Last India Overland (53 page)

Rasheed told us, looking first at Dana, then me, if there was anything we wanted, he’d get it for us. Whatever we wanted. It was Patrick who noticed the hookah behind the one old easy chair. He took it out, ornate brass, sparkled in the light from the fire in the stove. How about something to put in this? he said. Rasheed said no problem. Rasheed happened to have a little hunk of hash in his pocket which we could have for a hundred and fifty rupees. Patrick said no problem. Patrick didn’t really look like a pothead, but same’s true of a lot of potheads. When it was everybody’s turn to kneel in front of the hookah, Kelly said no thanks and so I passed too. It’s weird making love when only one of the merry copulators is stoned. Sometimes. And I wasn’t in the mood for taking chances.

Patrick was surprised but he let it pass.

“How about you, Ms. Byrnes?” said Patrick after he’d had a toke. “Would you care to indulge? Think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Then you’ll know what you’re blithering about, whenever, in the future, at some intimate little gathering, where it really isn’t appropriate to go into an anti-drug diatribe, you do so nonetheless.”

“Take the marbles out of your mouth, mate,” said Suzie. Getting down, to everyone’s surprise, on her knees, having a toke.

I guess what Patrick said must’ve made sense to her.

That toke clammed Suzie right up which was nice. She went through this old log she found in the roll-top writing desk while Dana and Patrick and Charole took turns toking and I was sorely tempted to join them, and Kelly must’ve known this, or maybe she just wanted to make Dana jealous, score some points, even up the ledger, because beautiful women can be the cruellest, especially in places like shower rooms, at least this is what Peggy dil-Schmidt told me, who was a beautiful woman herself and should know these things.

She took my hand and said to everyone, “Pardon Mick and me for being rude but I’ve promised him a foot massage.”

Suzie looked up from what she was reading and said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Patrick said, “Always the true voice of originality.”

Dana just looked away, thought I saw a scowl. Charole said, “Just don’t rock the boat, that’s all I ask, I’m feeling a little nauseous.”

But we did rock the boat. It said so in Dana’s daybook entry the next day.

We rocked it walking down the long drafty hallway to the bedroom in the back. We rocked it getting undressed and getting into the bed. And we rocked it later too, though we tried not to.

Our bedroom wasn’t exactly the honeymoon suite at the local Sheraton. Unlit wood stove in a comer, two ancient single brass-rail beds, no canopies. But the beds did have hot water bottles under the sheets and Kelly told me to bring mine over, along with a couple quilts, because it was chilly in that room. There was a lot of space to watch stars around the wood stove pipe where it led outside.

And I’m not going to say too much about that night. I’d like to say it was the second best night of my life but it wasn’t. Those kind of nights usually come a little later in a relationship, it’s been my experience. I get the willies, you see. It takes me a while to relax. Usually around about the tenth night, if the

girl sticks around.

But Kelly was cool, she didn’t seem to mind at all, and we went to sleep, woke up around about three to find her fingers on me, and she said, look at the stars, and yeah, they were frosty and bright, through that hole in the wall and we made love again, and even I was surprised, I didn’t expect it to be as good as it was, it was so good Kelly cried and even I got a tear in my eye, and Dave says that there’s a distinct possibility that Kelly’s tears weren’t thanks to my great sexual technique, and yeah, that’s true, the heartbreak and all that, but Kelly and I talked about it in whispers and she said she wasn’t sure but she hoped she was getting over it. This night, she said, was a big step in the right direction, and then I think we dozed off. Near dawn the light through the hole in the wall woke us up, and we made love again, but this time with her above me, and I remember what she said about not looking at her, but I snuck a peek, a quick peek, of her body above me, the way her boobs dropped down, perfect, yeah, suddenly just the perfect size. Where nipple meets skin, that’s my favourite area, it’s like crossing a border into new territory, and I said so to Kelly afterwards, and she looked at her nipple, traced a finger across the edge of the aureola—I think that’s what they call it, and so does Dave—they were just the right pink—if your girl friend doesn’t have the right nipples, you might as well look somewhere else, son, that’s what the old man once said to me, he was drunk on rye at the time. I told Kelly she had perfect nipples. Kelly said yeah? Then Rasheed came knocking and poked in his head before Kelly had a chance to hide herself. Kid was startled, speechless, might’ve been his first real live boobs besides his mother’s. I’ll never forget mine. Hockey Star’s sister, in the back seat of the old man’s Buick after a curling game. The old man even bet curli

Dec. 6

None of us aboard the H.B
.Jewelbox
got a lot of sleep last night. If it wasn’t Patrick snoring, it was the boat rocking in the well of some tidal swell, and if it wasn’t that, it was the sighs and moans of the Two-Backed Beast, as Willy the Shake called it. I’m as much for passion as the next person but there is such a thing as discretion. All I know is that I’m not impressed. Of course, I haven’t been impressed by much lately, though I am impressed by the cool blue of these children’s eyes. I’m also impressed by their kleptomania. Somehow I woke up this morning and discovered my stretch-knits missing along with a pair of my Afghani socks. I asked Rasheed if he might have seen them. He shook his head. Such innocence in those blue eyes.

More from the Suzie School of Daybook Writing: I was not impressed by supper last night. Roast beef, baked potatoes and stewed prunes does not a feast make. Neither was I impressed with breakfast. Porridge has always reminded me of something I’d rather not think about, much less eat.

See what happens when I don’t get a good night’s sleep? I’d just like to know when it was that Rasheed snuck in and rummaged through my suitcase. Since I was awake all night.

Now that all that’s out of my system (and it did feel good, cracked seat and all), what’s on the agenda today?

Mick

After breakfast Sultan took us on a tour.

You have to be real careful with a shikara, getting into it. I went last, because of this thing about heights, along this plank that’s kind of greasy thanks to the morning frost. Sultan took my hand and showed me where to put my foot in the shikara and I almost lost it once. That was a long plank, up to the houseboat porch.

Down from the houseboat porch.

Above all that sparkling blue sewage.

It was a bright clear chilly morning. Sultan brought along 350

blankets and a picnic basket and something called a firepot, small wicker basket full of coals and embers from the wood stove. He paddled us out into the middle of Lake Dal while me and Kelly put the firepot beneath our blanket.

“Don’t you guys get up to any funny business under that blanket,” said Charole who was sitting next to Kelly. Across from us, Dana, Patrick, Suzie.

Suzie said, “God, ya got sick, heard’ja, didja get sick?” She asked Charole this.

“Just a little,” said Charole. She looked real pale. I don’t think there was much loving going on in that room the night before.

Charole had what Kelly called a fragile physiology.

So do I, I guess.

That was a great day. Sultan took us to what he called the Garden of Pleasure for our picnic of roast beef sandwiches, with macaroons for dessert.

There wasn’t enough mustard on the roast beef sandwiches but the macaroons were real tasty. Patrick asked Sultan when we were getting back on board the shikara if he knew how to make hash macaroons. Sultan didn’t ever say much. He said yes. Patrick wondered if there might be a possibility of having some of those for the evening repast.

Sultan gave Patrick a scornful look, almost a sneer, and said yes, began to paddle.

He took us to see some kids who made papier-mache bowls and stuff and Patrick whipped out his rupees, made all the kids smile and afterwards Sultan said to him, you are very generous, and tried to smile but couldn’t quite make it.

Patrick gave us a bowl each. But he let Kelly have first pick.

I lost that bowl somewhere along the way, don’t know where. I lost lots of things on the trip. Thing I miss most, though, is Kelly, and then my right hand, in maybe that order.

Sultan took us to an empty, dusty mosque and then back to the
Jewelbox,
where he baked us some hash macaroons.

Not even Kelly could resist the macaroons. She had one. So I had one. She had two. So I had two.

I was chewing on my third macaroon and gazing into the fire when there was this knock on the window. Patrick went and opened it. Said hello, how are you, and a chirpy voice answered back in pidgin English, perfect pidgin English if there is such a thing, and said quite fine, quite fine, and you sir? Patrick said excellent at this point in time, quite excellent. You must be a happy man, sir, said the voice and Patrick said yes, I do have my moments. Not as many as I would like but I do have my moments. Kelly looks at me and smiles. Everybody smiles. We were all as Kelly once put it so amused by Patrick. I just didn’t realize exactly how amused she was by Patrick, that’s all.

Patrick asked the guy what we could do for him and he said he had wondrous crafts to show us, so Patrick invited him in. When he stepped through the window this guy looked like Santa Claus. Only because he had this big brown sack hanging over his shoulder. He didn’t have a white beard or little reindeer behind him. Other than that he was, I don’t know, your typical East Indian gent dressed up warm for the night, wearing a smile as broad as Broadway.

He had leather shirts and a miniature Taj Mahal that lit up red from the inside and Khyber knives and American cigarettes. I couldn’t believe it.

I asked Kelly if I could borrow some money.

She gave me this sad look.

She said what for.

I told her. Smokes.

She said, “Those aren’t exactly essential for your health, are they?”

I said no, they probably weren’t. Just a bit peeved. So I asked Patrick.

Patrick said, “Most certainly. If the gentleman takes Chargex.”

Much to Patrick’s surprise, and my surprise, and everyone’s surprise, the guy did take Chargex. He dug down deep into his sack and pulled out a Chargex machine and some of those papers.

“Oh,” said Patrick. “Well, this does throw a different complexion upon your visit.”

Patrick bent down and picked up one of the Khyber knives. Felt its edge.

He ended up buying two leather shirts, a Khyber knife, just a small one, and four cartons of Camels for me.

It’s really too bad the guy didn’t have any Marleys.

The guy was wearing a smile broader than Broadway when

he left.

Which is about when I felt those hash macaroons starting to take effect. Just a little creeping up the back of my skull. I knew I shouldn’t have ate them. But I’ve never had hash macaroons before.

And Kelly did pick one up first.

They were really tasty macaroons. But I think Sultan maybe put a lot of hash in those tasty macaroons.

The room was starting to pulsate in and out like a heart and that fire looked really creepy. I kept thinking I could see little figures doing what tortured people do at the heart of flames. What people would do if they were stuck in hell.

I looked at Patrick. He had one of his leather shirts on and he was slicing through paper with the blade of his Khyber knife. It was quite the Khyber knife. The most expensive one the guy had. It looked like there were rubies in the handle.

Dana asked him what he bought a Khyber knife for, he’d never be able to get it through customs.

Patrick said he bought it purely as a memento of the trip. He said he wasn’t too worried about borders, he didn’t have too many more to cross.

So they went through how many more borders until he got to Bali where he was going to retire at the age of thirty-three. Think they came up with four.

I looked at Kelly. She was staring at Rasheed who was sitting all by himself on one of the couches, colouring something in a colouring book. Suzie was reading the houseboat log. Charole was staring into the fire.

Suzie said, “It says here in the log you have to watch out for these guys who come up to the houseboat selling stuff.”

Patrick said, “Why is that?”

Suzie said, “This guy here says it’s shoddy merchandise sometimes.”

Patrick said, “Ms. Byrnes, that is the key word. Sometimes. Not all the time. Who wrote that?”

Suzie said, “Tom Burnett, Christchurch, New Zealand.”

“There’s a Christchurch in New Zealand too?” said Patrick.

“I don’t know,” said Suzie. “I’ve never been there if there is.”

Dave says I really don’t need to carry this conversation any

further. Maybe so. Me and Kelly, he says. Yeah, Kelly started to freak out. She said she felt something evil in the room.