Last India Overland (49 page)

When we get to the border, all Pete does is talk to the guy for maybe all of thirty seconds. The guy doesn’t get on board, he could probably care less about what we were smuggling across.

Of course, I’m curious about what Rockstar had smuggled across the border, so I call up Dave.

Nothing much, he says. Just a Khyber knife, one of those Bic pens and lots of .22 bullets.

And I don’t know what made me do it. It was because I was stoned, I guess. Or Dave made me do it. Yeah, probably Dave made me do it, but all he’ll say about it is maybe.

But I’m staring back at those mountains that look like witches’ hats and I’m looking at Patrick who has this black cloud kind of floating above his head and I get this vision of Rockstar slicing my throat open and so I go up and I sit next to Rockstar and I says to him, in a whisper, “Tell you what, Rockstar, if you give me three of those bullets you heisted off the Afghanis, I won’t tell Pete about the knife.”

He just looks at me. It’s a look that would chill the heart of Sid Vicious.

“How’d you know about that?” he says.

“I’m psychic,” I tell him.

He gives me the bullets. Which surprises me a bit.

But it’s a bloody good thing he did, as it turned out.

Dec. 1

Today we drove to Dara, some kind of a refugee/fallback outpost/munitions & hash factory. Smoked too much hash. Saw some war dead brought in from the front, wherever the front is.

On Seokanno Square

outside the Park Hotel on Seokanno Square in Peshawar Pakistan a cat has been run over by hoof or cart or both

its one good eye shames me finally into action of some sort I’m so good these days at farming out responsibility

a male heel rubberized and Westernized

comes down on the cat’s head twice and then a third time, and now only a leg is twitching

Mick

Rockstar went back to his nest in the tent cage and thought about what I’d done. Then he climbed back out, came and sat across from me, said, “Whatcha gonna do with them bullets, Muck-hole?”

I said, “Bite on ’em when my tooth starts hurtin’.”

He thought about that. Then: “You’re a bloody piker, Muck-hole. You wouldn’t fuck with me just to get them bullets for that. You got your own little ballpoint gun.”

“Maybe,” I said.

He gave me a long look. Then he said, “Why ain’t we buddies no more, Muckle?” I could see a look like wounded rabbits get, second day with their leg in a trap. Or maybe it was just the hash.

“We are buddies, Rockstar,” I said. “It’s just that I’ve had a rough couple weeks and I ain’t been myself lately. ” He nodded his head. “Yeah, you been acting strange, Mick. You been getting too much pussy, that’s what can do it. People act strange when they get too much pussy.”

“It ain’t that, Rockstar,” I said. “It’s too many drugs. All those drugs you were so generous with, without me even having to ask for them. You’re just too nice a guy, Rockstar, that’s your main problem.”

I half-expected him to smile at that. But he didn’t. Instead he looked out the window at those Pakistani foothills. “No, Muckle,” he said. “That ain’t my main problem.” He looked back at me. “Know what my main problem is?”

I said, “No, Rockstar, I don’t know what your main problem is.”

He said, “Suzie. That’s my main problem.”

“Why’s that, Rockstar?” I said.

“Because of things she’s been saying about me,” he said in a whisper. Even though Suzie was way up in the front seat, where she’d taken to sitting lately. And everyone knew it wasn’t because she had a crush on Pete, necessarily, or liked the view of the highway.

I asked Rockstar what she’d been saying about him, not that it was any great mystery.

“You know what I’m bloody talking about, Muckle.” Cold stare. “Don’t’cha?”

I said I didn’t have a clue.

“Don’t matter,” he said. “She told Dr. Livingstone, I Presume. That’s all that matters.”

Then he went and climbed back into the tent cage. I went and sat with Kelly at the tables. She had that picture of Jenkins out and she was working on it, letting the bus’s motion do some of the work on the pink background. Neat idea.

“That’s a great picture,” I said. “You should be famous.” I meant what I said. It was a great picture. Though it made Jenkins look just a little sadder than I remembered him. Except for that one night when he was telling me about how he felt about Charole. How he felt like dying because she hadn’t even said good morning to him that day, this was in Skopje, I think.

Kelly looked up from what she was painting, smiled a stoned smile. “You’re a real sweetheart, Mick, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know that,” I said.

“Famous,” she said. Little laugh. “Wonder what it would be like to be famous.”

Then she went back to her painting. She was in her own little space. I let her wander around in it by herself.

When we got back, we went for a walk through the streets of Peshawar. This was around sunset. Peshawar had to be the dirtiest city on the trip, worse than §ivas or Erzurum. And the saddest. There were whole families living in holes in the walls. In front of these holes, sawhorses, sewing machines, blankets full of trinkets and scarves. Small holes, whole families, maybe ten by twelve feet.

“This is all going to get worse,” said Kelly, “with Zia in power. ”

“Yeah?” I said.

She looked at me. “You’re the psychic. You tell me.” Alright, fine. So I called up Dave. This is when he told me all about Zia.

Few moments later, I said, “Yeah, you’re right. For the next ten years or so. Then somebody’s going to sabotage Zia’s plane and he’s going to go down in flames.”

Kelly said, “You could be rich, Mick. Ever think about getting into the psychic racket? Open-line phone shows, consultations in dark hotel rooms?”

“Nope,” I said. “Too much like work. But what you’re saying is, with your looks and my brains, we could be rich and famous, right?”

She laughed, said, “Yeah, we’d be a wonderful team.”

I said, “How about when we get back to civilization, we give it a shot. I’ve always wanted to live in Montana.”

She said, “I’ve always wanted to live on the west coast. Say Seattle or Portland. Why don’t we compromise?” “Sounds okay to me,” I said.

Since we seemed to be on the same wavelength at last, and since it was getting dark and the zombies with knives in their belts were starting to come out of the woodwork, we decided to head back to the Park Hotel, and when we were making love, about half an hour later, I was looking down at Kelly in that late afternoon twilight and I was thinking about how much she looked like a teenager, I was falling a little more in love with her, but then she opened her eyes and saw me looking at her.

Her face suddenly clamped down like a steel trap. “Please don’t look at me when we make love.”

I said, “Mind if I ask why? I like to look at you.”

She said, “It brings back bad memories.”

I told her I didn’t follow.

She said, “Think about it, Mick. You’re the psychic.” She pushed me away and so I pulled out, rolled onto my back, and we lay there on our backs, not touching, staring at the ceiling, fade to black.

I called up Dave. Asked him to give me the low-down on this. He said it’s just one of Kelly’s minor obsessions that’s all, she won’t let it go. That photographer prof, the married man, took some pictures of her, nude pictures, refused to give them back. Has them at the bottom of a drawer somewhere. He always stared at her when they made love with these big spooky laughing eyes. Kelly thinks he takes the pictures out every once in a while, masturbates. Does he? I ask him. Beats me, says Dave. I don’t know everything.

I said to Kelly, “He doesn’t look at those pictures any more. He’s got them at the bottom of a box of old photography magazines. He doesn’t even know where they are any more.” Kelly was quiet for a long time.

Finally she said, “You could be really rich, Mick. You could help people.”

You know, she’s probably right. If I ever get back to Kitsilano, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to help people. Me and Dave. And maybe get really rich.

But mainly help people. Yeah. Me and Dave and maybe Soon, if I can talk her into coming back with us.

I haven’t been able to talk to her lately, though, she seems miles away. Light years away.

PAKISTAN Peshawar—Lahore

Day 50

Departure: 7:30 a.m.

Route: Nowshera—Attock Bridge—Rawalpindi—Gujranwala. Hotel: International, on the Mall, Manager: Qahar Khan.

Points: 1. The Attock Bridge spans the famous meeting point of the Indus and Kabul Rivers. The bridge was built by the British in 1881, and since it’s the only crossing, it’s military property and hordes of secret service will descend upon the bus if anyone takes a picture of it. This is the place where Alexander crossed during his Indian campaign. The cute little obelisk was built to commemorate the death of General Mackerson (1857), who helped build the Khyber Pass. That large fort was built during the Moghul dynasty and it’s still used today as a military base.

2.    Rawalpindi is a city of approx. 3/4 million. It grew up as a trading centre on the Grand Trunk Road, and came of age, briefly, as the interim capital of Pakistan after the partitioning of India. The nearby city of Islamabad is now the capital.

3.    Food for thought, on the way into town: the Koh-I-Noori, otherwise known as the “Sea of Light” is set in the British Queen Mother’s crown. It was used for her coronation with King George VI in 1937. It is now housed in the Tower of London. Some people date it back some 5,000 years. The Moghuls used to own it, but then Nadir Shah stole it, and the story goes that when he first saw it, he cried, Koh-i-Norri! The British got hold of it after the annexation of the Punjab in 1940. But now Pakistan wants it back. Which is why, some say, they’re developing the bomb.

4.    Hindu tradition traces the origin of Lahore to Loh or Lava, son of Rama, hero of
The Ramayana.
It was founded near the beginning of the second century and has known many a conqueror: Ghazni, the Moghuls, Humayun, Akbar, Jahangir, Shah Jahan, Ranjit Singh, the Sikhs and the British. Things not to miss: the Mosque of Wazir Khan, the Tomb of Jahangir and the Shalimar Gardens. There’s a good squash court near the hotel, and there are good buys around for silver and gold.

5.    The Tomb of Jahangir is the mausoleum of a Moghul emperor who was the son of Akbar and the father of Shah Jahan. It was completed in 1637. One motif which features regularly in the intricate designs and geometric patterns which adorn its walls and minarets is a wine flagon. The architect chose a fitting epitaph—Jahangir’s passion for alcohol rivals that of a tour bus driver four days from the end of the trip. Remember: drinking and driving can get you into big trouble. Jahangir died on his way to his beloved Kashmir. As he lay dying, he was asked if he wanted anything. He replied, “Bury me in Kashmir.”
²⁵
But the scoundrels didn’t listen to him. They took him to Lahore instead.

6.    The Shalimar Gardens were built by the Shah Jahan in 1642 as a private playground for the royal family. They liked to frolic in fountains and flowing water. They liked to rest in the shade of cool pavilions, where the problems of empire were far, far away. And then Shah Jahan died, and he rested for a while at the main entrance of the present gardens, before his corpse was removed to an obscure little crypt in Agra, India, called the Taj Mahal.

from Kelly’s diary

Dec. 2

Feels strange to be driving on the left-hand side of the highway. Last night felt strange too. 1st time in a long time. They should have thankyou notes for such occasions. I want to do something to commemorate the event but nothing has come to mind yet. The dawn this morning, through the Peshawar haze, was amazing, the most spectacular I’ve ever seen. Even the stone had a nice ebb & flow, except for 1 small snafu, nothing serious, just a lack of communication on my part, not Mick’s. Sex & death, the old 8th house influence. Mercury just crossed the cusp & I can feel it in the Zeitgeist, challenging. This business of people dying, the senses stopped. I’ve been using the broken heart excuse for too long to hide from life, this whole business of shutting down the emotions. Trip’s been good, way better than shock therapy. I’m seeing colours I’ve never seen, & all these people we see who we can’t understand, including those we share a language with, they’ve all got their own indigenous mental landscapes, & landscapes can be changed, ploughed under, ploughed over, reforested. It’s time I crossed into a new territory, if I’m not willing to change the old territory. There’s just a little trick involved, likely, like the switch that Mick flipped last night.

Mick

Dave says I haven’t mentioned the way Patrick was sulking around, mooning over the fact that Kelly led him on for a while and then cut him off short and how pissed off at me Dana was, and the way that Suzie was becoming somewhat catatonic because no one would sit near her on the bus except Rockstar. Because no one wanted to have anything to do with her, except Rockstar. And Dave says that while my mouth was giving Kelly her first orgasm since May 7, 1976—she hadn’t told me that—Rockstar, all gonzo on drugs, he’d grabbed some hash and eaten it when nobody was looking, back at Dara, according to Dave, was in the room that Suzie had to herself—no one wanted to sleep in the same room as her either—and he was showing her the Bic .22. And he had the thing loaded and pointed at her when he asked her why she told Patrick he only had one testicle. This was the last thing Suzie needed. She had the Pakistani Polka worse than anybody. She freaked, according to Dave, started screaming, and Rockstar knocked her to the bed, covered her mouth, she started kicking, so he stuck that pen near her eye, pushed the pocket clip into a cocked position. Suzie got the message, quit struggling. And then Rockstar raped her.