CHAPTER ONE
Back in the days of the Arabian Nights, there was a land called Persia. In a Persian city, somewhere in Persia, there lived a couple of Persian brothers. The Baba brothers, Kassim and Ali, had lived and played together since they were children. But, the time came when Kassim and Ali Baba were to be parted to find wives and to create families of their own.
“I will marry a wise woman,” said Kassim, talking to Ali Baba over the wall partitioning the two neighbouring brothers' houses. “She will be beautiful, kind, loving and caring. We will be the richest family in Ababrakhabakebab.” Kassim was the more intellectual of the two brothers. He had a business-like mind, a sharp wit and a keen eye for detail. As a result, he was egotistical and had inflated views of himself. Nobody would ever get away with bettering him in any way. Ali Baba, on the other hand, was a bit thick, but he had a strong desire to make Kassim appear inferior in whatever way possible.
“I will marry somebody who loves me for what I am, not for who I am. She will not love me because I'm clever or wise. She will love me because I love her. I don't care about looks or personality. It is what's inside that is more important.” Kassim received Ali Baba’s words, taken from the problem page of a women’s magazine, with a cruel laugh.
“Ha ha ha!” laughed Kassim cruelly. “The only reason you're saying that is because you wouldn't be able to get a wife otherwise. If you wanted a beautiful wife, you'd be searching for years. No pretty woman would marry you. You are desperate and the woman who agrees to marry you will be equally as desperate. I am everything a woman wants. I'm funny. I'm good-looking. I'm talented. I'm clever. I'm perfect.”
“You're big-headed,” added Ali Baba.
“I'm not big-headed. I'm proud. I'm proud of what I've done and I'm proud of who I am. There's nothing wrong with that.”
“You're selfish.”
“We all have to be selfish in this life,” said Kassim. “How can we make ourselves greater if we continually give away what we have earned? The reason I am who I am is because I've done everything for myself. My wife will respect me for that. And I will respect her for respecting me. And you will respect her for respecting me. And she will respect you for respecting her for respecting me.”
Normally, by this point in a typical conversation between Ali and Kassim, Ali Baba had walked away, not knowing what his brother was talking about. But, because this story takes place at a turning point in the life of Ali Baba, he didn’t walk away this time. Instead, he decided to stick up for himself. He behaved in a way that totally shocked Kassim.
“Don't stick your tongue out at me!” said Kassim, reacting to Ali's unexpected action.
“Fine,” said Ali Baba, putting his tongue back into his mouth and walking into his house. “Oof!” he shouted. “Why don't I learn to use the door?”
Ali Baba sat on a chair in his house. He looked around. “This is all I own in the world: a house, a few bits of furniture, a donkey and three sacks. Who, in their right mind, would want to marry me? Kassim's right. His life is perfect. He could marry anybody. Nobody would even consider marriage to me.” Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
“Avon calling!”
“Oh no!” shouted Ali Baba. “If she wants the money for that perfumed face cream and the fancy nail varnish, she can stay wanting.”
After listening to half an hour of constant banging, Ali decided to go face to face with the lady from Avon. Now, if Ali Baba lived in medieval times, he would have known that, in accordance with contemporary beliefs, putting poppy seeds in his shoes would prevent people to whom he owed money from recognising him. But, unfortunately, Ali Baba didn't live in medieval times, so he didn't know of this handy tip (it doesn't seem to work though. Well, not for me). Instead, he would have to open his door and be instantly recognisable to his creditor.
“Avon calling!” said the woman.
“Who are you?” asked Ali Baba. “Where's the old bag gone?”
“She's moved on to a better place.”
“Oh, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. My heart goes out to her and her family.”
“Her family went with her.”
“No! This is terrible. I don't believe it. I only saw them last week.”
“It was a last minute arrangement. It was their big chance to move. They saw that the boat bound for Wales had enough places on it to take the entire family there, so they took them. You don't need to sympathise with them. As I said, they've gone on to a better place.”
“What? You mean they've only gone to Wales? They haven't died?”
“Who said anything about dying?”
“Well, er, I thought that with you saying that, well, that they've gone to a better place, er, I just put two and two together and, er, you know how it is.”
“Of course I do, love. Anyway, she left me the names and addresses of all her customers, and details of how much money she was owed by each of them. Apparently, she is owed one hundred and fifteen Persian pounds by you.”
“Oh, no. You must be mistaken.”
“I can't be. It says in big black handwriting that Mr. Alison Baba of number seventeen, Oaktree Way, Ababrakhabakebab, Persia owes twenty pounds for the facial hand wash, fifty pounds for the perfumed foot and mouth cream, thirty pounds for the colourless non-stick lipstick and fifteen pounds for the banana-scented, pear-shaped soap.”
“This can't be happening to me. This can't be real.”
“But, it is. Well, that's if you forget that this is a fictional story featuring fictional characters in a fictional world. But, we're not going to do anything like that, are we? After all, if we do, you could use the fact that neither you nor I really exist as a reason for not having to pay me."
“I could do that, couldn't I?”
“No, you couldn't.”
“Why not?”
“It's not in the original traditional version of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”
“And is an Avon Lady included in the original traditional version?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, well, I wouldn't know. I've never read it.”
“So, there you go. Now, Alison, pay up.”
“I don't have the money. And don't call me Alison.”
“It's your name, isn't it?”
“Well, erm, yes. But, I've had it shortened. Mind you, it proved pretty useful a few years ago when I did exotic dancing.”
“I don't want to know. All I want is your money.”
“But you're not going to get it. I don’t have it on me. Come back next week.”
“I can't do that.”
“Why not?”
“I'm appearing in another story.”
“Who's it by?”
“Just some insignificant writer who couldn't put together a story to save his life.”
“Oh, so you're appearing in another story written by the author of this one, are you?”
“Yes, meaning that I can't be here this time next week.”
“You'll have to come over the week after that then.”
“Certainly not! If you think I'm going to arrange my life around what suits you, simply because you want to buy things that you can't pay for, you are greatly mistaken. If you don't pay up now, your house will have to be repossessed.”
“What? No! You're not going to bring the ghosts back! They were only exorcised last month.”
“Well, they'll be fit then, won't they?”
“Eh?”
“It's a joke.”
“Oh, yes, of course! I get it.”
“Really?” said the Avon Lady, her eyes lighting up with joy because her exorcism joke didn't go completely unnoticed. “I always wanted to be a stand-up comedienne. I could easily put on loads of weight, stand up and make comments about food and men. I could name my show, er, I dunno¬…”
“Shut Your Cakehole, Avon Lady.”
“Yes, perfect! See, that's it. You could get a job thinking of names for television programmes. That'd get you some money. But, I suppose you'd have to wait for the television set to be invented first. It's a bit of an inconvenience really, isn't it?”
“What is? I wasn't listening to a word you were saying.”
“Television. If it was invented, you could go into television programme name making-upping and make your fortune.”
“No, I already know how I'm going to make my fortune. I'm going to go to London. The streets are paved with gold there, you know.”
“Are you going to change your name to Dick too?”
“I beg your pardon?!”
“Will you call yourself Dick? You know, as in Dick Whittington. He went to London to seek his fortune. Somebody wrote a story about him once. He had a cat too.”
“I suspect that quite a lot of story-writers have cats.”
“I wasn't talking about the story-writer having a cat. Dick Whittington had a cat.”
“What? And somebody wrote a story about that?”
“Yes, and it's a very famous story too.”
“It's amazing what rubbish some people will read. You'll be having people reading this story next.”
“No, I don't think so. There are limits.”
After the Avon lady's comment, neither she nor Ali Baba said anything for about half a minute.
“Erm,” thought Ali. “I don't know what to say next. I hate these embarrassing silences. I'll have to think of something to say. I could always ask her a question. But what about? Oh, I know!” Ali then said, “Will you marry me?”
“What?! I hardly know you.”
“So? Marriage would be the perfect opportunity to get to know each other better.”
“You don't even know my name.”
“Does that matter? I can simply call you ‘Woman’.”
“Oh no, you can't. You will call me by my name, Bernadette.”
“Okay then, I will. But first you'll have to tell me what your name is. And don't call me Bernadette. That's a stupid name. I'm Ali.”
“I wasn't calling you Bernadette. Bernadette's my name.”
“HAH! Ha-ha-ha! Ahem. Well, erm, it’s, er, exotic.”
“Isn't it just?”
“Er, yes, of course. Anyway, you haven't answered my question. Will you marry me?”
“Have you asked my father?”
“Your father? Why would I want to marry him? Besides, I've never met him. I can't have asked him.”
“Phew, that's alright then. I didn't want to think that you were proposing to me on the rebound from a recent rejection.”
“Would I do a thing like that?” asked Ali.
“I don't know. Would you?”
“Do you really expect me to answer that? I thought you would have had more faith in me. Maybe this getting married idea is a bad one. How can you expect me to want to marry somebody who doesn't even trust me?”
“You're the one who wanted to marry me.”
“Was I?” Ali Baba quickly scanned through a copy of this story that he happened to have lying around. “Coo, so I was. So, what's your answer?”
“To what? Me getting married to you? Well, I suppose so. Anything to keep me amused.”
“Great! The wedding will be tomorrow. The local vicar's been promising to marry me for years.”
“Hang on! You're marrying me, not him. And anyway, we don't have weddings with vicars here. We have a different religion.”
“You what?! I'll have to have a word with that vicar. He's had me worshipping somebody who I don't even believe in for the last ten years. Anyway, we'll still get married tomorrow. It's best to get it over and done with.” Ali then said very quietly, just so that we could hear but Bernadette couldn't: “And, I'll finally better Kassim. Not even he could get married before tomorrow.” Suddenly, there was a knock at the back door.
“Ali!” shouted a voice. “It's Kassim. Can I come in?”
“Why, of course you can,” replied Ali. “I've got someone who I'd like you to meet.”
Kassim opened the door and walked into Ali's house. “I've got somebody to introduce to you too,” he said. As he saw a beautiful lady in Kassim's arms, Ali Baba's face dropped. “Ali,” added Kassim. “This is no time to do your leper impression. Pick your face up, put it back on and meet Rita, my wife.”
“Your what?!” exclaimed Ali.
“My wife. We've just got married. We had a quickie at the registry office.”
“Before or after you exchanged vows?”
“Alison!” shouted Bernadette. “That's their business. They'll tell you in their own time.”
“What do you think of her then, Ali?” asked Kassim.
“Er…”
“Yes! Exactly! I'll tell you something: standing in this room is the luckiest person alive. And that person is now at my side until death parts her from me. Oh, Rita, just think how jealous all your friends are going to be. Of all the women in the world, I picked you. I bet I can’t begin to imagine how honoured and privileged you must feel. This must be the happiest day of your life.”
“Kassim,” interrupted Ali, “er, this is Bernadette.”
“What? Who? Where?”
“Here.” Ali grabbed Bernadette and stood her by his side.
“Oh, her? That cow was pestering me for money yesterday. I’m not buying any moisturiser off her again.”
“She is not a cow!” shouted Ali.
“Really? When I opened the door, she was making a strange ‘mooing’ noise.”
“I can’t help it,” said Bernadette. “My parents deserted me when I was a child. They left me in a field to be brought up by a herd of cows. I still occasionally get confused and start mooing. It’s just one of those things that you’re going to have to get used to, Ali, when we’re married. But, I keep the grass short in summer, and every day, I provide fresh milk.”
“Are you two getting married?” asked Kassim.
“What? Me and her?” replied Ali, who wasn’t too keen on being married to somebody who had a habit of mooing and eating grass. “Of course not!”
“But she’s just said that you’re going to have to get used to her mooing when you’re married.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not marrying her. I don’t know where she got the idea from.”
“From you,” said Bernadette. “You asked me if I’d marry you.”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t ask you if you’d marry me. I asked you if you’d, erm, carry me.”
“What?! You know it’s an executable offence in this country to ask a woman to carry you.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Of course it is. Well, not if the woman is pregnant. Then you are allowed to be carried by her.”
“Well, that makes sense. Women can’t go around not having to do any hard labour for nine months just because they’re having a baby. We’ll be having women getting pregnant all the time just so they don’t have to do any work.”
“I think it’s disgraceful,” said Bernadette.
“It isn’t,” added Ali. “The law at the moment acts as a deterrent. It’s like saying, ‘Don’t get pregnant because you’ll have to carry men around’.”
“I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about you. You asked me if I’d marry you. You didn’t say a word about being carried.”
“What are you talking about, woman? Don’t lie.”
“What? Me lie? You’re the one who’s doing the lying around here.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I can tell a liar from fifty feet.” Bernadette than ran out of the house, stood by a wall about fifty feet away and shouted: “Yes, you’re definitely a liar.” Bernadette ran back into the house. “Oof! When we’re married, we’ll have to get a bigger door.”
“Can’t you take the hint?” asked Ali. “I don’t want to marry you. I only proposed to you because I couldn’t think of anything else to talk about while we were standing at the doorstep.”
“What about the weather?” asked Bernadette.
“Er, it’s warm, isn’t it? But, that’s going off the subject slightly, don’t you think?”
“No, that would have been something for us to talk about.”
“The weather?”
“Yes. It makes conversation, doesn’t it?”
“Not a very interesting one.”
“But it prevents you from saying something that you’d later regret. And, anyway, why don’t you want to marry me?”
“Because you’re a cow!”
“I can’t help that though.”
“And because you’re not as attractive as Kassim’s wife, and my ploy to use you as a way of bettering him in at least one way wouldn’t work seeing as he succeeded in beating me to find a wife.”
“When did he beat you?”
“Just.”
“What? While I was standing by the wall? Did it hurt? Did he leave any bruises?”
“Eh?”
“When he beat you – were there any bruises?”
“Er, no. He didn’t lay a finger on me.”
“So he kicked you?”
“No!”
“Oh. So, how did he beat you?”
“He didn’t.”
“But you just said that he did.”
“Well, he did, but not in a physical way.”
“How then?”
“He did something that I wanted to do before I did.”
“What?”
“Got married.”
“What?! Do you mean to say that the only reason you proposed to me was because you wanted to get married before he did?”
“Yes!”
“Ah! That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What?! How?”
“That’s what I like about you, Alison – your naivety. It’s a shame all men aren’t like you. I bet this ‘I don’t really want to marry you’ thing is all an act. Of course you want to marry me. I can see it in your eyes.”
“How?”
“I’m a woman. Women see these things. We women can tell, just by looking into somebody’s eyes, what he or she is thinking.” Bernadette then turned to look at Kassim. She stared him directly in his eyes. “Hmmm… Kassim, I don’t think your wife’s going to react very positively to your plans to go out on the town with the lads tonight.”
“What?! How do you know what my plans are?” asked Kassim, amazed.
“As I said, we women can tell these things. We have a sixth sense.”
“Doesn’t that mean you see dead people?” asked Kassim.
“Only on Tuesdays. Today though my sixth sense tells me that Ali really wants to marry me, even though you beat him to be the first to get wed.”
“I don’t want to marry you,” said Ali.
“But you’ve got to.”
“Why have I? This is my life and I can do with it what I want to.”
“No, you can’t. You’ve got to marry me.”
“Who says?”
“Scheherazade.”
“Who???”
“Scheherazade. Do you not know how the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves originated?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, I’d better tell you then, hadn’t I?”
“’Spose so.”
“Right,” began Bernadette. “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves is one of many stories collectively known as The Thousand and One Nights or Arabian Nights. These stories are all linked together by a larger, general story. This story is about a Sultan called Schahriar who, when he finds out his that his wife has been up to no good with another bloke, orders her execution. From then on, he decides that all women are evil and orders his vizier to find him pure women to marry. The day after marrying them, he orders their death. After a while and with no pure women left, the vizier’s daughter, Scheherazade, offers to marry the Sultan. She knows what Sultan Schahriar is up to, but, being a clever woman, she comes up with an ingenious plan. On the wedding night, she tells a story to her sister purposely so that the Sultan can hear it. Just as she comes to the end of the story, she stops. The Sultan, who thinks the story is great, wants to hear the end of it. He allows Scheherazade to live an extra day, so that she can finish telling the story to her sister. She finishes the story, but cleverly links it into another story that she tells all the way through, stopping just before the end, leaving it hanging as if it were on a cliff. Once again, she is allowed to live an extra day to finish it off, and once again she links it into another story stopping just before its climax. She is given another day to finish it, and the inevitable happens again. This pattern continues for one thousand and one nights, until the Sultan gives up with his decree to kill Scheherazade and allows her to live forever. The Sultan then buys a word processor, types out all of Scheherazade’s stories and makes a fortune by selling the publishing rights. And it just so happens that Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves is one of Scheherazade’s stories, and so, whatever she said happens in it, must happen in this story. As you said earlier, Ali, you haven’t read Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Therefore, you won’t know that it is in that story that some bloke called Ali Baba – that’s you – marries some woman called Bernadette – that’s me. Thus, we must get married, or Scheherazade will be round here and have a go at you for messing around with her story and changing it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Is she a nasty piece of work?”
“If she can make up enough stories to last a thousand and one consecutive nights, there’s no guessing what else she can do.”
“Right, we’d better get married then. I don’t want some strange story-telling Sultana’s wife knocking on my door threatening me with legal action for not doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Shezezehezarahehazeraderade, or whoever, is not going to find anything dodgy or inaccurate or unfaithful to the original in this version of Aladdin.”
“Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”
“What? Oh, yeah, that too. When it’s done and dusted, we’ll send her a copy and she’ll sit in a comfy chair and read it and say, ‘Ee by gum, Schahahahahahariar. Come an’ look at this, chuck. It’s me story almost word fer word, only better. Look, even Ali marries that cow. I didna expect the characters in me story to keep that close t’original plot. ’Spouse we won’t be needing them there lawyers this time. By ‘eck. I could ‘ave made a bob or two from this. Never mind. Maybe that version of Sinbad the Sailor is all wrong.’ And then, Sultan Schahahahahahahariar will say, ‘I bloody hope so, Shez. We’ve got t’pay milkman tomorrer mornin’. We could do with suing someone soon.’”
“Why would the Sultan and his missus be speaking in a northern English accent?” asked Bernadette.
“Er, well I did want to do them speaking in a posh accent, with them being royal and stuff. But I can only do northern accents. Need I say more?”
“Nope. You needn’t. Instead, you’re going to get on the dog and bone and get somebody to marry us.”
“But I don’t have a dog, and it doesn’t have a bone.”
“Oh. What have you got?”
“Er, I’ve got a donkey.”
“A donkey? What’s its name?”
“Don. Don the Donkey.”
“Use him then.”
“Okay then. Don! Here boy! Come on! Walkies!”
A donkey, complete with saddle, donkey shoes (horse shoes don’t fit him – they’re too big) and a map of Persia, ran out of Ali Baba’s kitchen and into the room in which Ali, Bernadette, Kassim and Rita were all standing.
“Why has it got a piece of card stuck to its side saying ‘Ride along Blackpool Beach. Only £1 per person’?” asked Bernadette.
“Oh, it, er, it got lost,” said Ali. “I saw this donkey walk past my front window one day, looking lost, so I took it in and have looked after it and reared it ever since. Rolf Harris would be well chuffed with me.”
“Why haven’t you taken the card off it?”
“Erm, well, er, they’re kind of attached to each other. I just can’t bring myself to separate them.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?” asked Kassim, who had gone mysteriously quiet.
“No. Why?” replied Ali.
“No reason. It’s just that I’m the witty Baba brother, not you. I make the jokes. I make people laugh. That’s why I’m so popular.”
“Of course,” replied Ali.
“Alison,” said Bernadette. “Get on your donkey and find somebody who’ll marry us.”
“Yes, dear. I’m going. Would you like to ride with me?”
“Maybe later,” responded Bernadette.
Ali Baba didn’t say anything, not because he’s sulking, but because I can’t think of anything for him to say. Instead, he climbed onto his donkey. “Ride on!” he said.
“Blimey!” added Bernadette. “A talking donkey!” Seconds later, Ali Baba fell to the floor with a thump.
“Maybe you should get on your donkey outside the house,” said Kassim.
“Oh! So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all these years. I thought it was because my door was so low. Er, where’s Don?”
“He’s still walking,” replied Bernadette.
“Oh great!” said Ali, who really wanted to say something else but couldn’t because it’d get me into trouble with my mum. “I’d better get after the flipping thing. Come here, you stinking pile of donkey droppings!” Ali Baba, after his rather shocking and dramatic display of bad language, ran into the distance, trying to catch up with Don. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, not a lot of any relevance is taking place. Maybe that’s because this story doesn’t feature a ranch, and if it did, it would seem slightly out of place. So, instead of going back to ranches, we’ll go back to Ali Baba’s house, somewhere in Ababrakhabakebab, Persia.
“Are you really going to marry him, Bernadette?” asked Kassim. “You could do a lot better.”
“I could do a lot worse too,” she replied, and then, as if this story were a play and the characters in it were mere actors and Ali Baba’s house were a wobbly cardboard set with a table stolen from the theatre’s bar making up its furniture, Bernadette did a little aside. “I could marry you,” she asided. She then unasided herself and asked, “What does Ali do for a living?”
“For a living?” replied Kassim. “Not a lot. You see those three sacks hung on a hook behind the front door, next to an axe? Every morning, Ali takes those three sacks and the axe, climbs onto his donkey and rides to the Forest of Ababrakhabakebab. He then dismounts his donkey, chops down a tree, chops the wood from the tree into little bits, puts the little bits of wood into his three sacks and then goes to Ababrakhabakebab market to sell the wood, which is now in the handy form of firewood.”
“I suppose that’s good for starting fires.”
“No, not really. A match is good for starting fires, but not firewood. You can’t place Ali’s firewood in a fireplace and expect a fire to start.”
“Why not?” asked Rita, Kassim’s newly-wedded wife.
“Who gave you permission to speak?” asked Kassim. “You’ve done nothing but nag since we got married, woman.”
“That’s the first thing I’ve said to you since we got married,” said Rita.
“Exactly! And it was a nag.”
“It wasn’t. It was a question.”
“Yes, a question; a question questioning my point that you can’t start fires with firewood. Therefore, a nag, but in question form.”
“If you two are going to start arguing, do it in your own house in your own time,” said Bernadette. “I’ve got to prepare myself for my wedding tomorrow.”
“Is that a hint that you want to get rid of us?” asked Kassim.
“Yes, it is.”
“I don’t take hints,” said Kassim.
“Okay then. Sod off!”
“Oh! The impudence!” exclaimed Kassim.
“Eh?” said Bernadette.
“Eh?” said Rita.
“Eh?” said Ali Baba. “Oh sorry, I’m not here at the moment, am I? Writer’s fault, not mine.”
“The audacity!” exclaimed Kassim.
“Have you swallowed a thesaurus?” asked Bernadette.
“Don’t be silly!” added Rita. “How would he be able to swallow one of those big creatures? Anyway, they’re all extinct now.”
“The nerve! The cheek! The effrontery! The temerity! Come on, Rita. We’re not going to stand for this.”
“You’re right, Kassim! We’re going to take you to the doctor’s to find out why you’ve started using big words. I’m not going to live with a man who says things that nobody understands.”
“If all women think like you,” said Kassim, “the author of this story’s going to have a few problems.”
And so, Kassim and Rita left Ali Baba’s house. And because there was very little for them to do outside, except for prune the hedge and sweep the drive, they entered their house. Meanwhile, Bernadette, who was now alone in Ali Baba’s house, which is quite odd if you ask me given the fact she only met him a few minutes ago, was wondering if getting married to Ali was such a good idea. “Oh! What have I done?” she asked herself. “What have I done?” And seeing as there was nobody else with her to respond, and as she didn’t want people to think she was crazy, she decided not to say anything else to herself. Instead, she ran herself a bath and grabbed a book to read. Ooh, the excitement!
