The Blue Taxi Page 7

  The truth: Kazansthakis had met his final darling in that very place. A clever, well-built Polish girl (youngest child of prisoners of war who had, after another, earlier end, likewise found themselves still there while others raced back home), she had come in with her sister and ordered up a tricolored helping of cold stuff which she then asked him please to cover in a coat of chocolate syrup—this with such great charm that young Kazansthakis winked. The smiling girl winked back, and he fell steamingly in love. They wed. At the party, a towering ice-cream cake that did not melt was served. The lovely business bloomed. Oh, how locals flocked to them for sundaes and for cones! People of all ages, colors, and persuasions. A bustling, bristling business that brought people together!

  Gilbert, despite the need ajitter in his stomach, his fear of dissipation, could not help but admire their success; he was not jealous of the Frostys. The ones who’d been born rich, who now had homes in Scallop Bay, he could easily resent: the Greenleafs and the Thorntons, who sent roses and carnations all over the world; ruddy Mr. Remington, with his throaty, booming voice, who ran a hunting outfit from the bar of the Ambassador Hotel and spent his days procuring kills (and the trinkets that announce them: lion skins and heads, stools on zebra feet, the choicest rhino parts) for princesses and magnates; nervous, dull Jim Towson, with the exclusive beachfront lot, whose big wife Hazel, redoubtable, effective, ran Committees as though the British had not left (the woman also had, to Gilbert’s horror, a soft spot for his Sarie). But Gilbert couldn’t, even at his smallest, bring himself to think unkindly of the Frostys. His approval of the pair was made possible in no small part by their goodwill (they both treated him quite genuinely, he thought). But more important was the fact that they weren’t real colonials in the first place, not as he, he liked to think, had been. History had not so much put them on the top of things or nursed their dreams of grandeur as it had thrust them to the side and shoved them through the cracks. And, thriving, they’d popped through.

  If Gilbert envied Kazansthakis and his wife, it was for what he saw as the uniqueness, the freshness, of their suffering, and for all their work and vigor: she had been a prisoner, after all, born behind barbed wire, and the Frosty King had come from quick, smart people who had once run for their lives. The Frostys, Gilbert felt, were in a completely separate league, distinct from him and all his kind: he found that he could love them.

  Kazansthakis was, in fact, well-disposed towards Gilbert. The Frosty King liked knowing things, and, though he didn’t care for books, he admired those who did. He frequently stood Gilbert Turner drinks while Gilbert told him what he’d read. After he had spoken, the Frosty King would never fail to say, “Mr. Turner, you were meant for greater things than this. Tell me something else.” And Gilbert would produce another anecdote, another, and another, until the Frosty King’s green eyes grew soft and it was time for him to go.

  That evening, the Frosty King was at his usual patio table. “Ho! Gilbert! Mr. Gilbert Turner!” Gilbert sat down gratefully. Kazansthakis motioned to the waiter for a thick bottle of beer. “What’s cooking?” he asked Gilbert, with a wink. The Frosty-Kreem was just beside the Cinema, of course, and, despite the hard work needed at the parlor, Kazansthakis often left things to his sweetheart so he could daydream in the dark. He liked foreign expressions and was given when intoxicated to mimicking the moves of kung-fu stars, cartoon men, and cowboys. “What’s up, Doc?” he said.

  Today, thought Gilbert, pleased, he might tell Kazansthakis about the Dawoodis in the pamphlet, whose Holiness had met with ministers and shopkeepers at several fashionable places and who, Gilbert had been interested to see, encouraged all his followers to contribute to whatever nation pressed its laws upon them (those Dawoodis, Gilbert thought, knew how to fit in). He smacked his narrow lips, rubbed his hands together, and began. He told the Frosty King about the fete for Dr. Saheb at the great Jubilee Hall. “A quiet man,” he gravely said, while Kazansthakis drank. He would have liked to say a little more—how fine the beard was on the fellow, how pleasant the walled gardens—but Kazansthakis had not yet had enough to drink. “No beards and little diplomats for me, my friend. No stories of the State. Or God.” The Frosty King was rather spiritual, in truth, but he did not like Religion. “What else? Give me something better.”

  Gilbert’s drink arrived, and, while a quick boy popped the cap, he thought about the accident. “Well, here’s an odd thing.” He told the Frosty King that Agatha and Sarie had come upon an accident the week before—an Indian boy hit by a bus, relieved of half a leg. And that instead of leaving well enough alone, today they’d gone on an adventure. “Wouldn’t give it up. Said she had to go.” Gilbert looked down at his wrist the way a person with a watch might. Then he sighed, and looked out at the sea. “She’s still there!” he said. “She hasn’t come back yet!” It was more a show than a display of real feeling. His impatience had passed and, once settled at the Palm, he wasn’t really curious. But he felt a little snubbed, had expected Kazansthakis to support him in his disapproval, even his disdain. But the Frosty King, Gilbert was unsettled to discover, was not on his side.

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “She found him in the street! She should not let him go.” The Frosty King went on to say he thought that people linked in accidents were joined by holy forces quite regardless of the distances between them. Hadn’t Gilbert seen the films? Did he not believe in Providence, or Fate? Gilbert did not care for whimsy. He had not considered such a possibility before and, sipping his thick beer, decided that he didn’t think much of it. That was very well for all the groups described in Gilbert’s books, with all of their beliefs, and perhaps for kung-fu fighters, too, whose codes of honor were apparently remarkable, but he himself could not subscribe to such a view, interesting as it might be. Sarie was not joined, in his opinion, to any legless boy. He said so.

  The Frosty King insisted. His ruddy face lit up. “No, no, no. It’s very beautiful,” he said. “A drama, man! I’m telling you, you’re wrong.” He liked very much to hear the story of the bus, the missing limb, the visit—which was going on exactly then (Mad Majid pulling out the paper), while they were sitting at the Palm. “Just wait, why not, and see? I’m telling you that something will come of it. As it must. Your venerable Sarie must at no price let go.” But Gilbert hadn’t ventured out in the ebbing afternoon to discuss in any detail Sarie and the boy, or the wounded father, who was, he thought in passing, probably from Gujerat and certainly a salesman. Why was the Frosty King so keen? He even asked his friend why he hadn’t gone along. “Maybe,” Kazansthakis said, aware that he was teasing, “that father’s a Dawoodi. At last, my friend, you’d meet a person from the pages of your books!” Gilbert didn’t laugh, and Kazansthakis, who knew that Gilbert could only take so much, sighed, and turned back to the pamphlet. “All right, then, my Tonto. I’ll be good. To the holy man, on-ho!” He waved a big hand in the air to bring another round. “To the Jubilee.” Gilbert, grateful for the second beer, found some things to say.

  The Frosty King drank, too. And eventually his face took on the dreamy look that Gilbert waited for. He listened. He was so lulled by Gilbert’s talk he ordered ten kebabs on slender sticks to keep him at his side. Behind them the sea turned and the sky became a lucent velvet blue. When the Frosty King at last told Gilbert it was time for him to go, he put his palm on Gilbert’s back and said, with yet another wink, “I’ll be here tomorrow. Be sure to come prepared.” In fact, the Frosty King would be in place at the Victorian Palm every afternoon for five more days, while the Frosty-Kreem’s old freezer underwent repairs. The business would be closed. Gilbert, pleased, promised he would come. Why not? Kazansthakis smiled. As he often did, he said, “I like you, Gilbert Turner.” As Kazansthakis raised his eyebrows, Gilbert knew the Frosty King was trying something out that had been witnessed in a film. “I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice, and I will tell it you again. There’s more to you than one might think, I say.” Gilbert shook Kazansthakis’s hand
with a good feeling in his chest. Five days of a closed parlor meant five days of little tales.

  “Why not come tomorrow? Come tomorrow if you like,” daring, flailing, uncertain Majid had said to Sarie’s little girl, and, yes, they did, they did. And so. For five afternoons that followed one another, each of which brought Mrs. Gilbert Turner and Majid Ghulam Jeevanjee to the brink of interesting things and the Frosty freezer back into top shape, Gilbert sat at the Victorian Palm Hotel and told Kazansthakis stories he had plucked out from his books. At Kudra House that week another schedule was also ratified. Something there, though no one wished to name it, was, holy force or no, eagerly astir.

  A tale of transformation for a widower and wife, delicately told. Let’s put it like this. Day one: On the patio of the Palm, at a graying three o’clock, Gilbert started with a mystery, a strange, alluring fact. “The places where Sikhs died along the railway to the north have now become famed shrines. Sites of tragic accidents are now piled with gadgets, photographs, plastic blooms, and beads. Pilgrims go to visit.” Kazansthakis was intrigued. In Kudra House, Ismail and Ali, who sometimes did odd jobs, were out. Tahir was asleep. Habib showed Agatha the parrot. It spoke out in the kitchen: “Allahu akbar,” it said. Habib pointed out the window at the mosque to show Agatha the source, nodded in approval when he saw she understood. She sat beneath the swaying cage in awe, saying “Allahu akbar” now and then, until the bird said “Tahir” and she remembered why she’d come. With soft Habib beside her, she went to watch him sleep.

  Day two: The Frosty King ordered an entire roasted chicken and several kebabs, then watched Gilbert eat his fill. “What is it today?” he asked, once Gilbert had leaned back from the table, wiped his mouth, and belched despite himself And Gilbert, who had found a biographic book about a Cardinal from France, announced, “The White Father Missionaries wore those long white dresses in the hopes of being taken for a troop of Mohammedans. This peculiar outfit has now become their costume.” Kazansthakis liked this one so much that he bought another round. At Kudra House, Majid Ghulam located several more issues of his long-dead, much-loved paper and read from them to Sarie. There was a poem called “The Pomegranate,” which left a pink scent in the room. To clear the air, Majid read another, “Cat, the Thief of Meals.” Sarie felt greatly, kindly entertained. She thought, although perhaps it wasn’t true: I have always liked the rhymes. Agatha showed Tahir how to make a Jacob’s Ladder with a knotted piece of string.

  Day three: The Victorian Palm was sorry, but there was no beer left from the Congo. Would they accept a reddish local brew? Kazansthakis ordered chicken stew and gin. Gilbert, who had looked very hard the night before, recited what might have been the most astounding tale of all: “When Nkama Ndume, local king on Kudra, the green island, became angry with his staff, he made women sweep the kitchens with the pillows of their breasts.” “He what?” asked Kazansthakis, though he’d heard every word. Gilbert played along, repeated himself proudly, like a student showing off. Kazansthakis hid his eyes and laughed, until a ferry boat gave out a throaty toot and the Frosty King turned red.

  At Kudra House, the coffee table with the animal-like feet had not snuck back to its ordinary place. Sarie sat with ease. She had the odd, delightful feeling that the furniture would remain just as it was for a nice, long time to come. Over milkless tea (brought up by Maria, who scowled at Sarie all the while), Majid Ghulam revealed that as a child in the green islands (where Bibi, too, had grown) he had played football on the beach. Sarie sheepishly admitted that she did not know the game’s rules, although, she added, no doubt other Belgians did. Habib went down to shoot marbles, leaving Agatha and Tahir in the bedroom all alone, where each child took a nap.

  Sarie, having found her purse beneath the settee, and about to fetch her child, turned to Mr. Jeevanjee and said, suddenly surprised by the truthfulness of it, and how deeply she was feeling, and by saying it out loud: “It is nice to have a friend! Someone I can visit.” Majid Ghulam’s face fell open, and Sarie closed her eyes a moment, suspecting she was not equipped quite yet to see what might be there. “Come again tomorrow,” Majid Ghulam said, lightly holding to his stomach but not looking away.

  On day four, Gilbert did not get the reaction he expected. “When Livingstone finally, really died at last, they left his heart in Zambia and hid his lungs in Zanzibar, beneath the tiles of a cathedral. The stitched-up, empty body was brought next back to England, where they built for it a chapel.” Kazansthakis, like many other people, had little patience for the famous Dr. L. He had heard this story one too many times and did not believe it anymore. In fact, he was annoyed. “Where’ve you been, my mister? You think no one has told me? That I’m just off a plane? Next the head will be in Egypt and his liver in Kasai. Stomach with the Swazis, God knows what in France. No, no, no, my friend. Another story, please.”

  In Kudra House, Sarie found herself nodding on the settee, wondering why she was so tired, and amazed that she could feel so free in someone else’s house as to yawn luxuriously without minding her mouth. Majid, forgetting not only himself but also who she was, advised that she lie down and take a nap, which was what Hayaam would have suggested in a long-gone, happy time. And he remembered with a gulp what he had not forgotten once in years: that Hayaam was not there. He was drowsy, too. Sarie, not so far gone she could not sense what might be a mistake, said, “No, thank you!” and did her best to stay awake. In the other room, Agatha taught Tahir a song about creatures speeding on the shore to join a turtle dance. “The Lobster Quadrille,” she said to Tahir, round mouth like a fish. “Too far, too far,” she sang. “That’s what the snails feel like while everyone jumps right in. That’s how you would be.” She laughed. This time, when they left, Majid Ghulam took Sarie’s hand in his and held it for a little longer than might have been expected. He said, “Tomorrow, Madam Turner? Tomorrow, you’ll come back?” Sarie, sharp ache in her throat, thought Mr. Jeevanjee looked sad, and beautiful, indeed.

  Day five: Gilbert, on his second drink, confessed to Kazansthakis that, despite what people might surmise about old Mr. Turner, he was more a thinker than a doer. He would be very glad, he said, to while his life away. But wouldn’t it be sweet if someone hired him to dream? If he were officially involved in something that could feed him? Kazansthakis, who liked to help his friends but also felt that there were limits to what successful men could do without risk to themselves, was not sure what Gilbert meant. He wished to change the subject. He coughed, and motioned to the sea, where fishermen in spidery boats were preparing to go out. He said, “And what a life we have, old man.” Distracted, Gilbert let the words sink in, and, smiling, he agreed.

  In Kudra House, Tahir’s wounds were healing. Though there were still odd pains down there, where nothing really was, he lied a little less when he announced it did not hurt. Nevermind, he’d think, he’d moan when she was gone. Agatha at his request pulled out a science primer from underneath the bed. Tahir talked about the planets. Agatha wondered: were there not still other unnamed orbs up there for new people to find? Tahir didn’t think so. “They’ve learned everything already.” He left the book in Agatha’s damp hands and slowly fell asleep.

  On the other side of Tahir’s door, Sarie and Majid Ghulam found themselves alone in a brand-new, necessary way. They had just come from the very balcony through which Bibi said some underclothing might be seen (Sarie’s on that day were white). Majid Ghulam had pointed out the seedlings he was hoping to transplant one day to the courtyard—pomegranate, coconut, a kisukari stump, and a little henna bush in reclaimed metal tins. Gardening had been his wife’s affair, he said. But he couldn’t let it go.

  Sarie didn’t mind the mention of a wife who was, she thought, long gone. She was glad he had been married and that he no longer was. It made her host mysterious, in command of secret pains she felt she should respect. And, while she was not the sort of person who cared much for potted things, the plants made her feel young. She thought the trees were lovely, and although it
is the kind of thing one says wholeheartedly and later does not mean, she confessed to her new friend that she often wished she had a garden, too. Majid Ghulam could feel his toes already perched at the slippery edge of an abyss. Eyes moist, offering another woman pleasure from what dead Hayaam had taught him, he said, “Oh, come to enjoy this one, anytime, oh, anytime at all—”

  Sarie, caught between the doorway and the city, which she could make out vaguely through the slats, felt something gentle and demanding in the air. Majid Ghulam wrung his hands. Sarie raised her light eyebrows and blinked. She lost her balance, steadied herself with his arm. His elbow bone was sharp, but just above it, beneath the cuff of his pale shirt, there was a plumpness Sarie found surprising. No longer startled by her height, he looked up at her, barreled bravely on. “You can come here to my home and we will bring a chair for you to sit, on this old balcony. You have no garden where you live.”

  Sarie followed Majid Ghulam inside. Ismail and Ali were at work, and Habib (how lucky!) had gone to watch the heaving buses take off for the north. The door to Tahir’s room was closed. The hallway’s heavy air was smooth and soft and blue. Sucking at the inner flesh of both her cheeks at once, Sarie found herself examining the back of her host’s head. Considering: How blue the light is here. How nicely Mr. Jeevanjee is swaying now as he moves forward in the hall. My host is like a reed on the edge of a brown pond. A fierce, barbed tingle came tripping through her limbs.