26/1/96

The Arafat Riddle

Who’s got it in for Yasser – and why?

(The episode opens with a bedroom scene somewhere in the Palestinian entity. It is morning. The husband Yasser is sleeping like a baby. His lovely wife Suha is sitting at her vanity mirror. She combs her hair and notices a split end, and is depressed. Presently the husband stirs. He desperately needs a shave.)

Suha (kissing him on a stubbly cheek): G'morning, pussycat.

Yasser (grumbling): Where's my socks?

Suha: Exactly where you left them, on the dresser under your keffiyeh.

Yasser (absent-mindedly scratching his belly): What's for breakfast?

Suha: Wheaties, two eggs and botz. Your office called, you have to go in early, something about the peace process, but you're not going anywhere until you fix the kitchen sink, it's blocked again.

Yasser: I'm not even out of bed yet and you're starting already. First things first. (He trudges off to the tastefully-appointed bathroom. He follows his sacred morning ablutions, puts on deodorant, flosses his teeth, gargles, shampoos his stubble. Back in the bedroom, he performs a quick calisthenic and starts to dress.) Hey! I can't find my pistol! How can I go to the office without my pistol?

Suha: Did you leave it in your olive fatigues?

Yasser: Yeah ....

Suha: How many times have I told you to empty your pockets? So now your pistol is at the dry-cleaner's.

Yasser (muttering under his breath): For this I got married?

(Organ music swells. Fade to black. Scene Two opens at the Delaney Detective Agency, a seedy third-floor firetrap on Aristoboulus Street in Jerusalem. Dick J. Delaney is curled up on his chipboard desk, snoozing. He doesn't bother taking the phone off the hook because nobody ever calls. The phone rings. Delaney rolls over onto the spike-file.)

Delaney: Ouch. (It is an approximate translation.)

Phone: Ring!

Delaney (answering): The check's in the mail. Goodbye.

Sexy, Mysterious Voice: No, wait. I want to hire you.

Delaney: Who are you, a wrong number?

Voice: I'm beginning to wonder. Are you Delaney, the washed-out, down-and-out supersleuth who hasn't had a client since --

Delaney: -- Alright, alright, I'll take the job. But I don't accept checks.

Voice:   I can pay you from petty cash.

Delaney (sarcastically): Terrific, that'll pay my petty bills. Look, honey, when I risk my life for a client, I like 'em to wince a little when they pay me. With petty cash you buy thumb tacks, not me.

Voice:   Please...

Delaney: Aw, don't beg. It so happens I can't say no to a gorgeous dame.

Voice: You flatter me, Mr. Delaney, but I'm not as young as you seem to think. I came in the big Russian aliya as a teenager ...

Delaney: -- Which means you can't be more than 24, doll-face.

Voice: ... before Russia became the Soviet Union.

Delaney (sighing): You got a name?

Voice: Voice. Vanda Voice.

Delaney: So what's the poop, Voice? 

Voice (pausing hesitantly, which really helps build dramatic tension): Somebody's got it in for Yasser Arafat. I want you to find out who. And why.

Delaney (laughing caustically): You want me to read you the phone book? C'mon, Voice,  everybody wants the old fellow geharget: either he's not gone far enough for the peace process, or he's gone too far. He's too extremist, too moderate, gave up too much for too little, or too little for too much, he's too strong, too weak. The only thing every Palestinian and every Israeli of every political persuasion can agree on is that Yasser Arafat is the best thing the other side could hope for. The guy wouldn't survive an evening stroll down Main Street in Gaza City, never mind Tel Aviv. And you want me to find just one person in the entire Middle East with a grudge? I'll tell you this, sugar, I wouldn't even know how to start the process of elimination. Take my advice: save your savings and put a free ad in "Bargain Basement."

Voice: You got rent money for this month?

Delaney: You win. Meet me here in an hour, at 2 Aristobulous.

Voice: Where's Aristobulous?

Delaney: Uh ... (he's flustered) I don't know, actually. (He suddenly realizes why he never gets junk mail or, for that matter, clients.)

(While Voice calls another detective to help her find Aristobulous, Delaney runs a comb through his hair, flicks a wrinkle off his shirt, straightens his tie and removes the spike-file from his kidney.)

(Fade out; kettle drums and cymbals; commercial break. But it's Channel One, so they show public service announcements: tough machos in a Haifa disco chug-a-lugging strawberry milk; a smiling family giving money to a radiantly lovely bank teller while explaining to everyone waiting in line why the health tax is such a great idea; an Ethiopian immigrant working on a construction site with such an expression of professional satisfaction it gives you goosebumps; and a reminder that on Sunday at 8 you shouldn't miss highlights from Division One of the Faroe Islands Soccer League. Unfortunately the announcements run too long and when we return to the story, Scene Three is already in progress.)

Peres: -- and that's final.

Mrs. Peres: But dear...

Peres: Oh, all right, have it your way. (Mrs. Peres changes the channel, and they are watching Three's Company. Just as it's getting real interesting, an announcer cuts in.)

Announcer: We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an urgent message from the prime minister...

Mrs. Peres (turns to her husband and, in a disgusted tone): Aw, Shimon, you have to cut in right now?!

Peres: But I didn't record any urgent message today.

Announcer: ... live from the Knesset.

Peres: Hey, wait a minute!

The Prime Minister: Mr. Bresident, and the Isra-eli Beeble.

Mrs. Peres: Honey, isn't that Yasser Arafat?

Peres: But I don't understand ... Why isn't he wearing his olive fatigues?

Prime Minister Arafat: The elections are now history. The bublic has spoken. I am your new leader.

Peres (shouting crazily at the TV): No! It's a mistake! I specifically said I didn't want early elections! They told me this was going to be Palestinian elections!

(There's a knock at the door.)

Peres: Who could that be?

Mrs. Peres: Probably the Baraks. Ehud called earlier to say they might pop by for a few rounds of gin rummy. (She opens the door.)

(It is Private Eye Dick J. Delaney, disguised as Barak pretending to be a charity collector.)

Delaney: Would you like to buy a lottery ticket in support of Gamblers Anonymous?

Mrs. Peres (giggling): Oh, Ehud, you're such a jester. Come in. I assume you've heard the news. Shimmy is kinda grouchy about it.

Peres (still shouting wildly at the TV): I'll throttle him but good!

Delaney: So! My hunch was right! I knew somebody had it in for the guy but who, I says to myself, who? I figured I'd start at the top and work my way down; you were first on my list.

Peres: Knock it off, Ehud, I'm not in the mood for your practical jokes.

Delaney (throwing off his disguise): The name's Delaney, pal, ace gumshoe, and you're sunk.

Peres: Huh. I wasn't exactly in the clouds before you walked in.

Mrs. Peres: Coffee, Mr. Delaney? A biscuit?

Peres (groaning): This is the worst day of my life.

Delaney: Look at the bright side: you won't have to worry about Jerusalem being divided. And inside of a month you'll have 23 Arab embassies here. Just what you wanted, no?

Peres (half delirious): Must've been a plot. Deri and Ramon, yeah, that's it. If you can't beat the system, change it. It's classic.

Mrs. Peres: But dear, they learned that from you.

Peres: Just make the coffee.

Delaney (snaps his fingers): Wait a minute. I think I've got it. Arafat's been planning this all along. What did they have before we took their land? Bupkes. So they let us grab it, figuring it'll take us a few years to bring it to life, with farmlands and orchards and towns and settlements, knowing full well that three decades of pitiful whining was about all we could take. All this time we thought they were dumb, they were egging us to build faster, bigger, better. The more they objected, the more we invested. They could have stopped us every step of the way. Don't you think it odd that all the construction in the territories is done by Palestinians? Hah! We never wondered why they were so happy to let us pay them to develop their own land. Even the intifada, which had the power to shut down Arab shops at will, never stopped them from their work -- only we did! And for that matter, why did the Palestinians begin their revolt in 1987, rather than -- as one might expect -- 1967? Because they were giving us 20 years to pump billions into their land.

Peres: That's insane.

Delaney (shrugging): Just a hunch.

Peres: Look, I'm a little depressed right now. Maybe you could finish your biscuit and go visit the next person on your list?

Delaney: Hmm. Got anybody in mind?

Mrs. Peres: Not that I understand what's going on here, Mr. Delaney, but put two and two together and it looks like you've been double-crossed by a double agent. More coffee?

Delaney: Just a little. (Gets up and paces, deep in thought. Eventually, he snaps his fingers.) Y’know, maybe you’re right. If I could figure out who hired me, I might figure out why.

Mrs. Peres: Maybe it has something to do with the elections.

Peres (perspiring slightly): Couldn’t you find something to do in the kitchen?

Mrs. Peres: But I’m in the kitchen.

Delaney: Wait a minute. She could have something there.

Peres: Aw, that’s ridic—

Delaney (extreme closeup: he is absentmindedly tapping his temple): Who would be most concerned about his welfare? Who stands by Arafat through thick and thin? Who cares about him more than anybody else? Who would be most disappointed if he weren’t elected?

Peres: His wife!

(A surge of violins)

Mrs. Peres (gulping): My ... my husband.

(Organ music swells. Delaney puts on his hat which, if you’ve read enough But Seriously columns, signifies that he’s solved the mystery. Peres turns off the TV and slinks off to bed. Mrs. Peres follows her husband repeating “But dear...”. Arafat takes questions from the plenum while Suha is at the dry cleaner’s describing the missing garment [“... and it has a pistol in the pocket, black with a bit of silver.”]. Kaunus beats Vilnius 1-0. Eighty thousand readers say oh well, next week it’s Berlyne. Fade out.)