The Blue Taxi (10 page)

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.

When Majid Ghulam turned around to look at her, meaning then to say, “And now we will have tea. I will call down for Maria,”
he caught Sarie Turner looking at the space where his own head had been, and right before his eyes, she turned the rich plum
color of Ribena Concentrated Syrup. Next—suddenly—Mad Majid Ghulam pressed himself against her. His hands met briefly at the
back of Sarie’s neck, slipped along her spine, then, riffling as though through a drawer to find the urgent thing, moved across
her back and then all over her front to part the curtains of her dress and feel her freckled flesh come loose and tepid in
his palms. Sarie touched him, too.

Later, Sarie wished it had been slower than it was, so that she could make a calendar of small and sweet events:
First he… and then I and then he, oh yes. And then I, yes, and then we and then I and then he again and I knew and he touched
and I and I and I
—Sarie would have liked to savor it. But Majid, from the moment that it started, wished he could forget how it began. He wanted
to remember not the first betrayal of an ancient, dear love but a not-too-loved familiar clutching, an act he had committed
many times
before that did not mean so much. He wished, that is, to feel himself already in the midst, already at sea and too far from
the shore. The shore: the fact of his now-mangled little boy, the growing needs of three two-legged sons, Sugra, with her
endless energy and the kindness which so helped him but which he could not hope to repay, the Kikanga set who called him Mad
and Sad, the hungry, talky aunts, Maria with her Bible looks, the ruins of the paper, even old Rahman, and everything, everything,
that he had ever been and ever wanted to forget.