Short Story: A Spell Of Difficulty Or…

Short Story: A Spell Of Difficulty Or An Arabian Tale Of Sorts

There was a message on the answering machine: ‘I am in extreme danger, I have discovered an Arab’s head in the large glass jar in the bathroom. Oh and by the way, it’s Eric here in the front room on Tuesday evening.’

Being Eric’s friend was aligned to a surreal world of constant bizarre events. He dressed like a brown bear in oversize coats and stuttered from one catastrophe to another. As soon as you entered Eric’s hall you soon realised he was not a tidy man: An empty lemonade bottle lay sadly on one side as it did last week. One slipper obscurely leans against the grubby magnolia wall. The other had probably luckily escaped to a better foot somewhere else. And then to be invited into someone’s bathroom while first stepping foot through the door is indeed a strange affair but then Eric was no ordinary person.

The room was lit by two candles and directly in front of me was a bath full of water.

‘Let me shut the door and you will see what I mean’ Eric spluttered. ‘To do this properly you will need to lie in the bath.’

‘What?!’ I exclaimed. ‘You need some help and not necessarily from a priest.’

He went on, ‘No really, if you sit in the bath you will see the Arab in the jar.’

I looked up at the top shelf. In the dim light there was a foot high glass jar of shells. I stooped low close to the bath pondering whether I may be the subject of a glorious practical joke which might end with me being tippled into the bath.

But Eric was persistent. He looked drawn, troubled as though his thoughts were elsewhere, almost gripped by an external force.

‘Last night the Arab’s eyes turned towards me and left me cold. Have you ever gone cold in a tub full of hot water. It scared the shit out of me.’

I wrestled with my sympathetic side. Here was a fully grown man, I had know since I was five, explaining to me that he could see an Arab in a glass jar under the twilight setting of his bathroom. He must be mad but then I suppose he had been for years.

I studied the glass jar again. The haphazard way in which the shells were placed did resemble a face and the lid with its little bobble top, gave it an eastern feel. ‘Oh dear.’ I pondered to myself. Do I humour him? Or do I suggest, as I normally would, that there was no foundation in his thinking and that we should go down the pub?

‘Okay Eric, sometimes when you look at the moon with several layers of cloud it does sometimes resembles Bobby Moore about to make yet another clearance in the world cup of 1966.’

Eric pondered on my thoughts. ‘You might think I am stupid but there is something afoot here.’ He began to sway and wriggle into unusual angles like a belly dancer or exotic dancer might appear after consuming five or six pints. It was a strange sight indeed.

‘Eric,’ I announced, ‘pull your self together.’

‘Something is happening,’ whispered Eric ‘I must open the jar now.’ With that he moved forward in front of both candles, darkening the area extensively. What happened next was not for sane people to comprehend. I do not believe in ghostly things but as Eric moved his right hand forward into the shadowy world of his bathroom. I can remember falling and then awakening from a deep, dreamless sleep.

‘I think you are storing up a shed load of difficulty for yourself. Did you knock me out?’ I enquired, staggering to my feet. He smiled, ‘I wouldn’t call it a shed load of difficulty, more a spell of difficulty for which I have the ultimate answer.’

‘Oh good,’ I retorted. ‘You are going to see a doctor then!’

‘No,’ he went on, ‘I have an address in Al-Qalibah in Saudi Arabia. My destiny lies there. He stood with his back to the window and I squinted at this silhouetted figure and pondered whether a godly spirit had entered his mind. He certainly looked different.

‘So you’re not coming down the pub then?’ I enquired. He did not answer but turned and disappeared into the bedroom. I departed ‘I’m off then, see you later Eric.’ He turned as he pulled a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe amidst a cloud of old dust. ‘Okay,’ he said.

And that was it. Eric just disappeared. No forwarding address, nothing. His room was re-let and his belongings dissipated onto the street. He had no immediate ties in England: His long time girlfriend had left him months ago on the grounds that she could no longer live with his Walter Mitty approach to life. She was last seen heading towards a nunnery or was it the Samaritans. His parents had retired abroad somewhere, probably Spain and his only Grandparent, a dear old woman on the far side of town had little to do with him. ‘He makes me dizzy when he comes. I always take an aspirin when he goes. I wish he wouldn’t come.’ She would tell her neighbours in a distressed fashion.

There followed a decade of blissful activity in my town. I married, we had two children and we moved to the better side of town as I went from Machinist, to Sales Rep to Director of the company I had worked at since leaving school. My life was going well, I had a beautiful wife, sweet children and a great job. No worries.

Well that was until I received a call from work. It was Saturday morning when the gateman phoned ‘You better come down quick. The Sheik of Arabia is here to see you with his entourage of body guards in three stretch limo’s.’

I parked a little distance from the factory. I saw the entourage and I spotted this tall Arab in full traditional costume. I noticed a bedraggled beard, sparkling jewellery on both hands and of course sandals. Sandals in February in England, it could only be Eric.

‘Hallo mate,’ I uttered. He did not respond but reached out his arms and we embraced warmly. Eric was a tall man but the array of clothes meant it was like wrestling with a gorilla. ‘How are you my friend?’ He looked much at home in his robes, his eyes sparkling. ‘It has been ten years,’ he began, ‘we have much to discuss.’

With that he ushered me into his limo. ‘Where the heck have you been Eric?’ I enquired.

‘It was my destiny.’ He responded in a voice lower in tone and slightly foreign sounding. ‘I am fulfilled and continue to be so. Come we will talk at my hotel.’

He told me how he had followed the path of his forefather’s, how he discovered that his birthright seven generations earlier was in fact Arabian, how his relatives lived in Al-Qalibah, and how when he arrived, they were expecting him. Of course I thought, they must have had a message in a bottle via the Red Sea, transported a thousand miles of desolate sand by camel. He learnt the language, his family explained where he sat in the dynasty and bobs your uncle they also found him a wife or two.

He worked first with under privileged children, to, as his relatives put it understand humility. An oil sheik chose him to marry one of his daughters and invited them to live in the Royal Palace. Over a period of time he developed political skills and was to represent the Sheik at conferences with other Arab leaders. Eventually his reputation grew to the point when the government requested he represent them internationally. He now felt more Arab than English.

‘I am here to see your government in respect of aide and military support to bring peace to the Middle East. I will be speaking to the Prime Minister and government tomorrow’. I pondered on a response but none came. Here was a man that was going no where ten short years ago and a rather eccentric one at that and now look at him. An all powerful emissary for the United Arab States. No wonder the world’s in turmoil I mused.

‘Ah well my good friend,’ said Eric almost apologetically, ‘I must go. ‘Love and peace to you and your family’. With that he leaned forward and kissed my forehead just like my Auntie Elsie used too by cupping my head in her hands in a vice like grip. Then I had a realisation. It was that film! Was it a rebirth of Laurence of Arabia who tried desperately to unite the Arab states in the early 1900’s?

Eric had made it and had followed his destiny. There was, a sure fire thing; Eric would not be coming back to live in Hornsey, a spell of difficulty or not!