As anyone who has read the previous post would surmise, I rescheduled all my Monday appointments in order to meet the Turkish Embassy’s rather aggressive deadline. And, since almost all of my clients are in a similar hurry, of course, today’s schedule was packed, starting at 7:30 in the morning all the way through to six in the evening. At nine, I met with a South Asian who presented himself with a Hindu Indian name. In reality, I soon discovered him to be the emissary of a Pakistani general. The high-ranking officer who sent him had a very odd problem, to say the least – a problem shared, I later found, by the Pakistani general who sent the fellow scheduled for my one-thirty p.m. slot.
So by four p.m., both my private secretary and I knew the drill. Near the conclusion of my two-thirty meeting with a sugar lobbyist, which I had known would drag on for a while, she rang my desk phone. “A Mr. Rajiv Karamchid Vapudeswami has arrived and is waiting to see you,” she said.
“Another of Musharraf’s military officers who thinks a couple of Americans like us could never tell a Pakistani from an Indian, huh?”
“Yes sir,” she replied dryly – I could imagine her in the reception room, suppressing that melodious laugh of hers, while the sugar lobbyist broke out in a loud guffaw.
“Hold on…” I looked up at the lobbyist and threw him a knowing wink. “This is the third one today,” I explained. “The coup over there, you know – it’s got them all behaving like lunatics. See you tomorrow at your office on K Street.”
“Sure,” the lobbyist smiled, “how about ten?”
“Ten’s great,” I assured him, motioning that he should exit through the door leading into the conference room. “Go out that way so you don’t have to walk past him, slip up and laugh at the stupid SOB as you leave.”
“No problem,” the lobbyist chuckled, shaking his head as he rose. “Those Westernized Oriental Gentlemen – the things they do; the way they act – ah, Jesus O’Reilly, Tom, you just can’t make that stuff up.”
“Oh my goodness, no,” I agreed in my best South Asian sing-song, “one most certainly cannot – and believe me sincerely when I state with absolute confidence,” I continued, wagging my finger, just so, for added effect, “I have heard that said by people who have actually tried. Now skedaddle your Louisiana cracker behind out of here before we are both crackering up so badly that I lose all yogic control of my astral chakras and laugh in his face when he walks through that door!”
The lobbyist, slightly doubled over in mirth, nevertheless quickly disappeared as I took my hand off the receiver and spoke to my secretary again. “All is currently in readiness. Please send Dr. Apu Nahasapeemapetilon into my office with all immediate haste.”
Well, I guess I shouldn’t have done that – how was I to know my private secretary was a big Simpsons fan? And staying with the accent probably just made it worse. She was still laughing uncontrollably when my visitor closed the door behind him and strode forward, ramrod straight, his right hand extended, his face frozen in a rictus of suppressed indignation. “It seems your assistant has quite a sense of humor,” he squeaked out in a high, girlish voice, his accent a dead ringer for the cheesy interpretation with which I had just regaled my previous guest.
That’s when I lost it, and sat there myself for about thirty seconds, laughing like I’d just seen a GS-15 slip on dog doody and split his skull wide open on the sidewalk. You get a unique sense of humor in Washington, that’s all I can say.
My guest waited, not moving a muscle, until I took his hand and gave it a warm and welcoming shake of precisely the correct duration. “My apologies, Mr. Vapudeswami. We were both, unfortunately, at the mercy of a bawdy and crude American joke that we heard just recently – from my previous client, as a matter of fact. The set-up is ‘Then send him to me in a jiffy.’ I inadvertently used that phrase just a moment ago, you see, which caused my secretary to lose control as she recalled it in the context of that joke. And the punch line of that joke is ‘It seems your assistant has quite a sense of humor,’ which, by mere random chance, you said exactly at the same time as in the joke, just when you walked into my office. So – I’m sorry if there was any misunderstanding. Please, be seated.”
Gazing around primly, he selected a chair and placed it as close to my desk as possible, immediately to my right, then sat down and leaned across his brief case until his face was so close, I could smell the curry on his breath. “Mr. Collins, I have heard that joke.”
“You have?” This was strange, because I certainly hadn’t – ever.
“Yes, and let us make one thing perfectly clear,” he continued, having obviously placed a large chip on his shoulder, “this,” he gestured at his English tailored blazer, European cut cotton shirt and faux regimental striped tie, “that I am wearing, it is most definitely not some of one of your home boy’s jiffy suits!”
“Of course not, Mr. Vapudeswami,” I mollified as best I could. “It’s very tasteful; Continental tailored, excellent fabrics.”
His point made, my guest settled back on his chair a bit, but still leaned over toward me, his arms crossed on his briefcase. “First of all, Mr. Collins, I must tell you something very important…”
“That your name really isn’t Vapudeswami?”
He froze again, eyeing me carefully. “Okay,” he allowed, his goat not yet gotten and his heart now filled with a resolve it shall not be, not today, “that’s all right, yes – perhaps I should have chosen something else, more believable. You are correct, Mr. Collins, for you see, despite appearances, I am not from India…”
“No, you’re from Pakistan,” I said smiling at him with all the mock lack of guile I could muster in my expression.
We both heard his goat then, loudly bleating that it had been gotten, and gotten good, at that.
“And cannot tell me your real name,” I continued, “because you have been sent from the highest levels of the Pakistani military on an urgent mission of extreme secrecy.”
Has anyone’s goat, in the history of goat-getting, been gotten to such an extent, that it squealed like a stuck pig? I know I heard this fellow’s making a remarkable noise, anyway. He tossed himself back in his chair, threw his arms wide and beseeched the ceiling. “Now, Mr. Collins, I certainly fear you that have most definitely gotten my goat!”
Looking back at me, his head cocked ever so slightly, with a penetrating and implacable gaze, he scolded back, his arms folded defensively across his chest. “Yesterday morning was not that upon which my mother gave birth to me, Mr. Collins! Nor am I easily blinded by the pulling of much wool over my eyebrows, not by anyone! Do you think I do not know, Mr. Collins, how many lentils make five? Let me assure you, in no uncertain terms, that you are not addressing someone, Mr. Collins, who has just fallen off a truck of turnips!”
“Sure,” I told him, gesturing to his briefcase, “no problem. And you’ll be paying cash?”
“I.. Yes,” my guest admitted, glancing nervously down at his briefcase.
“And asking for a receipt made out to a car wash?”
“A car wash?” My guest bristled indignantly at the suggestion. “I should certainly think not, Mr. Collins!”
“A rug dealership, perhaps?”
“I am shocked at the very suggestion, Mr. Collins!”
“Okay – my private secretary will be making the cash receipt out to the Pakistani Ministry of Defence, then?”
“Are you mad? Under no circumstances!”
“Well, then,” I persisted, “to whom – or what?”
My guest stared out the window at the White House, speaking very slowly. “Mujahideen Halal Meats,” he stuttered, “Arlington, Virginia, 22203.”
“A butcher shop?”
“That is correct, Mr. Collins.”
“Why certainly, sir, I am eager to welcome anonymous representatives of Pakistani generals to my office under absurd Indian pseudonyms for consultations paid for in cash by local car washes, rug dealerships and butcher shops.”
“And I am very pleased to hear that,” my guest assured me. Then his face lost all expression for an instant as I watched the light bulb go off over his head. A minute of silence elapsed as I watched him compose his thoughts afterwards. “I notice, Mr. Collins,” he observed at last, “that just now, you spoke in the plural.”
“Plural?”
“Yes, yes… using pluralities in your figures of speech.”
“Merely a slip of the tongue,” I lied reassuringly. “Please, by all means, explain your problems and needs.”
“Ah, yes,” he began, now staring at my bookcase while organizing his ideas, “as you know, there have been some recent important developments in Pakistan…”
“President Musharraf lead a successful coup against himself,” I interrupted, “declaring martial law and arresting the Pakistani Supreme Court in order to address the widespread societal, economic and judicial failures of the previous regime.”
“I would say, Mr. Collins,” my guest griped back at me, “that such a characterization, as yours just then, could itself be characterized as extremely cynical.”
“Perhaps,” I conceded. “How does the high-ranking Pakistani general who dispatched you to visit me characterize it?”
“In public, he characterizes our President’s actions as bold and necessary steps courageously taken without regard for his own advancement or safety, and carried out with an extreme degree of solemn gravity, committed solely to save Pakistan from political, social, judicial and economic chaos.”
“And in private?”
Although my guest was pretty dark in the complexion department, I could still clearly see him blush. “In private…” my guest sighed, “in private, when discussing this issue, he is constantly referring to President Musharraf in connection with rusty trombones, a certain Mr. Sanchez, who apparently does not bathe very much, and something called a ‘forty-finger fist fester with no reach-around,’ which he says President Musharraf is giving to Pakistan… ‘with no Vaseline.’” He looked at me quizzically. “Have you any idea, Mr. Collins, what all that mumbo-jumbo means?”
“I think it means your general has spent too much time hanging around with United States Marines.”
My guest considered this evaluation briefly, then nodded his head sagely. “Yes, that is true, Mr. Collins, a very considerable time. And I find it quite impressive that you are capable of deducing such a fact from such a small amount of evidence. But that still does not explain to me what my general is saying.”
“Let’s just leave it at this:” I suggested, “the overall gist of his remarks in private is that he doubts the purity of President Musharraf’s motives to a very significant extent.”
“Such sentiments, Mr. Collins, are not uncommon in Pakistan at the moment.”
“So it would seem, sir,” I speculated. “But what, may I ask, can I do for you concerning these circumstances?”
My guest leaned closer again, once more intent on his mission. “No doubt, Mr. Collins,” he whispered conspiratorially, “you know that, in addition to being president of Pakistan, Mr. Musharraf is also still currently a general in the Pakistani Army, the Chief of Staff of the Pakistani Army and, in fact, the commander of all Pakistani military forces?”
“Sure.”
“And you are further aware, then,” he pressed on, “that he has announced that, on November 15 of this year, he will resign from the Pakistani military and name a successor?”
“Oh, I am quite well aware of that, sir.”
“So,” my guest said, sinking back into his chair with a gasp of smug satisfaction, “given all those facts, I am willing to wager you think I been sent here to obtain advice and strategies to guarantee that my general is the general who assumes that office on November 15.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Flabbergasted, my guest stood up, glaring down at me intensely. “Well, then, Mr. Collins,” he demanded, “in that case, tell me why I am here!”
“You sir,” I returned with an ego-shattering tone of confidence, “have been sent here to obtain advice as to how your general can avoid being appointed Musharraf’s replacement.”
“How… how… how… “ he spat out, shuddering, as he collapsed back down into his chair. “How… “
“Oh, hell, Gunga Din, a little birdie told me,” I replied in a world-weary tone. “Look – it ain’t all that hard to figure out, okay? Any Pakistani general foolish enough to let Musharraf appoint him as a replacement in the Pakistani military is doomed on so many levels, they don’t even build video games that thick. First, the stupid sucker has to deal with the Pakistani population, all of whom are rioting for one reason or another. That means General Replacement gets all the blame for when Pakistani troops end up killing Pakistani rioters – not Musharraf. Second, General Replacement will eventually have to send Pakistani troops into Pakistani Punjab Province, where more than half the members of the Pakistani Army have relatives. So, at that point, General Replacement gets to deal with suppressing a huge military mutiny – not Musharraf. Then there’s the list of people who would want to kill General Replacement – Al Qaeda, the Afghani Taliban, the Pakistani Taliban, a whole laundry list of angry warlords in the Pakistani Tribal Areas, other generals in the Pakistani military who aren’t smart enough to figure out how much the job sucks, other officers in the Pakistani military who want to mount their own coup against Musharraf and want to take out his supporters in the deal, the Pentagon, the CIA, Indian Intelligence, the Russians, any number of Pakistani political fanatics or religious nut cases – and Musharraf himself, of course.”
“Yes,” my guest confessed, hanging his head in defeat, “you have it all there, Mr. Collins. I can see quite readily, that I am completely out of my depth here. Please, if you could just supply me with satisfactory answers to my general’s problems, I will pay your fee in full and trouble you no more.”
“Fee first?”
The standard fee for a 90 minute minimum session with me quickly appeared on my desk, in cash, neatly banded. At that, I handed my visitor a five-page white paper I wrote during lunch, based on my notes and the recorded conversation from my meeting with the first such pathetic bozo at nine this morning. My current guest perused it for several minutes, then placed it carefully in his briefcase.
“That will, I think, prove more than satisfactory, Mr. Collins,” he stated, obviously pleased. “But I was wondering, if perhaps you have…”
At that, I gave him a PC disk with the white paper on it, and said, in my best businesslike tone, “Text, MS Word, PDF and Open Office formats.”
He smiled as he accepted the disk, slipping it into his coat pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Collins,” he murmured, patting his coat pocket, “that saves me a lot of typing.”
“Sure,” I smiled, “why re-invent the wheel?”
“Your solutions are quite brilliant, Mr. Collins,” he remarked as he let out a huge breath, obviously a man relieved of a great burden. “I particularly liked the one where you suggest that my general should beat Musharraf at golf. He’s been deliberately losing to Musharraf for years. To at last have an excuse to hand Musharraf a sound drubbing on the links! I doubt there is anything in the world that would make him happier!”
“Not even a truly democratic Pakistan?”
“Oh, yes, that,” he said, picking up his briefcase, making for the door, “that too, I suppose.”