Chapter Four
It was a hot, sunny afternoon in early June when the tourist-packed ocean liner pulled into Beira, in central Mozambique – the chief port on the coast and gateway to the Zambesi River. Supply ships, sailboats and rafts lined the marina. Merchants and sailors of all nationalities crowded the docks, unloading goods that, like in any other such place in the world, were often of a dubious nature. Small shops and restaurants cluttered the waterfront, with rows of single story, low square homes behind them. Tall, healthy palm trees surrounded the entire area.
Indiana Jones was taken aback by the sight as he stepped onto the ocean liner’s exit ramp. He’d been here a few times before, and in countless similar places, but he never quite got used to the exotic feeling, the tingling sense of possibility. He looked cursorily to see if any of the vendors might be selling something akin to a razor; he’d forgotten his at home and now sported three weeks’ worth of stubble.
Crowds of pedestrians leaped out of the way as a loud car horn sounded and a rusted, yellow Model T came barreling along the rickety dock. The word “TAXI” was crudely painted in English and Portuguese on the car’s trembling doors, and its tires threatened to wobble loose. Thick black smoke poured from the cracked exhaust pipe and the entire assembly rattled and ground like an old man having a coronary. It was apparently one of the first vehicles to have come off Mr. Ford’s assembly line, and must have seen some rough treatment even then.
The car screeched to a halt at the foot of the ocean liner’s ramp and a rough, unkempt Makua man jumped out. Despite his obvious age he possessed the energy and vitality of a youth. His snow white hair and beard were spiked and his tattered, dirty clothes were many sizes too large for his scrawny body. Homemade crocodile sandals flopped on his feet. Even from a distance his blue eyes, extremely rare for anyone of black African descent, shone like sapphires.
When the man spotted Indy, he broke into a wild grin and darted up the ramp, weaving through the startled crowd of people. He stopped a few feet in front of Indy and waved his arms before himself in a strange fashion. Then, he embraced the startled American. “Dr. Jones! At last I meet you!” he said in a Portuguese accent. “Dr. Brody has told me so much about you!” He looked to the sky. “Oh, Keechingo, God of Friendship... I thank you for granting my wish!”
Indy pulled away as politely as he could. Hugging Marcus was awkward enough, but this old man he’d never met didn’t exactly smell like a bed of roses. The interracial aspect would have also bothered some of his less experienced colleagues, but he had befriended people of other races since childhood. “You must be the expedition guide,” he said.
The man nodded enthusiastically. “Scraggy Brier. You call me Scraggy,” he said. He moved to assist Indy with his luggage, but before picking up the suitcases – Indy had finally relented at the last minute and brought another one – he raised his arm over them and repeated the motion he had done a moment ago. He laughed at Indy’s questioning look. “Mahootmek, God of Goodness, say ‘Before body make contact with foreign object... one must cast out bad spirits, or –”
“– or bad spirits will enter your body,” Indy finished. He remembered Marcus explaining that to him before he left. Scraggy could have provided an interesting anthropological study all on his own, as his gods and rituals bore little resemblance to any known culture. Marcus surmised that he had started the whole routine to mess around with tourists, but over the years had grown to actually believe in it. Indy wondered how many religions had gotten their start that way.
“Yes!” Scraggy said. “You know much already, Indy.”
“That’s my job.” He remembered something else Marcus had mentioned. “Are you gonna be wearing the same clothes for three weeks straight?”
“Never separate body from clothes, or bad spirits will hide in pockets!” Scraggy affirmed.
“In other words,” Indy said, “if people never changed clothes, there would be no evil in the world.”
Scraggy missed his facetious tone. “Exactly!”
Indy groaned on the inside. He respected anyone’s beliefs, but only to the extent that they didn’t impose on him, and the anticipated odors threatened to do just that. All he said out loud was, “Whatever.”
But Scraggy seemed to read his thoughts, and his manner grew deadly serious. “They not so crazy, Indy,” he said, and his tone made the other man look at him, to see that his eyes were wide with fear. “These days... there is much evil in the air. I feel it. Everywhere.”
Indy shrugged off the chill from these words and started back down the ramp toward the waiting excuse for a car. He did not see the ugly German “tourist” in the crowd a few feet away and would not have looked twice if he had.
***
As Wachtmeister Helmut Gutterbuhg watched the arriving American and old native, he drew from his pocket a tiny, mechanical item resembling a cockroach - a miniature radio transmitter and another triumph of Fatherland technology, though nothing compared to his own arm. In German, he whispered into it, “Are we making contact?”
The roach’s eyes blinked bright red. Gutterbuhg smiled.
***
Indy and Scraggy arrived at the taxi. “I see you repainted it,” Indy commented. “Back in the States we had a saying about the Model T – that you could get them in any color you want, as long as it was black.”
“I like yellow better,” Scraggy said. “I get enough black from the people here.”
Indy didn’t know if he should laugh at that, but he couldn’t help it.
While Scraggy secured the baggage to the roof, Indy opened the cab’s rear door, careful not to rip it from its hinges. As he tried to climb in, however, he was met with a swift kick to the stomach and fell to the ground hard as the wind rushed out of him.
Scraggy ran to the open door. “Dr. Clarke!” he scolded. “Why you kick Dr. Jones?”
Dr. Clare Clarke stepped from the shadows of the car and Indy, from his fetal position on the ground, felt he was suddenly in the presence of a goddess. She was much more beautiful in color; he saw now that her hair was bright red, and behind her glasses she sported a pair of sparkling green eyes. Though her bearing was very prim and proper, something about her conveyed a sense of intelligence and a quick wit. She was dressed in khaki slacks and shirt. From here Indy had an exquisite view of her shapely long legs and well-toned thighs. Why, he wondered, don’t we as a society encourage women to wear pants?
Dr. Clarke hurriedly knelt down to assist him to his feet. “Dr. Jones!” she said with a slight British accent. “Forgive me.”
When she grabbed his hand, he felt a tingle through his whole body. “No sweat,” he said grinning stupidly. I’d forgive you for stabbing me, sister.
She brushed her hair back self-consciously. “Thought I was being attacked by a degenerate sailor.”
“No,” Indy said. “Just a degenerate archeologist.”
“Your appearance is deceiving.”
“Likewise.” Why’d I have to forget the damned razor?
They exchanged a handshake and a smile. Indy swooned.
“Indiana Jones!” someone shouted. “Calling passenger Indiana Jones!”
He turned to see a ship porter walking through the crowd, pushing a large barrel on a dolly. “I’m him,” he said, confused, waving the man over. The porter stopped in front of him.
“You left this aboard ship,” he said.
Indy frowned. “There must be some mistake... I didn’t –”
The porter pointed to a section of the barrel that read DELIVER TO: DR. INDIANA JONES. “That’s you, ain’t it?”
“Well, yeah... but...”
The porter dropped the barrel in front of him and hurried back to the ship. Like them, he did not glance at the dark alleyway or see Gutterbuhg hiding in it.
Curious, Indy tried to pry the barrel open. Scraggy shouted a warning. “Indy! Remember Mahootmek, God of Goodness! ‘Before body make contact with foreign object, you must cast out bad spirits!’”
Indy ignored him. The barrel top was proving rather difficult, and though this wasn’t the best circumstance to try and impress Dr. Clarke, he figured the less time wasted the better. “May I call you ‘Clare’?” he asked.
She blushed slightly – or was he imagining it? “Please.”
“Well, Clare, we’ve obviously got a lot of notes to compare. Let’s get started tonight...” all or nothing now, big guy “– over dinner.”
She smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
His heart soared, and he attacked the barrel’s lid with renewed vigor. “Friend of mine owns a great little café,” he continued, unable to stop. “He’ll get us a nice quiet table. No disturbances. Just the two of us –”
At that moment, the barrel lid flew off, nearly knocking Indy off his feet. The inside was filled to the brim with old brown banana peels. Betsy Tuffet’s head poked through the top of them.
Indy boggled. “Wha –?”
Scraggy sighed. “I warn you, Indy! You must always cast out bad spirits!”
Filthy, unkempt, and wearing the same top and skirt as the night he had left, Betsy leaped from the barrel, scattering banana peels, and threw her arms around him. “My precious!” she cried happily.
Clare raised an eyebrow. “Your daughter?”
“My assistant,” he corrected.
“His girlfriend,” Betsy insisted.
“A child!” Clare said in revulsion.
“It’s nothing. Really,” he pleaded, realizing everything was going downhill for him quickly. He turned back to Betsy and pulled her off of him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Proving my love for you,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
“How terribly sordid,” Clare said dryly.
“Puppy love,” he insisted. “Schoolgirl crush. She’ll get over it.”
“Never,” Betsy proclaimed, placing her hands on her hips. “This proves that nothing can come between us. Not an ocean. Not two separate continents.”
“I think I’m going to be ill,” Clare said.
That brought up another point – “How... I mean... how could you stay alive?”
Betsy smiled. “Hey... I’m from Brooklyn.”
“But we’ve been sailing for three weeks!”
“Stowed away in the banana barrel. Ate my way to the bottom.”
Indy shook his head. “But then – much as I like to pretend women don’t – er – that is to say, how did you –?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Charming,” Clare said, nauseated.
Betsy jerked a thumb at her. “Hey, Indy, who’s the babe?”
Clare stiffened, and her accent seemed to intensify. “Your intellectual and emotional superior.”
“Yeah? Well you’re gettin’ on my nerves, Miss... Miss...”
Clare extended a hand, determined to remain civilized. “Doctor Clare Clarke.”
Betsy shook the hand, making no effort to hide her distaste. “Betsy Tuffet...”
Clare could not hide a smirk. “As in curds and whey?”
Betsy adopted her tough face. “Listen, sister... you better stay away from Indy...”
Clare waved her off. “My dear, I’m sure he has no interest in me. I’ve already celebrated my tenth birthday.”
Indy glared at her; Betsy didn’t need her self-esteem damaged any further. Before the girl could retort, he removed a wad of bills – badly needed expedition funds from Marcus’s personal savings – and handed them to her. “Look, Betsy,” he said, “why don’t you get back on the boat. This time, as a passenger.”
“Too late, Indy,” Scraggy said, pointing toward the ocean liner. It was several feet from shore and moving away fast.
Indy steamed. “When’s the next one out?”
“Two weeks.”
Indy grumbled. Amused, Dr. Clarke got back into the car. Indy shoved Betsy inside after her, furious. This is going to ruin everything. I didn’t sign on to be a damned babysitter.
Before he could get into the car, an ugly German tourist brushed against him, mumbling an apology. Indy didn’t notice the man toss a tiny mechanical cockroach at him, or feel the lightweight object attach itself to his trouser leg. He climbed in after Betsy. Scraggy blessed the taxi just in case, although it was not a foreign object any longer, and got into the driver’s seat.
Gutterbuhg watched the battered vehicle drive off. Then he turned and headed in the opposite direction, headed for a seedy waterfront hotel.
***
He walked through the dimly lit lobby, filled with dusty, tacky replicas of African furnishings. He could barely stand to look at them, relics as they were of the primitive excuse for a culture surrounding him. He could barely stand to be in this country at all, but such sacrifices had to be made for the time being. For his Führer, for the Fatherland, he would have stayed here ten years.
The man behind the desk was fast asleep, retreating from the midday heat. Gutterbuhg quietly turned a corner into a narrow, decrepit hallway and walked until he came to the last doorway, room 113. He opened it with his key and entered.
It was a small, musty hotel room furnished with a single bed, a sofa, two chairs and a fireplace. Two bizarre African statues adorned the fireplace mantle. Gutterbuhg carefully locked the door and walked to the left statue. Tilting it forward, he was gratified by a mechanical, creaking sound beneath his feet. The sofa began to move. It slid a few feet, revealing an opening beneath the floor. A staircase led into the opening. Glancing around the room one last time, Gutterbuhg descended the stairs.
He entered a large, brightly lit room, filled with various communications equipment and radio transmitters. Several German soldiers, members of both the Wehrmacht and Ahnenerbe and able to wear their uniforms openly in this secret enclave, sat before the equipment, monitoring various radio signals. An enormous glass panel covered one wall, behind which two long, sleek, mahogany hulled speedboats floated in the water of another man-made chamber. Gutterbuhg would have liked the speedboats to be adorned with swastikas, but he realized how imprudent that would be. Directly beside them, two glistening brand new automobiles were parked on a stone incline; enormous, beautiful “woodies”, equipped with running boards and wood paneled sides.
The secret base had existed since shortly after Adolf Hitler’s rise to power. His desire to rule the world was a secret from no one who had bothered to read Mein Kampf (even the obsequiously censored English version) and although military conquests were still in the planning stages – they would be complete and successful after this mission was accomplished – the Nazis had found it expedient from day one to insert themselves subtly into every nook and cranny of the world, and help the Aryan struggle along in whatever ways they could without causing an uproar.
He turned to Klaus, a hulking brute of a Nazi who stood in the corner and apparently sought to ruin the image of Reich perfection. He already knew what he would find. With a sigh, he pointed at Klaus’s feet and shouted, “Schnürsenkel binden Sie Ihre!”
Klaus looked down at the long string dangling from his boot. Grinning sheepishly, he knelt down to retie it.
Gutterbuhg turned to a young officer who sat at a radio receiver wearing headphones and listening for a transmission. He was about to ask the man a question, when a long shadow fell over both of them. He turned, and fear spread over his face. The shadow raised its arm in the traditional salute but did not speak. Gutterbuhg returned the movement, remembering just in time to use his right arm.
Oberleutnant Werner von Mephisto glared down at him. “Were you successful?” he demanded.
Gutterbuhg nodded timidly. With trembling fingers, he reached over and turned up the volume of the of the transmission. With just a slight amount of static, a young female voice became clear echoing through a tinny speaker: “...do you think you are, anyhow?”
A slightly older woman’s voice: “A respected anthropologist, who doesn’t have time to waste prattling with a conceited brat like you.”
An elderly man’s voice with a Portuguese accent: “See, Indy, I tell you to bless barrel before opening. You see what happen?”
A younger man’s voice, clearest of all: “This is gonna be a long trip.”
Mephisto managed a pleased grunt. “That’s them, no mistake,” he said. “Keep a record of everything that is said.”
Gutterbuhg nudged the officer before him, who hurriedly began scrawling a transcription of the transmission.
Mephisto nodded. “This is better than we could have hoped for. Dr. Jones has been directly responsible for Ahnenerbe losses on many expeditions ever since its inception. The Führer is very interested in his adventures. Very interested.”
***
Small manmade lakes and palm trees surrounded the peaceful little zoo compound with its countless metal cages filled with various animals. The tigers, lions, bears and other violent creatures were kept behind these bars, but the llamas, giraffes, deer and other tame herbivores were free to roam the compound grounds.
“This is where I work,” Clare said, walking in with Indy, Betsy and Scraggy in tow. “‘Parque Maravilhas Naturais’. ‘Natural Wonders Park’. Personally I don’t think it’s all that natural, but they try.”
“It’s breathtaking,” Indy said, and he meant it - he wasn’t just trying to impress her. As Betsy tried persistently to snuggle closer to him, he pushed her away in annoyance. She tried to hold his hand, and he shook her loose. Scraggy watched them and giggled to himself.
“That it is,” Clare agreed. “There’s no place in the world I’d rather work, except maybe out in the jungle itself.” She waved to a zookeeper as he opened the lion cage. “Evening, Alvaro,” she said.
“Evening, Senhora Clarke,” he responded in a much thicker Portuguese accent than Scraggy’s. He was also black, but his skin was lightened somewhat by Portuguese blood. “Just gone to see Tyki. He’s happy as a clam.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said. “That’s where we’re headed.”
A high-pitched beautiful voice, singing in an unfamiliar language, became audible. Clare walked to the far end of the compound, toward it, followed by the others. She gave a friendly pat on the head to a large chimpanzee as they passed him. The chimpanzee was about to go his separate way when he caught a whiff of something familiar and began to follow them.
Clare opened the door of a large metal cage that was obviously the source of the singing. She entered with Indy close behind. Scraggy blessed the cage, then entered. Betsy moved to go inside, but a large hairy hand wrapped itself around her arm and pulled her back before the girl could scream.
The cage was filled with handmade wooden and bamboo furniture. Tyki, the pygmy from Marcus’s film, stood inside. He was dressed only in a belted leather loin cloth and sandals and sat perched on the floor, working on a large tapestry. It depicted a colorful picture of clouds with the buildings of a large city reflected on them. As he did his work he sang pleasantly.
Upon hearing the cage door open, Tyki looked up. The moment he saw Clare a joyous smile covered his face and he ran over to her, giving her a huge hug and kiss. She returned the favor and motioned at the others. “Tyki,” she said, “this is Dr. Jones.”
Tyki extended his right hand and Indy shook it, charmed by the display of friendship. He smiled at Clare. “He’s a real gentleman.”
Clare shrugged dismissively. “Just basic manners. What it takes most men a lifetime to learn, Tyki’s accomplished in two weeks.” She pointed at Scraggy. “This is our guide, Scraggy Brier. And Miss Bets –” She paused, noticing that Betsy was gone. Then she suddenly broke into a laugh.
Everyone followed her gaze to outside the cage, where the chimpanzee was affectionately pulling and grabbing at Betsy, doing almost exactly what she had done to Indy. She wrestled with him futilely, unwilling to call attention to her predicament by calling for help.
The others chuckled. “It appears that Bonzo is attracted to Miss Tuffet’s perfume,” Clare said. “Eau de Banana Peel.”
Tyki had lost interest in the visitors and gone back to his artwork. Indy decided Betsy wasn’t in urgent need of rescuing and, fascinated, looked over the pygmy’s shoulder. “Where did you find him?”
“About ten miles from here,” Clare said. “We were on a photographic expedition in the thick of the jungle when I heard sounds. Whimpering. Moaning. I took a few steps, and found Tyki. He was lying in a shallow swamp, semi-conscious... a high fever... nearly dead from exhaustion. He had obviously been traveling on foot for many days, over countless miles. So I brought him back to the compound... nursed him back to health.”
“Hmm,” Indy said.
“I don’t mind telling you,” she continued, “that living in Africa, but especially meeting this little guy, has completely changed my outlook on things. I used to assume Negroes and primitive peoples were intellectually inferior to us, like most of you Americans. But I’ve since found that’s a load of hogwash, perpetuated by an emotionally disturbed society that feels the need to constantly pat itself on the proverbial back or risk collapse.”
Indy wasn’t listening. May as well cut right to the chase. “Clare,” he began as he continued staring at the pygmy, “I hate to quibble with your anthropological abilities...”
“Quibble.”
“...but, if this little fellow is over two hundred years old... I mean... what accounts for his youthful appearance? His vitality?”
Clare’s lips pursed into the faintest vestiges of a smile as she opened a door at the rear of the cage. To Indy’s surprise, it led to a whole other room. He entered behind her. Scraggy stayed behind and exchanged a friendly smile with Tyki. Outside, Betsy and Bonzo rolled by on the ground, still wrestling.
It was a small, sterile room, bare aside from a little table in the center with a peach stone on it. A fruit fly crawled along the stone’s surface and took to the air as they approached. “Tyki was wearing this when I found him,” Clare said.
Indy picked up the stone and examined it closely. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe something, anything, to suggest that it was more than an ordinary stupid peach stone. The fruit fly buzzed around his head, as if in retaliation for disturbing its home.
***
Gutterbuhg huddled over the radio as if expecting it to run away, listening intently to the voices. He was furiously scribbling a transcription of his own, not willing to gamble success upon the young officer’s competence or English proficiency.
“Dr. Jones,” said the voice they had identified as Dr. Clare Clarke, “you are obviously familiar with the legend of Sun Wu-Kung’s Garden of Immortal Peaches?”
“A bite from the fruit of that peach tree would give a person eternal life,” said Indy’s voice, sounding decidedly unimpressed. “Make them forever young.”
Gutterbuhg smiled. In his notebook he underlined the words “forever young”.
***
“There’s nothing unusual about this,” Indy decided, the fruit fly still buzzing around his head. “Nothing to indicate that it’s from Sun Wu-Kung’s garden.” The fruit fly landed on his neck. He smacked it harder than was strictly necessary.
Clare let out a yelp and ran over to him, grabbing his hand and gently removing what remained of the fly. She stared at it in disbelief, then glared at him. “This fruit fly had a normal life-span of twenty-four hours,” she said, and sighed in frustration. “As an experiment, the fly was put in this room, alone, with only the peach stone to sustain its existence. It stayed alive for three weeks.” She stared at it again. “Until now.” She flicked it against the wall.
Indy shrugged. “Sorry.”
She frowned at him. “I was impressed by your reputation even before I spoke to Dr. Brody. But I’m beginning to wonder –”
“Look, Marcus never told me about any super-flies, okay?” he snapped. “Besides, it was probably just a freak mutation. I did the world’s compost heaps a favor.”
She was about to say something sharp in return, when they were interrupted by loud laughter in the next room. It took them a moment to realize that Scraggy and Tyki were having a discussion in Tyki’s foreign tongue, which did indeed resemble a strain of Chinese. Clare and Indy stared at each other for a moment, and as one dashed back in.
Their ears had not deceived them; Scraggy and Tyki were chatting like old schoolmates. Clare nodded at Scraggy but addressed Indy. “He understands him?”
It does appear that way, sister. “Scraggy knows hundreds of dialects,” he said, repeating what Marcus had told him. “He’s the best guide in Africa.”
“But – Tyki’s language is supposed to be completely unknown.”
“Obviously not.”
“I know Mandarin very well,” Scraggy said, breaking off his discussion. “This just that with some other mixed in.”
Indy tried to hide how impressed and surprised he was that Scraggy spoke Chinese, but this feeling was quickly overshadowed by the beginnings of an infectious excitement that even he could recognize. “Ask Tyki where he came from,” he ordered.
Scraggy nodded and babbled something at Tyki in that strange language. Tyki babbled back and pointed to his tapestry.
“He say, ‘I come from Land of City on Clouds’.”
“Huh?” Indy said, staring at the tapestry. It couldn’t possibly be a real place. “What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?” A thought struck him. “Can he take us there?”
Scraggy asked Tyki. Tyki answered. They both laughed hysterically.
“He say if he could... He would go back!” Tyki said something else. Scraggy frowned. “He say – sorry, I not entirely understand. He say ‘Pai Cho’ may help you.”
Indy snorted. “I’m sure it would,” he said. “Too bad we don’t have one.”
Clare looked at him. “‘Pai Cho’? You know what that is?”
“The Sacred Proverbs and Writings of Sun Wu-Kung,” he explained. “His disciples always... carried it... with them...” His eyes widened. “Scraggy!” he ordered.
Scraggy was already asking Tyki the question. The pygmy nodded and removed his belt, which unraveled into a cloth scroll. He kissed it and handed it to Scraggy, who quickly blessed it before receiving and nervously pulled it open. It was filled with ancient Chinese writings and proverbs.
Indy stared over his shoulder. Most of it looked like worthless scribbles to him. “Can you translate it?” he demanded.
Scraggy nodded. “It just take a bit.”
Suddenly, Betsy and Bonzo rolled into the cage on top of the scroll. Bonzo straddled Betsy, trying to move his lips towards hers as she valiantly resisted. “Get – him – off – me!” she screamed.
“Get her off the scroll!” Indy yelled over her.
Bonzo finally managed to give Betsy a big smack on the lips. She grimaced. Stifling laughter, Clare made some hand motions and sounds at the ape. Bonzo turned and listened closely, then nodded and ran out of the cage.
Indy and Scraggy exchanged an impressed look. Betsy wiped the kiss from her lips, whimpering. “I can handle mashers,” she muttered, “but I don’t feel right about kicking a monkey between the legs.”
“It’s an ape,” Indy said. “Now get off the scroll. It’s a valuable artifact!” And maybe my only link to saving my career.
Grumbling, Betsy got up and brushed dirt from the back of her clothes. “Lucky,” she called after Bonzo. “In the States we have laws against that sort of thing.”
Clare raised an accusatory eyebrow at Indy, but he didn’t catch it as he frantically tried to make sure the scroll was undamaged. Scraggy had set it out flat on the floor, so one could barely tell what had happened to it. “All right,” he said, “The Pai Cho is okay. Now, Scraggy –”
“Please, Indy,” said Scraggy, “I am getting most hungry. Can we eat?”
“Yes, that sounds agreeable,” Clare said. “Let’s catch a bite while we do our stuff. The brain needs the stomach, you know.”
“All right,” Indy said. “Count me in.”
“We can go to great little café you tell us about,” Scraggy said. “Just give directions.”
“Goodbye, Tyki,” Clare said, exchanging another hug and kiss with the pygmy. “I’ll be back to say goodnight, okay? Have fun.” Tyki waved at them until they were out of sight.
“I know he’s a nigger an’ a savage an’ all,” Betsy said as they walked, “but still, why’ve you got him locked up in a cage like some animal? Even real animals are going free here,” she said, pausing to pet a zebra that had come to sniff her curious odor.
Indy was about to speak up, but Clare beat him to it. “Don’t use that word, please,” she said.
“Which one?”
“The ‘n’ word. I find it offensive.”
Indy was impressed, but as he adjusted to the excitement of their find, he had to admit he was wondering the same thing as Betsy. Tyki’s not some artifact for white people to come and gawk at, he thought. God knows what a life he’s had, two hundred years old or not, and what he’s being reduced to here. Is it worth it, even for such a potential prize?
They arrived at the taxi. “As I was telling Dr. Jones,” Clare continued, opening the door, “Negroes and primitive peoples are just as smart as anyone else. There’s no reason to think –”
“Right, okay,” Betsy said, not in the mood for a lecture from this woman. “So why the hell is he in a cage?”
Clare sighed. “He’s free to come and go as he pleases,” she said. “He chooses to stay and help with our research, and I’m grateful. I think he’s safer here. Maybe it’s just that he’s so cute, but I get the impression he’s like a child – perfectly intelligent, mind you, but totally unaware of the evil in our ‘civilized’ world. He’s quite a curiosity, you know, and there’s always plenty of unrest in Africa, and – well, I don’t know. He does take a walk around the compound every day, and we are working to improve his accommodations.”
***
“Such pointless considerations for a subhuman,” Gutterbuhg muttered. He turned off the radio’s external audio and, leaving the officer to conduct the transcription, walked to a small group of his men. “Meine Herren,” he began, and stopped with a roll of his eyes. “Klaus! Schnürsenkel binden Sie Ihre, Dummkopf!”
The other men snickered as Klaus knelt to retie his boot once again. “It’s okay, Klaus,” another said, elbowing him. “I used to have trouble with my laces as well. Then I turned five.”
“It’s this one verdammt boot,” Klaus grunted. “It’s defective.”
“Silence! It is finally time for action,” Gutterbuhg continued. “We need that scroll, that ‘Pie Choke’ or whatever it is. It could be the key to the pygmy’s city.”
“I did not hear them say where exactly they are going,” said one of his men.
“Maybe they have not yet. But it does not matter. Our spies will be there, as everywhere else, and anyway I do not wish to risk a public confrontation, at least not yet.”
“So, we can have one of them grab it.”
“I did not volunteer my men for this operation so they could be dragged down to the level of pickpockets,” Gutterbuhg said. “We are going to put our own expertise into this. And we are going to see if the little black Ungeziefer is really as safe in his cage as Dr. Clarke likes to think.”
Next: Chapter Five
Indiana Jones was taken aback by the sight as he stepped onto the ocean liner’s exit ramp. He’d been here a few times before, and in countless similar places, but he never quite got used to the exotic feeling, the tingling sense of possibility. He looked cursorily to see if any of the vendors might be selling something akin to a razor; he’d forgotten his at home and now sported three weeks’ worth of stubble.
Crowds of pedestrians leaped out of the way as a loud car horn sounded and a rusted, yellow Model T came barreling along the rickety dock. The word “TAXI” was crudely painted in English and Portuguese on the car’s trembling doors, and its tires threatened to wobble loose. Thick black smoke poured from the cracked exhaust pipe and the entire assembly rattled and ground like an old man having a coronary. It was apparently one of the first vehicles to have come off Mr. Ford’s assembly line, and must have seen some rough treatment even then.
The car screeched to a halt at the foot of the ocean liner’s ramp and a rough, unkempt Makua man jumped out. Despite his obvious age he possessed the energy and vitality of a youth. His snow white hair and beard were spiked and his tattered, dirty clothes were many sizes too large for his scrawny body. Homemade crocodile sandals flopped on his feet. Even from a distance his blue eyes, extremely rare for anyone of black African descent, shone like sapphires.
When the man spotted Indy, he broke into a wild grin and darted up the ramp, weaving through the startled crowd of people. He stopped a few feet in front of Indy and waved his arms before himself in a strange fashion. Then, he embraced the startled American. “Dr. Jones! At last I meet you!” he said in a Portuguese accent. “Dr. Brody has told me so much about you!” He looked to the sky. “Oh, Keechingo, God of Friendship... I thank you for granting my wish!”
Indy pulled away as politely as he could. Hugging Marcus was awkward enough, but this old man he’d never met didn’t exactly smell like a bed of roses. The interracial aspect would have also bothered some of his less experienced colleagues, but he had befriended people of other races since childhood. “You must be the expedition guide,” he said.
The man nodded enthusiastically. “Scraggy Brier. You call me Scraggy,” he said. He moved to assist Indy with his luggage, but before picking up the suitcases – Indy had finally relented at the last minute and brought another one – he raised his arm over them and repeated the motion he had done a moment ago. He laughed at Indy’s questioning look. “Mahootmek, God of Goodness, say ‘Before body make contact with foreign object... one must cast out bad spirits, or –”
“– or bad spirits will enter your body,” Indy finished. He remembered Marcus explaining that to him before he left. Scraggy could have provided an interesting anthropological study all on his own, as his gods and rituals bore little resemblance to any known culture. Marcus surmised that he had started the whole routine to mess around with tourists, but over the years had grown to actually believe in it. Indy wondered how many religions had gotten their start that way.
“Yes!” Scraggy said. “You know much already, Indy.”
“That’s my job.” He remembered something else Marcus had mentioned. “Are you gonna be wearing the same clothes for three weeks straight?”
“Never separate body from clothes, or bad spirits will hide in pockets!” Scraggy affirmed.
“In other words,” Indy said, “if people never changed clothes, there would be no evil in the world.”
Scraggy missed his facetious tone. “Exactly!”
Indy groaned on the inside. He respected anyone’s beliefs, but only to the extent that they didn’t impose on him, and the anticipated odors threatened to do just that. All he said out loud was, “Whatever.”
But Scraggy seemed to read his thoughts, and his manner grew deadly serious. “They not so crazy, Indy,” he said, and his tone made the other man look at him, to see that his eyes were wide with fear. “These days... there is much evil in the air. I feel it. Everywhere.”
Indy shrugged off the chill from these words and started back down the ramp toward the waiting excuse for a car. He did not see the ugly German “tourist” in the crowd a few feet away and would not have looked twice if he had.
***
As Wachtmeister Helmut Gutterbuhg watched the arriving American and old native, he drew from his pocket a tiny, mechanical item resembling a cockroach - a miniature radio transmitter and another triumph of Fatherland technology, though nothing compared to his own arm. In German, he whispered into it, “Are we making contact?”
The roach’s eyes blinked bright red. Gutterbuhg smiled.
***
Indy and Scraggy arrived at the taxi. “I see you repainted it,” Indy commented. “Back in the States we had a saying about the Model T – that you could get them in any color you want, as long as it was black.”
“I like yellow better,” Scraggy said. “I get enough black from the people here.”
Indy didn’t know if he should laugh at that, but he couldn’t help it.
While Scraggy secured the baggage to the roof, Indy opened the cab’s rear door, careful not to rip it from its hinges. As he tried to climb in, however, he was met with a swift kick to the stomach and fell to the ground hard as the wind rushed out of him.
Scraggy ran to the open door. “Dr. Clarke!” he scolded. “Why you kick Dr. Jones?”
Dr. Clare Clarke stepped from the shadows of the car and Indy, from his fetal position on the ground, felt he was suddenly in the presence of a goddess. She was much more beautiful in color; he saw now that her hair was bright red, and behind her glasses she sported a pair of sparkling green eyes. Though her bearing was very prim and proper, something about her conveyed a sense of intelligence and a quick wit. She was dressed in khaki slacks and shirt. From here Indy had an exquisite view of her shapely long legs and well-toned thighs. Why, he wondered, don’t we as a society encourage women to wear pants?
Dr. Clarke hurriedly knelt down to assist him to his feet. “Dr. Jones!” she said with a slight British accent. “Forgive me.”
When she grabbed his hand, he felt a tingle through his whole body. “No sweat,” he said grinning stupidly. I’d forgive you for stabbing me, sister.
She brushed her hair back self-consciously. “Thought I was being attacked by a degenerate sailor.”
“No,” Indy said. “Just a degenerate archeologist.”
“Your appearance is deceiving.”
“Likewise.” Why’d I have to forget the damned razor?
They exchanged a handshake and a smile. Indy swooned.
“Indiana Jones!” someone shouted. “Calling passenger Indiana Jones!”
He turned to see a ship porter walking through the crowd, pushing a large barrel on a dolly. “I’m him,” he said, confused, waving the man over. The porter stopped in front of him.
“You left this aboard ship,” he said.
Indy frowned. “There must be some mistake... I didn’t –”
The porter pointed to a section of the barrel that read DELIVER TO: DR. INDIANA JONES. “That’s you, ain’t it?”
“Well, yeah... but...”
The porter dropped the barrel in front of him and hurried back to the ship. Like them, he did not glance at the dark alleyway or see Gutterbuhg hiding in it.
Curious, Indy tried to pry the barrel open. Scraggy shouted a warning. “Indy! Remember Mahootmek, God of Goodness! ‘Before body make contact with foreign object, you must cast out bad spirits!’”
Indy ignored him. The barrel top was proving rather difficult, and though this wasn’t the best circumstance to try and impress Dr. Clarke, he figured the less time wasted the better. “May I call you ‘Clare’?” he asked.
She blushed slightly – or was he imagining it? “Please.”
“Well, Clare, we’ve obviously got a lot of notes to compare. Let’s get started tonight...” all or nothing now, big guy “– over dinner.”
She smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
His heart soared, and he attacked the barrel’s lid with renewed vigor. “Friend of mine owns a great little café,” he continued, unable to stop. “He’ll get us a nice quiet table. No disturbances. Just the two of us –”
At that moment, the barrel lid flew off, nearly knocking Indy off his feet. The inside was filled to the brim with old brown banana peels. Betsy Tuffet’s head poked through the top of them.
Indy boggled. “Wha –?”
Scraggy sighed. “I warn you, Indy! You must always cast out bad spirits!”
Filthy, unkempt, and wearing the same top and skirt as the night he had left, Betsy leaped from the barrel, scattering banana peels, and threw her arms around him. “My precious!” she cried happily.
Clare raised an eyebrow. “Your daughter?”
“My assistant,” he corrected.
“His girlfriend,” Betsy insisted.
“A child!” Clare said in revulsion.
“It’s nothing. Really,” he pleaded, realizing everything was going downhill for him quickly. He turned back to Betsy and pulled her off of him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Proving my love for you,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
“How terribly sordid,” Clare said dryly.
“Puppy love,” he insisted. “Schoolgirl crush. She’ll get over it.”
“Never,” Betsy proclaimed, placing her hands on her hips. “This proves that nothing can come between us. Not an ocean. Not two separate continents.”
“I think I’m going to be ill,” Clare said.
That brought up another point – “How... I mean... how could you stay alive?”
Betsy smiled. “Hey... I’m from Brooklyn.”
“But we’ve been sailing for three weeks!”
“Stowed away in the banana barrel. Ate my way to the bottom.”
Indy shook his head. “But then – much as I like to pretend women don’t – er – that is to say, how did you –?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Charming,” Clare said, nauseated.
Betsy jerked a thumb at her. “Hey, Indy, who’s the babe?”
Clare stiffened, and her accent seemed to intensify. “Your intellectual and emotional superior.”
“Yeah? Well you’re gettin’ on my nerves, Miss... Miss...”
Clare extended a hand, determined to remain civilized. “Doctor Clare Clarke.”
Betsy shook the hand, making no effort to hide her distaste. “Betsy Tuffet...”
Clare could not hide a smirk. “As in curds and whey?”
Betsy adopted her tough face. “Listen, sister... you better stay away from Indy...”
Clare waved her off. “My dear, I’m sure he has no interest in me. I’ve already celebrated my tenth birthday.”
Indy glared at her; Betsy didn’t need her self-esteem damaged any further. Before the girl could retort, he removed a wad of bills – badly needed expedition funds from Marcus’s personal savings – and handed them to her. “Look, Betsy,” he said, “why don’t you get back on the boat. This time, as a passenger.”
“Too late, Indy,” Scraggy said, pointing toward the ocean liner. It was several feet from shore and moving away fast.
Indy steamed. “When’s the next one out?”
“Two weeks.”
Indy grumbled. Amused, Dr. Clarke got back into the car. Indy shoved Betsy inside after her, furious. This is going to ruin everything. I didn’t sign on to be a damned babysitter.
Before he could get into the car, an ugly German tourist brushed against him, mumbling an apology. Indy didn’t notice the man toss a tiny mechanical cockroach at him, or feel the lightweight object attach itself to his trouser leg. He climbed in after Betsy. Scraggy blessed the taxi just in case, although it was not a foreign object any longer, and got into the driver’s seat.
Gutterbuhg watched the battered vehicle drive off. Then he turned and headed in the opposite direction, headed for a seedy waterfront hotel.
***
He walked through the dimly lit lobby, filled with dusty, tacky replicas of African furnishings. He could barely stand to look at them, relics as they were of the primitive excuse for a culture surrounding him. He could barely stand to be in this country at all, but such sacrifices had to be made for the time being. For his Führer, for the Fatherland, he would have stayed here ten years.
The man behind the desk was fast asleep, retreating from the midday heat. Gutterbuhg quietly turned a corner into a narrow, decrepit hallway and walked until he came to the last doorway, room 113. He opened it with his key and entered.
It was a small, musty hotel room furnished with a single bed, a sofa, two chairs and a fireplace. Two bizarre African statues adorned the fireplace mantle. Gutterbuhg carefully locked the door and walked to the left statue. Tilting it forward, he was gratified by a mechanical, creaking sound beneath his feet. The sofa began to move. It slid a few feet, revealing an opening beneath the floor. A staircase led into the opening. Glancing around the room one last time, Gutterbuhg descended the stairs.
He entered a large, brightly lit room, filled with various communications equipment and radio transmitters. Several German soldiers, members of both the Wehrmacht and Ahnenerbe and able to wear their uniforms openly in this secret enclave, sat before the equipment, monitoring various radio signals. An enormous glass panel covered one wall, behind which two long, sleek, mahogany hulled speedboats floated in the water of another man-made chamber. Gutterbuhg would have liked the speedboats to be adorned with swastikas, but he realized how imprudent that would be. Directly beside them, two glistening brand new automobiles were parked on a stone incline; enormous, beautiful “woodies”, equipped with running boards and wood paneled sides.
The secret base had existed since shortly after Adolf Hitler’s rise to power. His desire to rule the world was a secret from no one who had bothered to read Mein Kampf (even the obsequiously censored English version) and although military conquests were still in the planning stages – they would be complete and successful after this mission was accomplished – the Nazis had found it expedient from day one to insert themselves subtly into every nook and cranny of the world, and help the Aryan struggle along in whatever ways they could without causing an uproar.
He turned to Klaus, a hulking brute of a Nazi who stood in the corner and apparently sought to ruin the image of Reich perfection. He already knew what he would find. With a sigh, he pointed at Klaus’s feet and shouted, “Schnürsenkel binden Sie Ihre!”
Klaus looked down at the long string dangling from his boot. Grinning sheepishly, he knelt down to retie it.
Gutterbuhg turned to a young officer who sat at a radio receiver wearing headphones and listening for a transmission. He was about to ask the man a question, when a long shadow fell over both of them. He turned, and fear spread over his face. The shadow raised its arm in the traditional salute but did not speak. Gutterbuhg returned the movement, remembering just in time to use his right arm.
Oberleutnant Werner von Mephisto glared down at him. “Were you successful?” he demanded.
Gutterbuhg nodded timidly. With trembling fingers, he reached over and turned up the volume of the of the transmission. With just a slight amount of static, a young female voice became clear echoing through a tinny speaker: “...do you think you are, anyhow?”
A slightly older woman’s voice: “A respected anthropologist, who doesn’t have time to waste prattling with a conceited brat like you.”
An elderly man’s voice with a Portuguese accent: “See, Indy, I tell you to bless barrel before opening. You see what happen?”
A younger man’s voice, clearest of all: “This is gonna be a long trip.”
Mephisto managed a pleased grunt. “That’s them, no mistake,” he said. “Keep a record of everything that is said.”
Gutterbuhg nudged the officer before him, who hurriedly began scrawling a transcription of the transmission.
Mephisto nodded. “This is better than we could have hoped for. Dr. Jones has been directly responsible for Ahnenerbe losses on many expeditions ever since its inception. The Führer is very interested in his adventures. Very interested.”
***
Small manmade lakes and palm trees surrounded the peaceful little zoo compound with its countless metal cages filled with various animals. The tigers, lions, bears and other violent creatures were kept behind these bars, but the llamas, giraffes, deer and other tame herbivores were free to roam the compound grounds.
“This is where I work,” Clare said, walking in with Indy, Betsy and Scraggy in tow. “‘Parque Maravilhas Naturais’. ‘Natural Wonders Park’. Personally I don’t think it’s all that natural, but they try.”
“It’s breathtaking,” Indy said, and he meant it - he wasn’t just trying to impress her. As Betsy tried persistently to snuggle closer to him, he pushed her away in annoyance. She tried to hold his hand, and he shook her loose. Scraggy watched them and giggled to himself.
“That it is,” Clare agreed. “There’s no place in the world I’d rather work, except maybe out in the jungle itself.” She waved to a zookeeper as he opened the lion cage. “Evening, Alvaro,” she said.
“Evening, Senhora Clarke,” he responded in a much thicker Portuguese accent than Scraggy’s. He was also black, but his skin was lightened somewhat by Portuguese blood. “Just gone to see Tyki. He’s happy as a clam.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said. “That’s where we’re headed.”
A high-pitched beautiful voice, singing in an unfamiliar language, became audible. Clare walked to the far end of the compound, toward it, followed by the others. She gave a friendly pat on the head to a large chimpanzee as they passed him. The chimpanzee was about to go his separate way when he caught a whiff of something familiar and began to follow them.
Clare opened the door of a large metal cage that was obviously the source of the singing. She entered with Indy close behind. Scraggy blessed the cage, then entered. Betsy moved to go inside, but a large hairy hand wrapped itself around her arm and pulled her back before the girl could scream.
The cage was filled with handmade wooden and bamboo furniture. Tyki, the pygmy from Marcus’s film, stood inside. He was dressed only in a belted leather loin cloth and sandals and sat perched on the floor, working on a large tapestry. It depicted a colorful picture of clouds with the buildings of a large city reflected on them. As he did his work he sang pleasantly.
Upon hearing the cage door open, Tyki looked up. The moment he saw Clare a joyous smile covered his face and he ran over to her, giving her a huge hug and kiss. She returned the favor and motioned at the others. “Tyki,” she said, “this is Dr. Jones.”
Tyki extended his right hand and Indy shook it, charmed by the display of friendship. He smiled at Clare. “He’s a real gentleman.”
Clare shrugged dismissively. “Just basic manners. What it takes most men a lifetime to learn, Tyki’s accomplished in two weeks.” She pointed at Scraggy. “This is our guide, Scraggy Brier. And Miss Bets –” She paused, noticing that Betsy was gone. Then she suddenly broke into a laugh.
Everyone followed her gaze to outside the cage, where the chimpanzee was affectionately pulling and grabbing at Betsy, doing almost exactly what she had done to Indy. She wrestled with him futilely, unwilling to call attention to her predicament by calling for help.
The others chuckled. “It appears that Bonzo is attracted to Miss Tuffet’s perfume,” Clare said. “Eau de Banana Peel.”
Tyki had lost interest in the visitors and gone back to his artwork. Indy decided Betsy wasn’t in urgent need of rescuing and, fascinated, looked over the pygmy’s shoulder. “Where did you find him?”
“About ten miles from here,” Clare said. “We were on a photographic expedition in the thick of the jungle when I heard sounds. Whimpering. Moaning. I took a few steps, and found Tyki. He was lying in a shallow swamp, semi-conscious... a high fever... nearly dead from exhaustion. He had obviously been traveling on foot for many days, over countless miles. So I brought him back to the compound... nursed him back to health.”
“Hmm,” Indy said.
“I don’t mind telling you,” she continued, “that living in Africa, but especially meeting this little guy, has completely changed my outlook on things. I used to assume Negroes and primitive peoples were intellectually inferior to us, like most of you Americans. But I’ve since found that’s a load of hogwash, perpetuated by an emotionally disturbed society that feels the need to constantly pat itself on the proverbial back or risk collapse.”
Indy wasn’t listening. May as well cut right to the chase. “Clare,” he began as he continued staring at the pygmy, “I hate to quibble with your anthropological abilities...”
“Quibble.”
“...but, if this little fellow is over two hundred years old... I mean... what accounts for his youthful appearance? His vitality?”
Clare’s lips pursed into the faintest vestiges of a smile as she opened a door at the rear of the cage. To Indy’s surprise, it led to a whole other room. He entered behind her. Scraggy stayed behind and exchanged a friendly smile with Tyki. Outside, Betsy and Bonzo rolled by on the ground, still wrestling.
It was a small, sterile room, bare aside from a little table in the center with a peach stone on it. A fruit fly crawled along the stone’s surface and took to the air as they approached. “Tyki was wearing this when I found him,” Clare said.
Indy picked up the stone and examined it closely. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe something, anything, to suggest that it was more than an ordinary stupid peach stone. The fruit fly buzzed around his head, as if in retaliation for disturbing its home.
***
Gutterbuhg huddled over the radio as if expecting it to run away, listening intently to the voices. He was furiously scribbling a transcription of his own, not willing to gamble success upon the young officer’s competence or English proficiency.
“Dr. Jones,” said the voice they had identified as Dr. Clare Clarke, “you are obviously familiar with the legend of Sun Wu-Kung’s Garden of Immortal Peaches?”
“A bite from the fruit of that peach tree would give a person eternal life,” said Indy’s voice, sounding decidedly unimpressed. “Make them forever young.”
Gutterbuhg smiled. In his notebook he underlined the words “forever young”.
***
“There’s nothing unusual about this,” Indy decided, the fruit fly still buzzing around his head. “Nothing to indicate that it’s from Sun Wu-Kung’s garden.” The fruit fly landed on his neck. He smacked it harder than was strictly necessary.
Clare let out a yelp and ran over to him, grabbing his hand and gently removing what remained of the fly. She stared at it in disbelief, then glared at him. “This fruit fly had a normal life-span of twenty-four hours,” she said, and sighed in frustration. “As an experiment, the fly was put in this room, alone, with only the peach stone to sustain its existence. It stayed alive for three weeks.” She stared at it again. “Until now.” She flicked it against the wall.
Indy shrugged. “Sorry.”
She frowned at him. “I was impressed by your reputation even before I spoke to Dr. Brody. But I’m beginning to wonder –”
“Look, Marcus never told me about any super-flies, okay?” he snapped. “Besides, it was probably just a freak mutation. I did the world’s compost heaps a favor.”
She was about to say something sharp in return, when they were interrupted by loud laughter in the next room. It took them a moment to realize that Scraggy and Tyki were having a discussion in Tyki’s foreign tongue, which did indeed resemble a strain of Chinese. Clare and Indy stared at each other for a moment, and as one dashed back in.
Their ears had not deceived them; Scraggy and Tyki were chatting like old schoolmates. Clare nodded at Scraggy but addressed Indy. “He understands him?”
It does appear that way, sister. “Scraggy knows hundreds of dialects,” he said, repeating what Marcus had told him. “He’s the best guide in Africa.”
“But – Tyki’s language is supposed to be completely unknown.”
“Obviously not.”
“I know Mandarin very well,” Scraggy said, breaking off his discussion. “This just that with some other mixed in.”
Indy tried to hide how impressed and surprised he was that Scraggy spoke Chinese, but this feeling was quickly overshadowed by the beginnings of an infectious excitement that even he could recognize. “Ask Tyki where he came from,” he ordered.
Scraggy nodded and babbled something at Tyki in that strange language. Tyki babbled back and pointed to his tapestry.
“He say, ‘I come from Land of City on Clouds’.”
“Huh?” Indy said, staring at the tapestry. It couldn’t possibly be a real place. “What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?” A thought struck him. “Can he take us there?”
Scraggy asked Tyki. Tyki answered. They both laughed hysterically.
“He say if he could... He would go back!” Tyki said something else. Scraggy frowned. “He say – sorry, I not entirely understand. He say ‘Pai Cho’ may help you.”
Indy snorted. “I’m sure it would,” he said. “Too bad we don’t have one.”
Clare looked at him. “‘Pai Cho’? You know what that is?”
“The Sacred Proverbs and Writings of Sun Wu-Kung,” he explained. “His disciples always... carried it... with them...” His eyes widened. “Scraggy!” he ordered.
Scraggy was already asking Tyki the question. The pygmy nodded and removed his belt, which unraveled into a cloth scroll. He kissed it and handed it to Scraggy, who quickly blessed it before receiving and nervously pulled it open. It was filled with ancient Chinese writings and proverbs.
Indy stared over his shoulder. Most of it looked like worthless scribbles to him. “Can you translate it?” he demanded.
Scraggy nodded. “It just take a bit.”
Suddenly, Betsy and Bonzo rolled into the cage on top of the scroll. Bonzo straddled Betsy, trying to move his lips towards hers as she valiantly resisted. “Get – him – off – me!” she screamed.
“Get her off the scroll!” Indy yelled over her.
Bonzo finally managed to give Betsy a big smack on the lips. She grimaced. Stifling laughter, Clare made some hand motions and sounds at the ape. Bonzo turned and listened closely, then nodded and ran out of the cage.
Indy and Scraggy exchanged an impressed look. Betsy wiped the kiss from her lips, whimpering. “I can handle mashers,” she muttered, “but I don’t feel right about kicking a monkey between the legs.”
“It’s an ape,” Indy said. “Now get off the scroll. It’s a valuable artifact!” And maybe my only link to saving my career.
Grumbling, Betsy got up and brushed dirt from the back of her clothes. “Lucky,” she called after Bonzo. “In the States we have laws against that sort of thing.”
Clare raised an accusatory eyebrow at Indy, but he didn’t catch it as he frantically tried to make sure the scroll was undamaged. Scraggy had set it out flat on the floor, so one could barely tell what had happened to it. “All right,” he said, “The Pai Cho is okay. Now, Scraggy –”
“Please, Indy,” said Scraggy, “I am getting most hungry. Can we eat?”
“Yes, that sounds agreeable,” Clare said. “Let’s catch a bite while we do our stuff. The brain needs the stomach, you know.”
“All right,” Indy said. “Count me in.”
“We can go to great little café you tell us about,” Scraggy said. “Just give directions.”
“Goodbye, Tyki,” Clare said, exchanging another hug and kiss with the pygmy. “I’ll be back to say goodnight, okay? Have fun.” Tyki waved at them until they were out of sight.
“I know he’s a nigger an’ a savage an’ all,” Betsy said as they walked, “but still, why’ve you got him locked up in a cage like some animal? Even real animals are going free here,” she said, pausing to pet a zebra that had come to sniff her curious odor.
Indy was about to speak up, but Clare beat him to it. “Don’t use that word, please,” she said.
“Which one?”
“The ‘n’ word. I find it offensive.”
Indy was impressed, but as he adjusted to the excitement of their find, he had to admit he was wondering the same thing as Betsy. Tyki’s not some artifact for white people to come and gawk at, he thought. God knows what a life he’s had, two hundred years old or not, and what he’s being reduced to here. Is it worth it, even for such a potential prize?
They arrived at the taxi. “As I was telling Dr. Jones,” Clare continued, opening the door, “Negroes and primitive peoples are just as smart as anyone else. There’s no reason to think –”
“Right, okay,” Betsy said, not in the mood for a lecture from this woman. “So why the hell is he in a cage?”
Clare sighed. “He’s free to come and go as he pleases,” she said. “He chooses to stay and help with our research, and I’m grateful. I think he’s safer here. Maybe it’s just that he’s so cute, but I get the impression he’s like a child – perfectly intelligent, mind you, but totally unaware of the evil in our ‘civilized’ world. He’s quite a curiosity, you know, and there’s always plenty of unrest in Africa, and – well, I don’t know. He does take a walk around the compound every day, and we are working to improve his accommodations.”
***
“Such pointless considerations for a subhuman,” Gutterbuhg muttered. He turned off the radio’s external audio and, leaving the officer to conduct the transcription, walked to a small group of his men. “Meine Herren,” he began, and stopped with a roll of his eyes. “Klaus! Schnürsenkel binden Sie Ihre, Dummkopf!”
The other men snickered as Klaus knelt to retie his boot once again. “It’s okay, Klaus,” another said, elbowing him. “I used to have trouble with my laces as well. Then I turned five.”
“It’s this one verdammt boot,” Klaus grunted. “It’s defective.”
“Silence! It is finally time for action,” Gutterbuhg continued. “We need that scroll, that ‘Pie Choke’ or whatever it is. It could be the key to the pygmy’s city.”
“I did not hear them say where exactly they are going,” said one of his men.
“Maybe they have not yet. But it does not matter. Our spies will be there, as everywhere else, and anyway I do not wish to risk a public confrontation, at least not yet.”
“So, we can have one of them grab it.”
“I did not volunteer my men for this operation so they could be dragged down to the level of pickpockets,” Gutterbuhg said. “We are going to put our own expertise into this. And we are going to see if the little black Ungeziefer is really as safe in his cage as Dr. Clarke likes to think.”
Next: Chapter Five
