The Problem with Being Slightly Heroic

by Uma Krishnaswami

  When the dust settles around Soli, his shoulder still twinges but he sees that there is no cause for worry. It is only a cabdriver. “Taxi, sir?”

  The man looks like a hardworking sort of chap, although not movie material. Needs a shave, and has one tooth missing. Still, Soli himself needs a shave after so many hours on planes, and it is only pure luck that his teeth, fillings and all, are still in his jaw. He nods gratefully.

  “Where to, sir?”

  “That’s a very good question.” Mr. Soli Dustup’s woes come crashing in on him.

  It is not in Soli’s nature to bare his troubles to a total stranger. But given his fragile state of being, what choice does he have? He tells the cabdriver all about Dolly and the grand premiere of KHSV, the phone message, and now his uneasy feeling that she is in some kind of trouble.

  “Are you sure, sir?” the driver says. “Dolly Singh?”

  “Herself,” says Soli.

  “In trouble? No, no, no. Far from it. Just look.” Settling Soli in the backseat of his cab, the driver hands him a copy of the Entertainment section of the local paper, which is none other than the well-regarded Washington Post. Even in far-off Bombay, Mr. Dustup has heard of the Post. The driver goes off to load Soli’s bags into the trunk of his vehicle.

  BOLLYWOOD STAR TO OPEN FESTIVITIES AT SMITHSONIAN’S INDIA SCREENFEST says the lead item. Silently, Soli blesses the cabdriver. The man may not look much like a guardian angel, but impressions can deceive.

  As the driver closes the trunk, Soli reads the identification card in the cab. Tariq Hasan. That is the man’s name. A good name. Looks like a solid sort of man, to match that reliable-sounding name. Someone who knows what’s what and is up on the news that counts.

  Now Soli reads the newspaper article. Of prisons it makes no mention. It assures him that the grand opening of KHSV is on as scheduled. Dolly is to cut a ribbon, make a speech, and grace the red-carpet event with her presence. “I am very excited to be here in this great city to launch your festival,” she is quoted as saying. Would she say that if she were languishing in prison, however well fed she might be?

  Various distinguished guests are expected to attend, the article goes on, including the ambassador of India herself and some members of Congress. It is a matter-of-fact piece of writing, intended to inform. To Soli it brings a wave of comfort, causing the rotator cuff in his shoulder joint to ease up on his nerve endings.

  Perhaps, after all, he read too much into Dolly’s phone call. Perhaps, though he is a movie man, he somehow did not see the whole picture.

  Tariq Hasan gets behind the wheel, murmuring, “She’s a great star. A number one star.”

  Soli perks up. Fans are his business. “You know Dolly’s movies?”

  “Of course I do,” says the driver, turning the key in the ignition so the engine purrs to life. “I’m from Bangladesh myself. Dhaka.”

  “We’re neighbors!” cries Soli in delight, forgetting the fifteen hundred miles between Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh, and his own beloved city of Bombay. He tells him all about the legacy he plans to leave to that city—the Bolly-Dazzle Museum, with a permanent exhibit featuring Dolly herself. “Opened just this year. You should visit it sometime. Free entry. Tell them I sent you.”

  The driver thanks him fervently as he pulls out into traffic. “I will definitely go to your fine museum one day,” he says. “My whole family is crazy about Dolly movies. Dolly herself came to Dhaka once on a tour, you know.”

  “Of course I know,” Soli says with pride. “I blinking organized that tour, my friend.”

  “She sang a song in Bangla, our own beautiful language,” says Tariq Hasan. “Oh, the crowds went wild.” Greatly moved by the memory he hums a stanza of the song.

  “A fan!” Soli marvels. Dolly really is a miracle worker. Where she goes, fans follow.

  But his doubts still cast a shadow. “So you don’t think she’s in jail, then?”

  The driver laughs a merry laugh.

  “So what was all that she said about doing against-the-law things? Something she lost, she said. Something about Customs officials.” Mr. Dustup himself has had a few run-ins with officials in India, one over a small matter of importing studio equipment. The memory still disturbs his sleep.

  Tariq Hasan declares that any officials present at Dolly’s arrival must have been there to welcome her. “She is a star,” he says. “They came to get her autograph. How can she be anywhere but safe and sound in her hotel room? So”—he turns onto a ramp, then eases deftly onto a road where the traffic is shooting past at terrifying speed—“where to, sir?”

  “All right, my good man,” says Soli, trying not to clutch the seat each time a truck whirs past. “Take me to the Promenade Hotel.”

  These roads make his stomach lurch. Roads in his beloved Bombay are also jam-packed with traffic and rife with the potential for chaos, but he knows those roads. This traffic is very—

  Mr. Dustup flinches as a giant truck thunders by.

  Much too—

  He ducks as the driver speeds up to change lanes.

  Fast. This is what they mean when they say that people live life in the fast lane in America. Not that they are slow in Bombay, not a bit of it. But fifty-five miles per hour is too fast.

  Chapter Thirty

  Remotely Heroic

  KRIS HAS NEVER DONE ANYTHING remotely heroic in her life, and she knows in her bones that throwing herself into the void is in that category.

  And Mini, sweet Mini. When she hears Kris’s voice, she hesitates. Still in midair, she catches Kris’s eye. She stops, sways for a minute. Slowly, slowly, she comes back down. Her forelegs touch the ground. Her trunk slumps. She sits. Sits and stays as Kris has taught her to.

  Kris runs up to her, hugs the wrinkly head with its blinky eyes and little prickly hairs on the top, strokes the flappy ears. Her eyes mist over from relief, or joy, or both. “It’s all right,” she says to anyone who needs to know, especially the pushy police and fire people who keep getting in her face. “I’m her keeper. National Zoo, Kris Vincenti. Look, here’s my ID. Yes, I’ve got a trailer to take her back. It’s all right.”

  The rescue teams disperse the crowds. The ambulance takes away the man who caught the dart in his arm. He is making small whuffly noises, so at least he’s alive.

  Then Kris leads Mini to the trailer and secures her inside for the ride back to the zoo. She knows she has to do this. It is her job, after all. She has to get Mini back to where she belongs.

  Getting into the trailer, Mini turns her head. She flaps an ear at Kris. Her small, bright eyes blink.

  Kris melts. Somewhere deep inside, although she knows it is a foolish thought for a professional zookeeper, she knows she’s let Mini down.

  “You just wanted a little fun,” she says. “You didn’t mean any harm.”

  Mini flaps her other ear.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” Kris says. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” Although as she secures the trailer, then gets in the truck and pulls out onto the road, she has no idea how she’s going to do a thing like that.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Wrinkle in the Plotline

  THE DAY GOES BY IN a blur of how-did this-happen and will-he-be-all-right and oh-what-a-terrible-omen-this-is! The local hospital pronounces Chickoo alive, if a little dazed due to the dose of tranquilizer that accidentally found its way into him. “Not enough for an elephant, thank goodness,” the doctor says. He raises an eyebrow at Chickoo Uncle. “Just be grateful for Animal Control’s incompetence.”

  Dini tries to avoid meeting Dad’s eye, which she is afraid may not be wearing a pleased look. She is right about that. “Dini,” Dad says to her, “listen to me.” Which is altogether un-Dadly and makes Dini shuffle from foot to foot and feel guilty.

  “I know,” Dini says. “I know what you’re going to say, Dad, but really—”

  At this point Dolly intervenes. She says firmly, “He’s going to say shabaash, brava, well d
one, Dini darling. What else could he say, my dearest friend and fan?”

  “Hmm, well . . . ” Dad backs off, but the glint in his eye says, Later, Dini, later.

  “You saved my life!” Dolly declares.

  And Dini thinks, I did? And then she thinks, Well, that may be overstating it a bit. Still, just imagine if Dolly had taken that dart in the arm instead of Chickoo Uncle.

  Back at the hotel there are three messages waiting for Dini. “Dini, where have you been?” Maddie demands when Dini returns her call. “I called as soon as I got back from school. We were getting worried.”

  “Wait’ll I tell you,” says Dini, and she does.

  There is a small silence at the other end. Then Maddie says, “Oh. Freaky. He was stunned. Literally.”

  “Yup,” says Dini. “Valium. Did you know that’s what they put into elephant darts?”

  “No,” Maddie says. “Hope you’re taking notes, Dini. That’s a plotline right there.”

  “No kidding,” says Dini.

  Maddie says she thinks it’s a twist in the plotline, or no—wait—a wrinkle. “Wrinkle—elephants? Get it?” she says.

  “I get it,” says Dini. For the first time since she met Dolly, she wonders if she is in over her head. How many story lines can she juggle in her mind, each with its own wrinkles and stumbles? She has a feeling that the wrinkling and stumbling has only just begun.

  Chickoo is resting in bed, with Dolly at his side. She holds an ice pack to his head over his feeble protests. Dad is starting to make we-have-to-leave-now noises.

  “Meet you downstairs,” Dini tells him.

  “Where are you going now?” says Dad. Dini does not like the sound of that “now.”

  “Just to the kitchen,” she mutters, and she’s off the phone before he can ask why. She is poking her nose into rose petal chocolate cakes, and she doesn’t want to be stopped. As she hurries toward the elevator, she practices what she’ll say to the surreally grumpy chef.

  “Would you consider making a very special cake,” she might say, “for a very special occasion?” Or, “I want to talk to you about an international movie opening. We need a cake. But not just any cake.” Or, “How do you feel about rose petals?”

  Sometimes a person thinks she is saying something in the quiet of her own private mind, when really she has spoken the thought out loud. This happens to Dolly’s character in KHSV, which gives away the fact that she’s thrown a valuable diamond ring down the mountainside, leading the crook to scramble down after it and break his arm.

  The same thing happens now to Dini. Not the breaking-of-bones part, but thinking out loud. “How do you feel about rose petals?” The elevator door opens just as Dini realizes she is speaking those words aloud. The man in the blinding white uniform hears them.

  Ping . . . ping . . . The elevator door tries to close, but he’s in the way, frozen. Rose petals . . . rose petals . . . rose petals . . . The words seem to echo in this stalled scene.

  Then, “OUT of my way!” roars Chef Armend, stepping forward and nearly knocking Dini off her feet. He races down the hallway.

  “Stop!” Dini cries. What is he doing hammering on the door of room 503?

  The door opens. The chef’s tall white hat twinkles out of sight.

  Whoa! He’s rushing right back out again! Back toward the elevator, and now Dolly is following him. “How dare you?” she cries, flinging jewelry in all directions. Off they go, zig-zig-zag toward the elevator:

  “How dare you complain about my milk shake order

  when my dearest darling fiancé

  is lying in bed after having

  been struck by a dart?

  Do you know that?

  He was struck by a dart!

  Struck down! Lost consciousness!

  Imagine my distress, praying for his safe recovery,

  and here you are prattling on

  about

  MILK SHAKES?”

  “Can we talk . . . please?” the chef pleads, backing away and raising his arms against the flying missiles. His white hat teeters on the verge of collapse.

  What a dance, all the way to the elevator! Such footwork. Such rhythm. Perfect pacing.

  The chef hits the elevator button as if his life depends on it. “Rose petals?” he says pitifully. “Why not a pistachio milk shake? Or cranberry orange?” A glittering bracelet whizzes past his head.

  Dolly lifts her face. She sets her chin. Who can cross her now? “No,” she says. “I must have my rose petal milk shake with chocolate sprinkles. How else can I make it through this extremely stressful trip? How?”

  The elevator arrives. The chef bows his head and ducks inside.

  Dolly shakes her head briskly. “What an annoying man,” she says. “What is his problem?”

  From the descending elevator, sounds of distress can be heard. They are the defeated expressions of a strong-willed man who has just met his match.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Only Five Days Left

  ON THE WAY TO MADDIE’S, Dad gives Dini an earful. He is very clear about his feelings on plotlines, never mind if they’re wrinkled or filled with rose petals. No more antics like today’s. What if she, Dini, had been jabbed by the dart? So it wasn’t enough to kill a grown man, but a twelve-year-old? Dad is upset enough that for the whole twenty minutes to the Maryland state line, he does not use a single Western idiom. He is supposed to be her buddy and vocabulary consultant for the fillums, and here he is going all parental on her.

  “You sound like Mom,” Dini says as they drive down Piney Branch and into the city of Takoma Park.

  “Doing my best,” says Dad.

  “Me too,” says Dini sadly.

  Dad sighs. As he turns onto Maddie’s street and stops at the house with white painted trim, he says something about real life and movies and how they are not the same thing. Then he says, “Well. Only five days left until the opening, and then we’re off.” He says it as if it’s supposed to make her feel better.

  Dini rings the doorbell. Maddie lets her in. Dad waves as he drives away. Dini waves back, but it is a halfhearted wave.

  “On the heels of today’s incident on Connecticut Avenue,” says the newscaster on the bedside radio in Maddie’s mom’s room, “a faulty lock has been reported to be the cause of the young elephant Mini’s escapade. Apparently, the lock is under a manufacturer’s recall notice. Upon entering the necessary codes, the lock appears to be secured, yet when sufficient pressure is applied to the door, it yields, making the door easy to push open. In sports news . . . ”

  “That’s how she got out!” Dini says.

  “Wish I’d been there,” says Maddie. “Stupid braces had to be fixed today.” She worries the braces with her tongue, which she’s not supposed to do. It makes Dini run her tongue over her own teeth in sympathy.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Better with Three

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING MADDIE HAS to go to school. Gretchen drops her off, and Dini goes along so she can get to see Maddie’s new school. It’s middle school, since Maddie’s now in sixth grade. The building looks big, and it’s bursting with kids Dini does not know, so she feels a bit out of sorts, out of scene, and in general out of it. It’s no fun.

  She’s quiet in the car, going back with Maddie’s mom, who gives her a couple of curious looks but says nothing. Gretchen will be working at home that day. “Are you going to be okay, hanging out all by yourself?” she asks Dini. “I’ll just be in the office room, so let me know if you need anything.”

  “Okay,” says Dini, but really, what can she possibly ask for? Perfect dance steps would be good. Also a cake worthy of a star. Somehow she can’t see Maddie’s mom coming up with either.

  Dini spends lots of time riffling through Maddie’s bookshelves and watching Dolly videos, and then some time just sort of staring into the middle distance. As it turns out, the slow pace of the day is almost a relief after the frantic excitement of the day before. At the end of it she’s feelin
g more in control, and her natural optimism is beginning to reassert itself. She thinks, I will pull this dance together, and it will be just fine.

  She’s just wondering if the opening steps should be really fast or just dramatic and what kind of hand movements signal drama when Maddie’s mom comes in. She has segued from her accounting work to laundry, and holds a hamper of clothes that need to be folded.

  “Look who just came home,” she says.

  Maddie’s back, and she’s brought a visitor.

  A tall girl peeks from behind Gretchen, Maddie’s laundry-carrying, prop-toting mom.

  “Hi,” says the tall girl tripping into the room. “I’m Brenna. Ask me why I’ve been waiting to meet you.” She stands on one leg and spins around quickly three times while asking the question.

  Dini is wobbly just watching her. Maddie laughs.

  Dini does not know what to say, which is a new feeling for her. “Ask me,” Brenna persists.

  “Why have you been waiting to meet me?” Dini asks, feeling a bit silly. It is what Dad would call a loaded question. What if she doesn’t like the answer?

  “Tons of reasons,” says Brenna enthusiastically, stretching one hand behind her back and catching it with the other, a feat that Dini herself could never pull off. “Because you’re Maddie’s friend. And because of Dolly. Isn’t Dolly, like, a dozen reasons right there, all by herself?” She raises herself up on tiptoe and spins around again.

  Dini steps back to get out of the way, and ends up sitting down with a thump on Maddie’s bed. “I guess,” she says, and finds herself blinking.

  Maddie’s mom laughs. “You girls,” she says fondly, in the manner of one speaking to puppies whose friskiness is getting out of hand. “You’re—how do you say it? Stunning?” She picks an escaped sock up off the floor.

  “Us?” says Dini, startled.

  “Stunning,” says Gretchen, plunking the sock back in the basket.