Achmed The Genie and The Three Collectors

Within the cosy copper womb-like confines of his lamp Achmed lay snuggled down under his thirteen point five tog single duvet. The pleasure he endured as his eyes felt heavy and his consciousness still had one foot in his dreams and nightmares. Nightmares are important to genii as they made the dreams feel so sublime. There was metaphysical and spiritual poetry within that magical lamp. It may be an unbearably cramped space for you and me just as the coffin was cramped for the teenage girl who sold her soul to the Devil in exchange for eternal life. To a genie a magic lamp is something else. Plus that mattress was soft. Firm and soft. If you had Achmed The Genie’s super soft and super firm mattress you’d refuse to get up in the morning. All you need is a couple of caffetas from the local hospital to assist in relieving yourself and you’re set for life. Also the sheets are always clean within a magic lamp. Oh yes, my friend, there are more than enough lamps to go round in this beautiful planet of ours. Just think carefully before you rub one. The whereabouts of this particular lamp I shall leave till much later meanwhile let us leave Achmed to his blissful snooze and pay a visit to the world outside where you and I live.

In the large Comet electrical store which was directly opposite the infamous Reading Gaol was a genial, plump, cream-suited with trilby hat bespectacled eighty year old by the name of Ernest Williams. He carried around with him a bag of three compact discs. Beside him was a young salesman who had spent some time undergoing the appropriate training. “Now this is our best model. It is expensive but as my mother says, ‘You get what you pay for.’ I’ll give you a demonstration…” The salesman switched on the radio. Ernest winced as the Heart FM blared out its umpteenth play of ‘Mysterious Girl’ by Peter Andre. He proffered his three compact discs. “May I?”
“Be my guest.” The salesman switched the stereo to compact disc mode. Ernest placed the first disc in the tray and played the first gymnopedie by Erik Satie performed by Ronan O’Hara which he insisted on listening to in full. The salesman could see the expression of uncertainty on his face. Ernest then swapped the first disc for the second one and played the first gymnopedie by Erik Satie performed by Joanna MacGregor which he insisted on listening to in full. The salesman could see the expression of doubt on his face. Finally Ernest placed the third disc on the tray and played the first gymnopedie by Erik Satie performed by Herman Kretzschmar which he insisted on listening to in full. The salesman could see the expression of resignation on his face. Oh dear.

After over an hour Ernest Williams walked out of Comet, unsatisfied after telling the staff and other customers of the fact.

In Henley-on-Thames’s Oxfam store searching through the 78rpm shellac recordings (a bargain at a pound a piece) was the thirty one year old Marcus Enfield. Pot bellied and Aran sweatered, Marcus had a penchant for old recordings but most of all he was a fan of old blues and jazz recordings. The likes of Charley Patton and groups that had ‘jugband’ and ‘stompers’ in their name held great appeal for him. Marcus was looking for something that jumped out and grabbed his attention.

Later that evening forty three year old Arnold Barrett in his small flat above the Sonning Common Newsagent was tap tapping onto his computer a blog complaining about the National Film Theatre’s decision the previous night to digitally project the film ‘Oh, Mr. Porter!’ Arnold Barrett had a passion for cinema, in particular British, of the nineteen twenties and thirties.

Now my dearest friend as all three men slept The Coincidence Faerie simultaneously (because she is supernatural after all) flew into their bedrooms as they slept. And speaking of coincidence these three strangers had a train to catch. At Reading Station they separately popped into WHSmiths and bought a magazine, each reflecting their particular passion. All were heading for their individually selected destination of London. When the train to Paddington arrived ten minutes late at Platform Five, the three strangers stepped onto three separate carriages. Coincidentally the seats they all managed to find all faced each other. It didn’t take long for them to notice that each one was reading a special interest magazine. Unusually for a train journey conversation was struck with all the three collectors getting on amicably. They were going to London for different reasons so there was a parting of the ways. Thanks to the Coincidence Fairy they would all return to Reading at the same time. A bond was struck based on passion and collecting.

Now the whereabouts of the magic lamp can be revealed. It wasn’t in an exotic Arabian country but rather it was floating amongst a couple of Somerfield carrier bags in the Kennet and Avon canal. This remained in the canal for some time until one fateful day. Ernest, Marcus and Arnold were sat on the red seats in the Oscar Wilde Walk by the canal all tucking into a grisly looking, gooey, smelly yet nutritious doner kebab apiece. “Oh look,” Said Marcus, “a magic lamp.” The other two gentlemen chuckled. Ernest pointed out that it certainly had the appearance of an Aladdin lamp. Arnold got up from his seat and announced, “I’m going to fish it out.”
“You’re not serious are you?”
“I am, Marcus. Can I borrow your stick, Ernest?” And with the eighty year old classical music enthusiast’s gnarled walking stick Arnold fished out the magic lamp unaware that it truly was a magic lamp.
“Oh for goodness sake, keep it away from our kebabs.” Protested Marcus.
“Hmm. It is a bit gritty.”
“And smelly too.” Added Ernest.
Arnold knew exactly what to do, according to his personal philosophy of what was appropriate. He took a piece of his kebab, a part that didn’t look all that appetising to him, and used it to rub clean the lamp in which Achmed was snoozing. Marcus and Ernest said that watching him made them feel a little bit queasy. And out came Achmed.

Goggly eyed all stood up. Achmed’s colour was brand new. Not any of the colours everybody has names for on paint charts but a proper bona fide brand new primary colour. Mix that with either yellow or blue and who knows what you might end up with. Achmed introduced himself to the three collectors in his own florid style. “Are you a genie?” Marcus asked. Achmed responded that he was. “Is it true about the three wishes?” Marcus continued. A beam of a smile spread between Achmed’s applecheeks as he nodded his head. At that moment the three men conferred amongst themselves.

MARCUS: Well that’s pretty awesome.
ARNOLD: Oh stop talking like a Ninja Turtle.
ERNEST: What do you guys wish for?
MARCUS: Oh.
ARNOLD: Um.

The three men looked at each other and for the first time they knew what the other one was thinking. They all felt, despite a smattering of misgivings, quite happy with their lot. Being completists they all knew what they wanted. They just didn’t want it all at once. Achmed was a little perplexed so the three collectors elaborated. Ernest himself explained that his passion led him to go to places and meet people. For the duration of summer he would attend every BBC Proms performance at the Royal Albert Hall. Save for special occasions when he scrimped and saved enough pounds and pennies for the festivals of Glyndebourne and Bayreuth. Marcus also mentioned travelling plus the honour he had of meeting the artist and fellow shellac collector Robert Crumb in Provence. “Many a friendship has been formed but nothing compares to finding an unknown artist on an obscure label. Playing it on an old victrola and having one’s delicate ears rinsed with sheer innocent joy.” Arnold mentioned the downside of collecting. The being thought a fool. How his wife left him but now he has had a string of girlfriends. He also mentioned about the joy, too, of finding something unknown. But he also warned against collecting for the sake of collecting. These works of human creation were to be enjoyed, appreciated, celebrated and analysed. Achmed The Genie was struck by how their passions ran the gamut of human emotion. Tension, joy, frustration, despair, anticipation, pride, love, laughter, tears, selfishness, altruism, fury and delight. He could relate to those but as a genie he was more than aware of the human need for more, the human need for the impossible. Or even the human need for base desires. Genies weren’t immune from the controlling forces of carnal desire. With the awareness of that particular aspect of humanity Achmed gave them some options of things that they might want. An ability to fly? A harem where the young ladies never age and the word “no” is not in their vocabulary? World peace and an end to African famine? All the gold one could possibly own? Anything? Anything at all? Perhaps a nineteen seventies style ‘Curly Wurly’ or the authority to revert ‘Snickers’ back into ‘Marathon’? Ernest, Marcus and Arnold all looked at each other and then turned to Achmed and asked him, “Well, what do you want?” Achmed was a little thrown by this. Nobody had shown a genie consideration since the world began so this act of altruism was more than a little new for him. “Come with us, we’ll take you round.”

The first port of call they took Achmed to was only round the corner from the Oscar Wilde Walk, it was the Abbey Ruin where the first King Henry lay. Achmed asked if they wouldn’t like the Abbey to be restored to its original splendour. “Erm. Architecture isn’t my forte. I leave that to the likes of John Betjeman and he’s no longer with us, alas.” Ernest said. Achmed shrugged his shoulders and out of boredom he floated in and out of the window areas of the ruins. “He’s actually enjoying that.” Commented Marcus. Then they took him to the library. Achmed asked if they wouldn’t like to have unlimited borrowing time, unlimited amount of books to borrow and specific books that the library wouldn’t have? Ignoring him Marcus, Arnold and Ernest took the genie into a lift and brought him to the second floor with its collection of plays arranged in alphabetical order according to the play’s title. To go from ‘The Iceman Cometh’ to ‘Mourning Becomes Electra’ would take about a few hundred books with the word few being infinitely flexible. There was a debate whether or not Samuel Beckett’s ‘Waiting For Godot’ would be an appropriate choice but then Ernest had a brain wave of selecting William Shakespeare’s ‘Henry The Fourth Parts One and Two’. Each chap selected a copy of both books for themselves plus an extra two for Achmed. “Who’s that?” Asked the librarian.
“Oh, that’s Achmed,” Explained Arnold, “he’s a genie. Turns out they do exist.”
“You have until the twenty fifth to return them.” Afterwards they all retired to the Forbury Gardens and stepping onto the empty (except for Sundays) bandstand did a hopelessly amateur rendition of Shakespeare’s historical play with Achmed given the honour of playing the part of Falstaff. When the final line of the second part of the play was spoken a small crowd had gathered around the bandstand and gave the quartet a pleasant cricket match sounding round of applause. Achmed The Genie blushed, yet again a brand new primary colour. What would you get if you mixed that with red? The crowd dispersed, Achmed bit into his bottom lip and with a quivering chin floated down to the Oscar Wilde Walk.

Hovering above the walkway an embarrassed Achmed meditate upon his reflection in the dirty waters of the Kennet and Avon. He never expected to receive such consideration, such generosity, such love. It was all a little bit much for him and he told Marcus as soon as he came down. “It’s okay Achmed. We like to give a new friend a nice treat now and again.” Said Marcus gently stroking Achmed’s back. The laws of physics governing supernatural surfaces are different to natural surfaces so touching somebody supernatural is a unique experience. Oh by the way my dear friend I’m making all this nonsense up so do not bring up this conjecture in a science laboratory. Achmed liked being called a friend. This moved him so much that he asked for a cuddle. So the man and the genie embraced by Reading’s Kennet and Avon canal.

That evening the gang all went to the Unicorn public house in Kingwood Common. “It was closed down a while back but a campaign saved it. Even Boris Johnson leant his support.” Arnold informed the genie.
“Could do with an upright piano.” Lamented Ernest. Achmed enjoyed supping on dark bitter. He’d guessed that he’d probably be committing some sort of sin or blasphemy but he didn’t give a monkeys. He had a happy glow and that warmed up his three friends. Now all wanted to share their own personal interests with him. The genie would spend a week with each friend individually. Sleeping on spare beds, sofas or a mattress on the floor. He would meet the wife, meet the family, be a companion for a friend living alone. Achmed would experience all those things plus he would experience what made his three amigos tick. The first home he stayed in was with Ernest and his charming wife Margaret. Achmed was struck by how many different versions of Ludwig Van Beethoven’s ninth symphony with its ‘Ode To Joy’ chorus he owned on different formats such as eight track, vinyl and DAT cassette. Ernest said he would play them all but insisted that Achmed hear the highly skilled Margaret play him the most famous part of the piece on their freshly polished upright.

In the company of Marcus the genie was treated to potted histories, anecdotes but above all the sweet delights of his friend’s shellac collection. With his ears full of all possible versions of Beethoven’s ninth, Achmed’s particular penchant was for the trumpet playing and scat singing of Louis Armstrong. Finally Achmed had a break from the world of music when he stayed in the cineaste Arnold’s above-the-shop flat. There Arnold introduced him to the delights of watching a crackly sounding scratchy British film from the nineteen thirties at eleven at night. Achmed enjoyed himself so much that for a time he went round saying in a shrill voice, “You’re wasting your time.” But the best moment for Achmed was when his new friend took him to see a double bill of ‘Bringing Up Baby’ and ‘It Happened One Night’ at the Prince Charles Cinema in London. A most wondrous evening followed by beef and glass noodles at a Korean restaurant. Again he was probably committing some sort of celestial misdemeanour by eating a bovine creature but Achmed had no primates to donate.

Ernest, Arnold and Marcus had all been generous to the genie and he felt indebted to them. One evening as they all sat in Ernest’s home eating lovely sugary crumbly shortbread with the most perfect pot of tea in the universe Achmed asked if there isn’t anything at all he could do for them. Anything major. Anything minor. Ernest chuckled, “A musical joke. How very Mozartian.”
“Well, you could always show us where you come from.” Suggested Marcus. The genie smiled and shook his head. The inside of a lamp is particularly unsuitable for a mortal, especially one who is a good friend. When Arnold asked what he does in the lamp the genie Achmed replied that he loved snoozing, dozing, sleeping and dreaming. Ernest got up and exclaimed, “That’s it! My good friends we shall give Achmed the best treat he has ever had. He deserves it after being cooped up in that lamp.” So one night whilst nearly everyone had gone to beddy byes in London the three mortals and one immortal, after hiding themselves under the soft toys in the children’s department, had the entirety of Harrods to themselves. With battery powered torches they crept into the bedding department. Thank goodness the alarm system was neglected to be switched on, readers. Ernest, Marcus and Arnold had decided to treat Achmed to a sleep in the most expensive bed in Harrods. A pair of lady’s shoes there has been known to cost two million pounds so you can imagine how much the most expensive bed is. “Oooh! This is lovely! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh, lovely. Ooh! I think…I thi…” And he gave a big yawn and went to sleep. The three men also selected their beds and they yawned themselves to sleep.

There was always a moment when Achmed would wake up in the middle of his sleep with a troubled mind. This time he was not alone and The Coincidence Fairy had briefly flown in to make sure that it was Arnold Barrett who was awake. “It’s hard being immortal. People think it would be truly wonderful to be alive permanently but it isn’t. You get used to everything after a while, so where’s the surprise? When your world goes, I’ll still be here and when the universe and then the mutiverse and then the multimultiverse finally goes, I’ll still be. What a prospect. That’s why most of us genii are on automatic pilot, granting wishes three and making a smoky return back to the lamp waiting for the next duster.” Achmed continued to say that he had a wonderful time and will always treasure the memory but he dreaded the prospect of permanent existence. “I envy you and what you call your short lives. Life seems so much increased to the maximum when you’re mortal.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” warned Arnold, “the grass is not always greener on the other side.”
“Yes.” Sighed Achmed and feeling sad he returned to sleep.

The following morning they were all turfed out and given a stern warning by the owner who also gave a stern warning to security. You never saw a genie (with the ability to turn Harrods into a blancmange) so shamefaced in all your life. Later that afternoon they all stood round the children’s tree in Regent’s Park that was preserved by Spike Milligan. All knew about Achmed’s burden. “Doubts are what makes life taste sweet.” Said Ernest. This didn’t help Achmed. “Couldn’t you wish to be mortal?” Asked Marcus. No. The irony is that genii can grant other people wishes but not their own. Conferring amongst themselves the three collectors turned to Achmed and said, “We like to ask for our wishes now.” Achmed nodded. Each one asked for the same thing, “I wish for you to be able to wish.” Achmed had no choice but to grant their wishes. Everybody in the park watched what was going on.
“I wish I was mortal.”
Achmed began to die. He felt himself weaken. He was too old to live. His life was slipping away.
“Oh help me! What have I done?”
All three men held him in their arms and watched him with great concern, telling him to be strong. “I love you.” Wept Arnold.
“I love you.” Wept Ernest.
“I love you.” Wept Marcus.
“I love you all. I love you very much. Very, very much.” And his supernatural body felt heavy in the hands of the three collectors. Marcus, Ernest and Arnold all looked at each other as if to ask what to do now. They had no need to ask that question when within a split second the drudgy grey clouds opened and the biggest magic lamp in the world landed on Regent’s Park. It was also supremely dusty. Arnold, Ernest and Marcus lay Achmed’s body on the grass and using their coats as dusters wiped clean the giant lamp. It was working, smoke could be seen emitting from the lamp and soon the sky was filled with all the genii in existence. It was the Queen and King, who was one and the same genie that lifted up Achmed’s supernatural corpse.

All the genii in existence were in mourning for Achmed and held the most beautiful funeral service a good person could possibly have. Those who spoke at his funeral were, out of the ones who still lived, those who he granted wishes to. They were thankful and indebted to Achmed. The last to speak were the three collectors who had gave their wishes to Achmed. Afterwards it was celebrations with raga music and dancing.

A year passed.

Arnold was alone in his Sonning Common flat watching BBC News. He nearly fell off his sofa when the attractive female newsreader announced that Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Mountain Eagle’ had now been found and that Neil Brand (Britain’s best silent movie pianist) would be playing at the film’s revival on New Year’s Day at the Royal Festival Hall. He immediately went on line and booked three tickets.

Marcus was sat drinking a cappuccino and eating a cupcake in Henley-on-Thames’s ‘Hot Gossip’ where he overheard a conversation amongst the girls who served about a brand new record store that sold nothing but gramophone records and gramophone players with beautiful horns. Marcus took action by asking the young ladies where it was going to be and if they were looking for staff?

Meanwhile in his home Ernest was looking after the gift that was left on his doorstep. Paganini’s violin. A card had been left with it reading:

PLEASE PLAY

And Ernest did.

Badly.

© 2009 Clinton Morgan