistake, the
kind to which Harriett was living testament.

"Oh OK, why not? I've come this far. I might as well see the rest of
your hand."

"You will not regret your decision, Mr. Symmington. Please sit here, if
you will," Akim said and motioned to an old Chesterfield chair next to
a very old wooden desk. Akim sat down on a swivel chair in front of the
desk, as Stan settled into his chair's invitingly creased
leather.

"Now, Mr. Symmington, I just need to verify a few facts first. I
understand you knew a young lady many years ago named Vivienne, French
I believe she was. You met her in college it says here. Unfortunately,
you lost track of Vivienne after becoming involved with Harriett, whom
you subsequently married. You are still married to Harriett, in fact
she is with you here in Alexandria. You have no idea where Vivienne
might be living, or even if she is still alive. You and Harriett have
no children. Is that substantially correct?"

"Yes, it is, and I should probably do us both a favor and not ask how
you know all that. Am I right?" Stan sighed.

"Well, done, Mr. Symmington. Let's just say I am very thorough. Now my
question to you is simple: would you like to be reunited with Vivienne?
It can be arranged," Akim said and smiled.

" And what exactly do you mean by 'reunited?'" Stan asked gamely. He
was playing along for laughs at this point, half expecting Akim to say
"smile you're on Candid Camera" at any moment.

"I mean I will bring you and Vivienne together again, today if you
like. She is a delightful lady, I must say. Absolutely delightful. I
spoke with her just yesterday. She very much wants to see you again,
Mr. Symmington. She talked about nothing else. And before you ask, yes,
you will be able to stay with her this time. The choice will be
yours."

Stan didn't believe a word of this. Even if by some miracle Akim could
produce Vivienne, he mused, there would still be the question of
Harriett, not to mention the possibility that he and Vivienne might not
hit it off so well after all these years. Then again, just thinking
about it proved that Stan's cynicism was weakening. He pressed
on.

"So where is she? Can I see her before I decide? How much will this
cost? How can I be sure it's not a trick?" Stan asked in a mock serious
manner, hoping in vain to throw Akim off balance.

"Of course you can see her. Wait one moment," Akim said and pushed a
small button underneath the desk. A door opened just to the left of
where Stan sat. He turned and saw Vivienne enter the room. She walked
straight up to him, extended her hand and spoke:

"Bonjour, Stanley, it has indeed been a very long time, has it not? You
are looking well! What do you think, after all these years?" she asked,
spinning around twice so Stan could get a good look. She was dressed in
loose-fitting beige linen slacks and a billowy white cotton shirt, long
sleeves rolled up just above the elbows.

"Vivienne! My God, you look wonderful! Is that really you? I can't
believe this is happening! What are you doing in Alexandria?" Stan
blurted out.

"Oh thank you for the compliment, you were always so nice! And yes, it
really is me, believe it, it is me, and I'm here to meet YOU, Stanley,"
she said cheerfully. Stan began to grin. It was Vivienne after all, and
she had aged well, astonishingly so. She hardly looked forty, though
Stan knew she must be in her early sixties, just like him. Vivienne
leaned forward, gave him a little peck on the check, swirled around and
left the room. Just before closing the door, she looked back, flashed
that quirky smile he loved so much, then winked, and blew him a kiss.
The door closed with a gentle donk-click.

"So, Mr. Symmington, what do you think now?" Akim asked.

Stan wasn't sure what he thought, but the more he thought, the more he
wanted to know. He demanded the full story from Akim, who was more than
willing to oblige.

"I am a facilitator of dreams, as it were," Akim began. "I am made
aware of people, such as yourself, who have, shall we say, a desire to
rectify an unpleasant state of affairs. Let's be honest, Mr.
Symmington, you always wished you had married Vivienne, or had at least
given it a try. Yet you settled for Harriett. We need not concern
ourselves at this late date with all the reasons. Let us just say, it
was a wrong turn and leave it at that.

"Now, I am offering you a second chance. I make no promises about the
outcome, of course. I am merely offering you a second chance. Still,
based upon my past experiences and my observations so far, I would
conclude that your chances for happiness are very good, I might even
say much better than average."
Seeing Vivienne again had changed everything for Stan. He couldn't stop
thinking her and all those years they might have had together. Of
course, he knew it was a fantasy. Reality never quite measures up, but
it was a wonderful fantasy. Stan looked at the caskets. He wanted to
bury the last 40 years someplace it would never be found.

"What do I have to do," Stan asked, his mind made up.

"Just go through that door," Akim said. "Vivienne is waiting for you on
the other side. That's all there is to it. No strings. You can leave
any time you want and go back to your old life. Of course, I've done
this many times and no one has ever come back, but still, the choice
will be yours."

Stan rose from his chair. Giving Akim one last look, he strode to the
door, opened it, and crossed to the other side.

Akim sighed contentedly and folded is hands over his stomach. Rolling
his eyes towards the ceiling, he chuckled softly, thinking about Dick
Nixon's Casket Chorus. "Ah, that one gets the Americans every time," he
said aloud, "doesn't it, Father?"

The Swiss clock mounted on the wall above Akim's desk sprang open with
a loud thwang. A wooden cuckoo bird shot forward on the clock's metal
tongue, smoking a cigar.

"Hooo-haaaa! Hooo-haaaa! Ya got that straight, sonny boy. Two in one
day! Yaz in da Big League now! Hooo-haaaa! Hooo-haaaa! Give the fat kid
a cigar!" the bird said, handing Akim a cigar and blowing a triple
smoke ring towards the door.

"Thank you, Father. Just doing my job," Akim responded, rolling his
eyes skyward again. Akim loved his Old Man, but sometimes the guy's
sense of humor was a bit much.

"Keep up the good work, kid. I've got a reputation to maintain.
Hooo-haaaa! Hooo-haaaa!" the bird spoke and snapped back inside the
clock, shutting the trap door after him.

Akim sat still for a few moments, looking at the little door on the
cuckoo clock. He sighed gently. 'Rarely a dull moment in this job,' he
mused. 'I wonder where I will be sent next? I've heard that New York
City in the autumn is nice.'

Akim took down a large ledger book. He made two entries for June 19,
1998:

10 AM Harriett Symmington reunited with Bobbie Cummings.

3 PM Stanley Symmington reunited with Vivienne Bernot.

He closed the ledger and returned it to the shelf.

'Ah yes, New York,' he imagined, sitting back and looking at the clock
again. 'A change will do me good. I wonder who I will look like this
time?'