"My name is Afteh, an indirect descendant of the Prophet, peace be upon him."
"What brings you to our fair shores, Afteh?" I made a gesture as if I was about to pistolwhip him, which is not my style.
"I am here to blow up America, boom, bring nuclear weapon shimmy shimmy under nuclear missile shield in box of Wheaties, or sell bioweapons, or play bridge with Omar Sharif, and steal your women into white slavery, pick one."
"Let me see if I can work this out. You are suggesting that, for instance, because I don't know that the suras of the Koran are assembled in descending order of size, and that Baghdad in the 9th century made Paris look like Boise, Idaho, I am somehow prejudiced against Arabs."
Afteh weighed him up for a moment, and then shrugged. "Oh, alright. You will not understand, but I will tell you anyway."
"Try me. As the poet Rumi says, "What will God try next after he has grown tired of this world?"
"I am a broker, I broker oil for weapons, oil for food, food for oil, and sell what is called indirect oil, oil that is embargoed by the United States, but which the Esso, Shell, etc, can shift around if they do the paperwork right, sell it through third parties, like me."
"Lucrative?" I said.
"Billions," he said. "You have no idea."
"Which brings me to my next question." I was warming to the guy, which is always dangerous. "What are you doing wandering around at, and if my sources are right, investing in, a midscale Folk Festival?"
Afteh chafed in his chair. "Do you think you could loosen these first?"
"No dice." I said. "More."
"The Sheik of Du'uran, by most accounts among the wealthiest men in human history, since his country is a pool of oil dusted over with a thin layer of sand, is renowned for his parties. He has theme parties -- one year it was the Maldive Islands, and he brought the entire population of the Islands to the party for one night. That is his style. Gaudy. He will go to Hell on Judgement Day for wasting his money. The poor will cry against him and Allah will hear."
"It is very early in the morning, Afteh."
"O.K., O.K. I am getting there. Last year he decided on a 60's theme, specifically 1966, and flew in everyone who had had a record in the Billboard top 100 in 1966, and wasn't dead, and had them play."
"Including everyone?"
"Everyone. The Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, you name it. It took two weeks. Towards the end, they got down to some of the lower names on the list, and one blessed evening they got to Condolezza Schwartz. How can I tell you? She was captivating, mesmerizing, I fell completely for her. She was the only woman for me. Such music, such feeling, such beauty!!! You of course see it. Many cannot. What sadness. What a wrong that must be righted!!!" He strained in his chair like someone who must be off immediately into the streets, proclaiming the news.
I shook my head. I shook it again. The world remained as it was. I shook it again. Nothing. And now my head hurt again. "So you have shacked up with Condolezza???"
He looked shocked and horrified. "Omigod, omigod, no!! Such a woman to condescend to such as I??? Not in my wildest dreams!! Well, perhaps in my wildest dreams, but such are the dreams of princes, not of oil brokers whose hands are filthy with lucre!!"

I gave up. The Cubs were going to win the World Series after all, and Shania Twain was going to receive the Nobel Prize for Physics. Why not?