One for the Road

SO, THIS WAS MECCA. Hell-on-Earth would be more like it! That upwards of a million people visited this Allah-forsaken place annually, Brent Aberdeen mused — a figure that represented the estimated number of worshipers who each year made a pilgrimage to the birthplace of Mohammed — revealed volumes about the power and popularity of the Islamic faith.

But most of the faithful arrived during the ninth month, Ramadan, at the beginning of what passed for Spring within the arid climate of the Arabian peninsula. Aberdeen, on the other hand, had been forced to make the forty-mile journey East from Jidda in mid-Summer, when a sweltering Sun at its zenith threatened to fuse the desert sands into glass. At this time of the year, the narrow valley in which Mecca stood was blistering hot, bone dry, and as barren as an eighty year old virgin. Even the local bureaucrats were bright enough to relocate their provincial government to the slightly cooler elevations of Taif, for the duration.

So what the hell was he doing here, Brent Aberdeen wondered. Chasing another Pulitzer, what else?

"I know this is short notice, Brent," Kyle Hobson had said, handing him a manila folder of background information and an airline ticket to Saudi Arabia, "but we've been given a lead that's just too hot to ignore."

He wondered if his editor had recognized the irony in this observation, at the time it was made. Probably not. Aberdeen had already promised himself that he would make Hobson aware of his unintentional bon mot, in no uncertain terms, immediately upon his return to Manhattan. Well, maybe not immediately. But not long after a long, cold shower and an even longer night's sleep between silk sheets in his air-conditioned Park Avenue apartment, to be sure. Right now, however, he had an appointment to keep.

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"Immortality ain't all it's cracked up to be, sonny, I'll tell you that much. Sinbad, Ali Baba, Scheherazade, Schariar, Prince Firouzi Schah, Haroun al-Raschid — I've sprinkled dirt over each one of their graves. Did you ever hear of Antoine Galland? I helped him translate our adventures into French. That was back in the early 1700s, as I recall. I really liked that old Frog. I didn't expect to, but Antoine and I hit it off immediately. We remained close friends, right up until the day he died.

"Same thing happened with Edward Lane, a little over a century ago. The two of us worked together for more than three years on a children's version of The Arabian Nights. We wanted to make certain those glorious tales were always available to the kids. And we succeeded, too. Then, just like everybody else, Edward wrinkled up like a raisin over time and, finally, kicked the bucket.

"If I could, I'd wish every one of 'em back to life. Them and all the other friends I've had to watch grow old and die, down through the centuries. But I can't. The wishes are all gone now, just like the lamp."

The old man's voice faltered, then fell silent. His rheumy eyes glazed over, staring out into empty space, as he absent-mindedly rubbed the dirty glass sitting on the table before him.

The lull in the conversation, like so many others that had preceded it, didn't bother Brent Aberdeen. He'd turned off his tape recorder over an hour ago. Keeping it running would have been as much a waste of power as the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead. There was nothing but stale and fetid air to move around the small, dreary apartment in which he and the old man were sitting. And clearly, there was nothing about the latter's narrative that deserved to be preserved for posterity.

Whoever had conned Hobson into believing that he was sending his star reporter off to interview Aladdin, the Master of the Mystic Lamp, probably owned a first-edition, signed copy of P.T. Barnum's autobiography. So far as Aberdeen could tell, the only feat worthy of even minor mention that this pitiful creature sitting across the table from him had ever performed was to somehow secure the bottle of Tanqueray that he'd been steadily draining since the start of the interview. Booze was not a creature comfort the New York native had expected to encounter in Mecca, a sacred city in which alcoholic beverages of any kind were strictly forbidden.

The way he figured things, the old geezer probably picked it up on the black market — a mainstay of modern commerce that was bound exist even here, in the birthplace of Islam. Exist, hell. Within such a repressive society, illicit enterprises of all kinds undoubtedly prospered.

The old man's attention returned from whatever distant time or place had momentarily claimed it.

"I seem to be dry here, sonny," he sighed, holding out his glass. "Why don't you do the honors this time? And feel free to pour yourself another one, while you're at it."

Aberdeen picked up the bottle. It was almost empty.

"There's only a little bit left, sir. You can have it."

"No, no, no. Go ahead and fill both our glasses. There's plenty more in there."

Aberdeen interpreted this statement to be but one more indication of the advanced dementia he'd already concluded the old man suffered from. The drop or two remaining in the bottom of the bottle would hardly be enough to moisten one glass, let alone replenish a pair of them. Nevertheless, the reporter decided to humor his host. Imagine Aberdeen's surprise when he turned over the bottle to drain those final, few drops and a rush of liquid came gushing out so rapidly that it not only filled his glass, but quickly overflowed in a torrent, drenching the dusty table top.

"What the hell?" Aberdeen shouted as he jumped to his feet, knocking over the chair in the process.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" Laughter echoed through the dark and musty room. "I got you that time, didn't I?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, c'mon, Mr. New York reporter, tell me the truth." The old man's voice was suddenly strong, his eyes alert and alive. "You don't think I'm who I claim to be, do you?"

Aberdeen took a moment to recover his composure before responding.

"Let's just say, I have my doubts."

"Don't worry about it. Most people feel that way, when they first meet me. That little trick — which I've pulled off successfully at least a hundred times, so don't be too embarrassed — manages to convert the majority of them into true believers."

Brent Aberdeen examined the green bottle, turning it over in his hand.

"Are you trying to tell me that this contains some sort of magic potion?"

"No. No. No. Nothing quite so dramatic. You see, a touch of the spirits was one of life's little pleasures I wanted to make certain I'd always have available, before the spirits of the lamp deserted me. And so, a few years back, I made a simple wish, one which keeps that bottle in your hand eternally filled with an unending supply of my favorite beverage — a taste I acquired in England while Edward Lane and I were collaborating."

"But if this isn't a magic potion, what the hell have we been drinking?"

"Why, djinn and tonic, of course. Now, shall we continue the interview? And please turn on your tape recorder this time, Mr. Aberdeen. I'm about to tell you a tale I think your readers will find extremely interesting."

- End -

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