“DoyoudoyouDOyou?” demands Chef Armend, brandishing the bag of rose petals.
“Yes, Chef,” Ollie mutters, trying to look away. The shaking bag makes him dizzy.
“It was a special order, Chef.” Alana is so brave, trying to spread reason. “From the guest in five oh three, Dolly Singh. She’s fond of rose petal milk shakes. We tried a few variations.”
Oh, that Alana! Ollie realizes he has admired her for as long as he’s worked in this restaurant. She is just so . . . admirable! A kind of warrior type, filled with fierce loyalty and . . . and—oh, it’s an old-fashioned word, but honor! Alana has honor in spades. Ollie regrets greatly that he is not the honorable warrior type himself.
She’s going on. She won’t give up. Oh, she is relentless. “With a little honey—she liked that one a lot, the kids said. Or with a dash of . . . ”
But here at last Alana’s voice wavers, making Ollie’s heart whirl around inside him like a blender on the highest setting.
“Cayenne pepper!” He doesn’t mean to blurt it out. Alana’s voice is doing that to him, making him take risks he never intended to take.
“No!” the chef yells. “NO! Awayawayaway!”
Oh, now Ollie’s done it. Is the chef firing Alana? It’s all my fault, Ollie thinks miserably.
Alana takes off her sous-chef’s hat with a sigh. “Okay, Chef.”
“Wait a minute,” says Ollie’s voice, once again saying things that he himself would never dare to utter. “Fine. Me too. I’m leaving with her.”
The line cook Ollie replaced had warned him. “Watch out,” he’d said. “This guy fires assistants like a BB gun fires pellets.”
But the chef has stopped short. “Stopstopstop! Where are you off to?”
He is not ordering them out after all. “Oh, tragedy and sorrows!” It’s the bag of rose petals he’s talking to. “I cannot bear the sight!” he bellows. His face twists in agony. Alana hands the bag to Ollie. “Put it away,” she whispers.
Ollie spirits the bag to the very back of the refrigerator.
“Now then,” says the chef, collecting himself with an effort. “Room five oh three, you say?”
They nod in silence.
“I’ll explain, that’s it, explain,” he mutters. “She must, she has to; of course she’ll see reason. Rose petals—aaah! Out of the question.” He is speaking to the utensils hanging from their hooks now, or to the ceiling.
Armend Latifi’s is a secret sorrow. His family came to America from a country named Albania. When he was but a child, his grandmother used to take him for walks to the botanical garden right here in Washington, D.C. Her favorite flowers were the roses.
Sadly, Armend’s beloved Nona died the very year that he graduated with his culinary arts diploma. He himself planted a rosebush on her grave to mark the occasion.
She never lived to see his success, his accomplishments, his stellar ratings in restaurant reviews. And so the mere mention of roses is a terrible reminder to him. Just say the word, and the chef becomes, as Dini’s dad might say, “as crazy as popcorn on a hot skillet.”
Now Armend Latifi shudders from head to toe. He straightens his toque and walks out, a lonely soldier against the forces seeking to assault his kitchen and his peace of mind.
“Thanks, Ollie,” Alana says in a small voice.
“You’re welcome.” Her eyes are melting him the way a hot skillet melts a pat of butter. “I thought you were wonderful.”
“You did?”
“You were—I did—you were magnificent.” There. It is said. He does think so. She is.
“Oh, Ollie,” says Alana.
“Oh, Alana,” says Ollie.
A scene like this one is worthy of being in one of Dolly’s epic fillums. Such tension! Such drama. There should be music. Ollie and Alana should sing. They might find a tree and dance around it. But since this is reality and not the movies, the best they can do is to go on repeating themselves.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Help Out by Watching Out
DAD PULLS UP TO THE curb, stops, turns his flashers on. He honks at Dini & Co., a suggestion to hurry up.
Dolly is not taking suggestions. “Dini!” she calls. It’s a final photo op, Dolly with the consulate staff on the steps, between those friendly stone elephants. Elephants! Dini should be in that picture.
Dad gets out of the car. The driver of an articulated Metrobus, one of those double buses joined together accordion-style in the middle, honks at Dad for messing up the nicely flowing traffic. Dad comes running around a statue of Gandhi, urging his uncooperative passengers to get in the car fast before he is slapped with a ticket.
Dini would love-love-love to be in that picture, but the camera’s clicking already.
Too late. She tells herself it doesn’t matter. The photo isn’t so important right now. Because the ad on the side of that articulated Metrobus has caught her attention. Caught it and held it and shown her how she matters. The ad says: HELP OUT BY WATCHING OUT! It’s supposed to be about national security, but really, Dolly requires the same kind of thinking.
So simple. So brilliant. Helping out by watching out is what a good and true fan does.
As the photo op ends and they all pile into the car, Dini decides not to articulate her ideas. She can see the importance of them, but Dad will say she’s just being nosy.
She gets a chance to put her new motto into action sooner than she expects, because a few blocks down Embassy Row, Dolly declares that she needs to buy some stamps. “I have some fan letters I must reply to,” she says. “Maybe we can find some pretty stamps.”
“Nick of time,” Dad says, and pulls into a side street. “Here’s the post office. Hmm, question is, can I find parking anywhere?”
“Dad,” Dini says, “let me go get the stamps. You just keep driving around.”
“That’s my girl,” says Dad. “Dini to the rescue.”
“Airmail stamps,” Dolly says. “Ten, in nice colors. Thank you, Dini, darling.”
“Don’t forget to come back for me,” Dini says, grabbing the money from Chickoo Uncle.
She dashes into the post office, stands in line. The clerk wants to palm off plain old stamps with airplanes, but “I need a nicer picture,” Dini says.
Grumbling, the clerk pulls out a sheet with rocks and marsh grass on it. “That’s a national park. Will that do you?”
The stamps have a French-looking word on them. “Where is that?” says Dini.
“That’ll be eight dollars,” the woman replies. She is uninterested in small talk.
On her way out Dini stops short. Look at that poster! It has a picture of her stamp. It’s a national park in Minnesota, named Voyageurs. Dini is not sure how to say that, and she has never been to Minnesota. She has been all the way to India and back, but not to Minnesota. She should go someday.
Tapping her feet and humming “haan-haan-haan,” she waits outside the post office for Dad to drive up. There he is! Dini climbs back in the car.
Dolly promptly declares that she adores the stamps. “I love nature,” she says. “The rocks are gold, not silver, but still, quite idyllic and perfect, I must say. Hai na, Chickoo?”
Chickoo Uncle agrees with Dolly. Dad agrees with Chickoo Uncle. Dini has to admit that Dolly, in her jeweled finery, is not exactly the outdoor type. In fact, in real life Dolly would probably not recognize nature if it showed up and bit her on the foot. Still, she can put up a fine show of being outdoorsy in the fillums. And all this agreeing is . . . quite agreeable.
Before Dini can say anything, Dad turns right onto Connecticut Avenue, causing four jaws to drop simultaneously.
This is not on account of his faulty driving. He did not run over a pothole and cause any dislocation of joints. No, it is shock. This normally peaceful artery, along which traffic runs in smooth and regulated fashion, has been transformed into a scene that could rival the one in KHSV where the big chase has ended and the villain has been cornered. Where no one in the crowd
knows if it’s all over, or if there’s one last round of drama, song, and dance. In other words, total chaos.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Finding a Mark
ALONG THE SPACIOUS AVENUES AND on the sidewalks of the city, Mini is causing a stir.
“Where’d it go?”
“That way!”
“No, this way!”
“Did you see that? An elephant! It was ripping leaves off the trees on Kalorama Road!”
“Now it’s back on Connecticut Avenue!”
People in roaring machines have been following Mini, talking to one another on small, crackly boxes. They are coming closer and closer.
All she wants is something to eat. She has found herself going around and around in a circle, but no one will stop for her. There are plenty of people walking along, but they are not inclined to share their lunches. Instead, upon seeing her, they scream and run in all directions.
“Eek!”
“Watch out!”
“Hey, traffic goes that way, heffalump!”
Mini steps and steps and runs and trots, all kinds of moving she’s never had much of a chance to do before. Now the sky is filling with the sounds of wings, but they are not bird wings, some other kind of machine wings that go around and around. All this circling is making poor Mini dizzy. And the people-talk. So much people-talk.
“Run! Run!”
“Hey! Look at that!”
“You think it’s dangerous?”
“Outta my way!”
Perhaps the memory of her little yard at the zoo is beginning to call to Mini with longing and some regret.
“Maybe they’re making a movie!”
“Get a picture, quick!”
“They’ll never believe this back home in Charmington!”
“Call the fire department!”
“9-1-1? An elephant! South of Dupont Circle. You know already? DO something!”
High above the fray, in a fire truck, a walkie-talkie crackles. A firefighter is being paged by his supervisor. “It’s running down Connecticut again, sir,” he says. “Boy, it’s pretty quick. I didn’t think elephants could run like that. Yeah, toward the post office! We’re on it. Over.”
Crackle, crackle.
“Yeah,” he says, “we got a fella from Animal Control with us. Yup, he’s got a dart gun. Over and out.”
“I’m not so sure about the dosage,” says the Animal Control man. “I’ve never done an elephant before, know what I mean?”
The firefighters in the truck laugh and crack jokes. “Dangerous animal, bud,” says one, grinning at the Animal Control man, who blanches. “Sure you can handle this?”
The team leader calls, “All right, let’s hit the ground!” They scramble out of the truck.
On the ground the drama intensifies.
“Mama, elephant!” says a toddler, enchanted. His mother scoops him up, turns to head home.
“Mama, wanna elephant!” The child wriggles.
“Come on, angel, let’s get outta here.”
“ELEPHANT! Wanna ELEPHANT!”
Poor baby. Kris has been driving the zoo truck all over northwest D.C. and she’s closing in. She can see the fire truck now, sirens blaring, with police cars close behind. Overhead the medical emergency helicopters circle. Has Mini—oh, terrible thought!—hurt someone?
Heart in mouth, she screeches to a halt, scrambles out of the van. She runs toward the crowd, the trucks, the police cars with their rotating, flashing blue-red-blue lights.
Kris is not generally a praying kind of person, but she now finds herself appealing to someone on high, anyone faintly God-ish, to protect her sweet Mini. And the people, too, yes, people who don’t know any better, who might panic and do something to . . .
Oh no! Who’s that? She sees the firefighters, and she sees a man in a different kind of uniform. She catches her breath. What is he holding in his hand? A dart gun? No, no, no!
Several things then happen at once, as if they have been choreographed, complete with sound effects.
A child wriggles down from his mother’s arms. He breaks free, runs. “ELEPHANT!” he squeals.
The mother screams.
Mini rears up onto her hind legs. She trumpets in alarm, a clear, panicked shriek that ricochets off the buildings lining the road.
The firefighters surge forward. The Animal Control man raises his dart gun.
“Mini!” Kris cries. “Mini, sweetheart. It’s me!” She throws herself between the dart gun and her precious pachyderm, yelling, “No! Don’t shoot! Just let me talk to her!”
Click! Whiz! The dart flies through the air. It misses Kris by inches. It misses Mini, too.
But it finds a mark in someone’s arm—a mild-mannered man with untidy hair who has just made his entrance. He has, alas, taken the hit before he can dance a single step. With a sigh he now collapses in a heap.
“Rats!” yells the Animal Control man.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chickoo!
“LOOK!” DINI CRIES AS DAD brakes and brakes again, sliding to a stop at the police barrier across Connecticut Avenue. “An elephant!” She has been worrying about providing Dolly with an elephant. Who knew that one would show up like magic, right on the streets of D.C.?
“Where?” says Dolly. “Oh, I’ve been longing for an elephant! I adore them.”
Dini points. The elephant has disrupted traffic, causing much honking, shaking of fists, and uttering of colorful words.
“Hai, it’s just like Haathi mere saathi!” Dolly cries, referring to the old classic fillum in which an elephant rescues a small boy from an attacking leopard and revives him by sprinkling water on his face. The boy becomes an honorary friend of all elephants and the best friend of one in particular. It’s sooo . . . ! No wonder it’s one of Dolly’s favorite old fillums.
“Such a lovely surprise!” Dolly cries. “An elephant tamasha just for me! Chickoo darling, you didn’t tell me!”
She thinks the elephant fun is all for her! Before anyone can point out that it isn’t, Dolly flings the car door open, kicks her strappy silver sandals away, and is off. She’s running barefoot down Connecticut Avenue, ducking under the yellow tape, aiming for the heart of the scene.
Chickoo Uncle exits next, calling, “Stop! Dolly!”
And now it’s Dini’s turn.
“Hey!” Dad shouts. “Whoa! Dini! You stay right here.”
Too late. Dini has always been a fast runner, and at this moment she outdoes herself. She has to. There’s Dolly disappearing into the crowd and Chickoo Uncle after her. Now he’s overtaking Dolly, and the elephant’s rearing up, and there’s screaming and shouting and—
Dini’s helping out by watching out, but oh no! What’s this?
It’s a man with a gun! A gun! Okay, so she was wrong about the people with guns at the airport, but this is different. Here in the streets of Washington, D.C., a real-life movie of the most alarming kind is playing out. If Dini doesn’t do something, then no one will.
Almost there. Her feet are flying. They barely touch the ground. She reaches. Grabs. “Watch out!” she cries as she pulls Dolly down to the sidewalk with her.
Dolly screams, that scream that fans in India know so well and fans in America are just about to get acquainted with.
But one girl, even a girl who runs fast and makes slidy, dancy moves with light and easy steps, can’t do it all, can she? Dini has managed to save Dolly from being hit by the dart that flies out of that gun. But Chickoo Uncle, brave, gallant Chickoo Uncle, has taken the projectile squarely in the shirtsleeve.
With a soft sigh, as if the air has been let out of him unexpectedly, Chickoo crumples to the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the Fast Lane
BY THE TIME SOLI DUSTUP arrives at Thurgood Marshall Airport, also known as Baltimore-Washington International, he is feeling as if he has been knocked down by a bulldozer and dragged across a couple of continents. It was early Wednesday morning in Indi
a when he left, and on account of the turning of the Earth, it is still Wednesday here on his arrival. That makes it one long and nauseating Wednesday.
That last patch of turbulence over the ocean had him clenching his teeth so tightly that it’s a wonder they are still intact. He is dizzy. His head hurts. Sharp, shooting pains are making themselves felt in his right shoulder. Stormy words are flashing through his mind, words that he will utter to his favorite fillum star when he finds her.
Where to begin looking? That is his worry right now. To what luxurious jail with recreational programs and healthy food options do they take movie stars who break American laws? And what did she do, anyway, to get herself into this fix?
That Dolly. She’s capable of anything. Remember the time she left Bombay and went off to some little place in the mountains, leaving Soli to deal with lashings of unopened mail and masses of disgruntled fans? And what about when she decided to dance her way to the top of the parliament building in Delhi, leaving poor Chickoo to face a squad of security men in riot gear? Oh, Dolly, my love, Soli thinks, you have much to answer for.
With his passport checked and stamped, his papers examined, but his mind still in turmoil, Soli Dustup drags his bags to a curbside bench, plunks himself down, and ponders his next step.
He should take a taxi. But to where? He considers a few possible options. “Take me to the local prison, my man.” No, that is not quite it.
“FBI headquarters, please, sir.” That has possibilities.
He could produce the photo of Dolly that he has prudently tucked into his suitcase. He could say, “Has this beautiful lady been in the local news lately?”
Oh, it is very difficult to be following the trail of a star like Dolly. She dazzles, but she is also a moving target. A shooting star, he thinks gloomily.
Just then someone taps Soli’s shoulder, that same shoulder that has recently been assaulted by vicious stabs of pain. Mr. Dustup leaps aside, nearly falling off the bench. Combine shock with an already traumatized rotator cuff, and you get a leaping studio executive.
The Problem with Being Slightly Heroic Page 6