“Hasn’t Ishmael told him he doesn’t need to be rescued?”
“I’m sure he has. But he doesn’t dare explain why he doesn’t need to be rescued.”
“Why not?”
“Think about it, Julie. You can work that out for yourself.”
I gave the problem some thought but didn’t get anywhere with it. I asked, “How does Alan think Ishmael got to the menagerie in the first place?”
“I have no idea.”
We rode in silence for a while. Finally I said, “What’ll he do next, do you think?”
“Alan? My guess is he’ll go home and try to raise as much money as he can. Once he’s able to flash the cash before my very eyes, greed will make me putty in his hands.”
“But Ishmael will be gone by then, won’t he?”
“Oh yes—unless Alan’s able to move very quickly. Ishmael will be gone in a few hours, and the carnival itself will be gone by this time on Monday.”
At that moment we came to a little town about halfway there, and damned if I didn’t catch sight of Alan Lomax himself pulled into a service station. He and a mechanic were poking around under the hood of a Plymouth that had been around since the Carter administration.
“Looks like engine trouble,” Art observed.
“Yeah.”
“Probably just a little grit in the radiator fan.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Well, it could be,” Art replied.
I looked at him curiously. “Will he need a new one?”
“Oh yes, eventually,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s not easy to get parts out here in the boondocks, especially on a Saturday. If he takes it easy, he can probably limp home without a fan, but he’ll be too late to get it fixed today.”
“A bad break,” I noted.
Farewell, My Ishmael
Sitting in that goddamned cage, he looked terrible and he looked miserable, snuffling and groaning, his fur sticking up every which way, but he wasn’t prostrate, and he certainly showed no signs of fading away. In fact, he was thoroughly grumpy and bad-tempered, which he wouldn’t have been if he was ready to breathe his last.
After hearing all the details of my African adventure, he was irked that he and Art had misread Luk Owona and Mokonzi Nkemi so badly. “The rule has to be ‘Hope for the best, but plan for the worst,’ and we just hoped for the best,” he said. “A month away from my office, and I’m already losing my touch.”
On the other hand, he was clearly tickled by the fable of the gray horse that I’d made up for Nkemi. “You said something about an idea you worked on involving the inner ear. What on earth was that?”
“Well, you know, there’s this little gizmo floating around in the inner ear that helps you keep your balance. I was thinking … the wicked sorcerer sneaks it o
ut of the ear of the prince at his christening or something, so he grows up lurching—and all his children and grandchildren grow up lurching as well. Then one day the grandson of the sorcerer shows up at the castle and says to the then–reigning king, ‘Look, I’d like to turn this gizmo over to you.’ And the king says, ‘What would I want with such a thing? What’s in it for me to take this gizmo off your hands?’ Then the sorcerer’s grandson explains.”
“A bit … convoluted,” Ishmael said doubtfully.
“Exactly. That’s why I went with the horse.”
“You’ll be a good teacher,” Ishmael said, taking me by surprise.
“Is that what I should be?”
“I don’t mean a professional teacher,” he said. “All of you must be teachers, whether you’re lawyers, doctors, stockbrokers, filmmakers, industrialists, world leaders, students, fry cooks, or street cleaners. Nothing less than a world of changed minds is going to save you—and changing minds is something every single one of you can do, no matter who you are or how you’re situated. I told Alan to reach a hundred, but to tell the truth I was getting a little impatient with him. Of course there’s nothing wrong with reaching a hundred, but if you can’t reach a hundred, then reach ten. And if you can’t reach ten, then reach one—because that one may reach a million.”