Akhmed and the Atomic Matzo Balls. Gary Buslik
do wish our scientists would quit screwing around already. Sometimes I think we’d be better off with a few Zionists ourselves.”
“I’ll get one of the women to sweep up the broken glass.”
“How about Sahala?”
“Yes, she’s a pretty one.” He caught himself. “That is, under the fabric. I’m only guessing.”
“It’s all right, Hazeem. Man does not live by falafel alone.”
“Sahala, then.”
“And could you do me another favor?”
“Any…almost anything.”
“You know that bar refrigerator in the gym? The one no one is allowed to open but me?”
Hazeem pretended to search his memory.
“In the freezer compartment is a plastic container with a blue top. It’s the matzo ball soup one of our agents sneaks out to me every month from Tel Aviv. Would you heat me a bowl? Nice and hot? Put it in the microwave on high for six full minutes.”
“Matzo ball?”
“Come, come, Hazeem. You needn’t seem surprised. You’ve heard the rumors, and they happen to be true.Yes, I do like Jew food. It’s my one weakness.”
“You need not tell me this—”
“The plain truth is, deli makes me feel better. It’s like having my own sweet mother again before I had her killed. Alas, I always feel sturdier after a good brisket au jus. Always peppier after an apple-cinnamon rugelach.”
“I dare say, chicken soup will soothe your ulcer.”
The president cast him an accusatory gaze.
“I’m merely conjecturing, I assure you. I have absolutely no personal experience in the matter.”
Akhmed broke into a grin. “Relax, my friend. I’m only tugging your chain. I wouldn’t mind if you too were to experience the pleasures of deli. Why should I keep the joi to myself?”
“You’re very generous,” Hazeem confirmed with a bow.
“And, don’t forget, a good interior designer!”
Hazeem began to back out of the room.
“And a splendid dancer!” the president called after his interpreter. “And I have fashion sense! I know eyewear!”
But Hazeem was already gone—sprinting down the hallway as if being chased by a scimitar-wielding maniac.
The next morning, the Iranian leader, feeling a bit mellower, waved to an admiring throng as his bodyguards ushered him into Khomeini General Hospital. A couple of nurses, clad in white burqas, wanted to put him in a wheelchair, but he brushed them aside. “I walk in, I walk out,” he blustered, swaggering to the X-ray department. Since he was preregistered (Hazeem), he had only to flash his Blue Star/Blue Crescent insurance card before being whisked to a locker cubicle, where he was to store his clothes and don an examination robe. First, of course, the bodyguards checked the locker for explosives—planted by Mossad agents, posing as hospital accountants, presumably—and after the all-clear, he slipped in and got undressed. Before stowing his clothes, he plucked out his wallet and, still feeling warm and fuzzy from last night’s steaming matzo ball soup, leafed sentimentally through his photos. There was a picture of Nazar, his late cockatiel, the best little friend a fellow could have, and of his idol, Josef Stalin, who knew how to deal with lazy, stupid scientists. Oh, if only he, himself, hadn’t been cursed with such a soft heart; if only he’d had Uncle Joe’s executive temperament. He sighed wistfully and flipped to the next two photos: the black-and-white of Gordon MacRae that had come with the wallet, and a color shot of Rosie O’Donnell, scowling—perhaps mocking Donald Trump. Now there was a woman! Oh, what Akhmed wouldn’t do to claim her for his stable! How she would give it to those insufferable mullahs! Look at the way she got into The Donald’s face! And that mousy Hasselbeck’s! Yes, sure, she was a little on the hefty side, but he happened to like plump on a woman. What was wrong with a bit of blubber? You didn’t see that kind of self-assured shape on Iranian women—assuming you could see their shape, which you could not, but he had a pretty good idea what was going on under those threads. He had heard stories. He closed his eyes and imagined the lusty fullness of Rosie’s burqa as it waddled around Tehran’s narrow streets, trundling from one sidewalk to the other. Mmm, mmm.
“We are ready for you, Your Excellency,” head nurse Fafoola called.
Akhmed stowed his things and slipped into the hospital gown. It was dreadful! Despite the recent matzo ball soup, his trip down cockatiel lane, and his wishful fantasies about Rosie, the moment he laid eyes on the robe, he fell into gloom. He recalled depictions of Persian Empire merchants and noblemen, with their ornate, flowing garments, their magnificent turbans, their sumptuous silk scarves and opulent slippers, woven with silver and gold threads. Yet where was that resplendent Persia now? He fingered the hideously frumpy hospital gown. Here, that’s where. Schmatas made in India and a so-called nuclear program without a frigging bomb! “Did you forget something, Dr. Nuclear-Bomb Scientist?” he mocked. “Oh, yes, now that you mention it, I think I forgot a nuclear bomb!”
“Your Excellency? Are you all right in there?” called the nurse, tapping.
“Of course I’m all right,” he snapped. “Get me marking pens.”
“Marking pens?”
“As many different colors as you can find. Red, blue, green, black. Quickly!”
“I’m not sure we have—”
Oh, great. We don’t have a nuclear bomb, and we don’t have marking pens. He remembered his wallet photo of Uncle Joe. “Do you happen to know where Siberia is, Nurse Fafoola?”
“Siberia?”
“Yes, you know: frozen tundra, man-eating wolves, eleven-month nights? If you don’t give me red, blue, green, and black marking pens within five minutes, I am going to send you there on an extended holiday—say, the rest of your life—but only after boiling you in camel spit.”
“I’m on it.”
“Purple, too, if you can manage. That one is optional.”
In a couple of minutes, red, blue, green, and black felt-tipped pens came rolling under the dressing room door. He had done Uncle Joe proud. He took off the gown and got to work, stretching it over the bench and tattooing it with multicolored designs—curlicues and fleurs-de-lis and butterflies and bluebirds and swirls and spirals and miscellaneous amorphous flights of graphic fancies. “There, that’s better,” he declared, holding the robe at arm’s length and feeling glad for his people that they were blessed with such a creative despot.
When, finally, he emerged from the cubicle, six or seven of the hospital staff were semicircled around the dressing area waiting for him with grave expressions. But as soon as they laid eyeballs on his handcrafted design, they broke into spontaneous and heartfelt applause.
After having the X-rays taken and being given a Tootsie Roll Pop, the president, dressed again and with his folded gown on his lap, waited in a private lounge for an internist to discuss the results. Since his matzo ball soup, he hadn’t experienced any of the sharp duodenal pain that had made him call the physician in the first place, so he felt pretty upbeat. Maybe Hazeem was right; maybe he wasn’t going to croak.
But the instant the doctor entered, and Akhmed spotted that look on his face, he knew something was very wrong. His throat thickened, and his Tootsie Pop drooped. The doctor looked around to make sure they were alone. He closed the door behind him and, holding the X-rays, sat next to the president.
“I’m going