Chapter Thirty-Eight
It Takes Three
THE DAY BEFORE THE REHEARSAL comes upon them like a sneeze—you know when it’s about to happen, but it takes you by surprise anyway. It’s the beginning of spring break for Maddie and Brenna, so school has let out early on this Friday. Dad is driving the girls to Union Station to buy flags. The front seat is occupied by what looks like the inside of a computer.
“Haan-haan-haan,” Dini sings, “nahin-nahin! Kuch to kaho, haan ya nahin.”
“What’s it mean?” Brenna asks.
Dini knows the answer because she asked Dad and he told her. She noted it down in her green-and-silver stripy notebook and memorized it, because a fan needs to know such things. She says, “Well, it starts out ‘Yes-yes-yes, no-no,’ right?”
“I got that part,” Brenna says, twisting herself into knots. “What comes next?”
It’s about halfway through KHSV.
“Dolly’s asking him to say something. She’s out there in the darkness and it’s raining, and she’s saying, ‘Say yes or no,’ you know?” It doesn’t come out sounding so great, so Dini tries again. “It’s a crisis, see? When she finds her true love, that’s when they have the big dance scene in the tea-garden.”
“Wow,” says Maddie. “True love.”
“Can’t wait to see the movie,” says Brenna. They sigh together in delicious recognition of a great scene. It’s a growing-up thing, romance, and in a really good fillum it can get you right where your heart sits.
“So what are these flags for?” Dad wants to know as they turn onto Massachusetts Avenue.
“For the dance,” says Dini.
“I see,” says Dad with the air of one who does not see at all. He circles back onto a road that looks familiar.
“We just came that way,” Dini says.
“I know!” cries Dad, embarking on circle number two.
“So go the other way,” Dini says.
“No, no, we have to go this way.” Maddie points to a ramp peeling off the main road. “That’s the garage entrance.”
“Yup,” says Dad. “Pretty good, Maddie, for a nondriver.”
“Maddie’s a human compass,” Dini says.
“Oops,” says Maddie. “Missed it again.”
Dad executes circle number three. “Ha!” He makes it into the parking garage entrance. He grabs a ticket at the automatic gate, which swings up to let them in. “Bull’s-eye!” He guns for a space on the second level.
“Well, here we are,” he says when they are well parked. “Flag hunting, anyone?”
The shop at Union Station has flags of every country in the world and more. Military flags and sports pennants and historical flags in a vast array of sizes and colors.
The girls buy what they need—Poland, Russia, Bangladesh. Maddie has flags for the other countries Dolly’s visited on movie tours. While Dad and the store manager talk excitedly about vexillology (it turns out that is the name for the study of flags), the girls look for a good spot to practice their dance routine.
Behind the fountain will do nicely.
Haan-haan-haan, nahin-nahin, Dini sings, and they try the whole thing again. Yes-yes-yes, no-no! The rhythm of the music pop-snaps into the Union Station shopping complex. Oh, it is just pure Dolly magic. Brenna is good, she picks it up really fast. She even helps Maddie with a couple of the turns.
“Is Dolly really going to rehearse with us?” Brenna says.
“I think so,” says Dini. “I hope so.” She hums those yeses and noes as she does so, because they help her think. She is thinking at top speed, in fact. The dance is nice, sure. But is it star quality? She can’t help remembering that elephant on Connecticut Avenue. She can’t help recalling Dolly’s cry of happiness when she spotted it.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to get that elephant into the opening? That is a dream, Dini knows. Not very likely. Dad, in his usual punny way, might say it is wildly improbable. But Dini has dreamed of improbable things before.
Sometimes just allowing yourself to dream is half the battle. Not the whole thing, but half. Half is not so bad. It’s halfway there. She just has to keep believing it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Cake
CHEF ARMEND IS NERVOUS, A new state of being for him. Normally, he is the one who reduces others to a pulp. Now his loyal staff must reassure him that no movie stars are after him.
“She’s had lunch, Chef.” Alana is doing her best to convince her quaking boss. “She’s back in her room, probably getting ready for the rehearsal tomorrow.”
“That’s right, Chef,” says Ollie. He does not mention that he himself sneaked out of the kitchen and got Dolly to sign a menu for him. He does not think the chef would appreciate that.
“Where is this rehearsal?” Chef Armend inquires.
“Must be the Smithsonian,” Alana volunteers. “Isn’t that where the opening is?”
“Yup,” says Ollie. “It’s in the paper and everything.”
“Heaven help the Smithsonian,” mutters the chef.
A knock at the door makes the chef drop a colander.
“I’ll get it,” says Alana. “Hey there, Miss Curried Soup,” she says when she sees who it is.
“I have to talk to the chef,” says the girl with the ponytail.
Alana finds herself stepping back. “Come on in.” The kid means business.
Dini steps through the august portal of the restaurant kitchen. “Please, Chef,” she says, putting on her best manners. “We need your help. Can you make us a really nice chocolate cake? For a couple of hundred people?”
Ollie starts to say something. Alana whispers fiercely and he subsides. Chef Armend gapes at Dini as if he is haunted and she’s the ghost responsible.
Dini pushes on. “It’s for the movie opening.” She has to finish this thought before it frays around the edges, turns to nothing and vanishes with the wisps of steam rising from the cooking pots. She says all in a rush, “And can you add rose petals to the recipe? Please? Dolly’s had a really hard time—first she lost her passport—”
Ollie gasps.
“Stop it,” says Alana. “What’s the matter with you?”
He shakes his head, but he’s a quivering custard.
“And the baker who was going to come do the cake for her can’t come,” Dini carries on, “as if the passport thing wasn’t bad enough. So, will you?”
Ollie fidgets. Alana glares at him.
Armend Latifi stares at Dini with quivering eyebrows. He appears to be on the verge of an explosion. Dini practically stops breathing. Oh, this is all going so wrong.
“I, Armend C. Latifi,” says the chef, stabbing himself in the forehead with his index finger. Dini winces as if he’s stabbed her, which could be next. “I am an artist. Can you comprehend? I make poems of plums. I am a musician of pears, an introspective voyager, heir to shadows and to dreams. Do you understand this?”
“Yes!” Dini cries. “I do! I totally get it!” Does anyone get dreams like she does? She doubts it. She’s a bit puzzled by the plums and introspective whatnot, but it sounds poetic, which is fine with her.
She feels an odd stirring of sympathy. The chef’s a strange person, but Dini gets that, too. His strangeness strikes a chord.
“Ififif I bake this cake . . .,” says Armend, advancing threateningly.
“Yes?” says Dini, backing away.
“Then I will do it my way.”
“Of course,” Dini says. She’s up against the cold steel counter.
The chef stares through Dini at the wall behind her and maybe beyond it to some other place. Seconds tiptoe by. Dini begins to wonder if he’s fallen asleep.
“I am of three minds,” the chef declares at last.
“Three?” says Dini in alarm.
“Three?” say Ollie and Alana together.
“ThreethreeTHREE,” Chef Armend says, banging the counter, so that the ladles skitter madly.
“Okay,” says Dini. “Sure. Why not
?” She wonders what will happen next. Will Chef Armend sing haan-haan-haan, or nahin-nahin?
He does neither. Instead he utters a single word. “Chocolate.”
“Oh yes,” says Dini.
“Rose petals.”
“Oh yes, yes,” she says.
A personal seismic wave overcomes this master of knives, this carver of roasts. Armend Latifi shudders from head to toe and back again. His hat tilts. His shoulders shake.
“Are you all right?” says Dini.
“My grandmother!” the chef says, and dissolves into sobs.
“Where?” says Dini, looking around, half expecting a grandmother to heave into view. But there are still only four people in the sparkly kitchen.
Whisper-whisper, go Alana and Ollie.
“I am heartbroken,” says the chef. He collects himself to tell the whole sad story—how his Nona never lived to see his culinary success, how anguish and agony are symbolized by rose petals. “Inscrutable world,” he ends, “mythology of myself.” He lapses into brooding silence.
But Dini’s stuck on a single word. Heartbroken! She never wanted to break anyone’s heart. Why, she’s all about healing heartbreak, just ask Dolly. “Look, I’m sorry,” she says. “I really am.” She wants to run out of the kitchen. She thinks, It’s all over. What am I going to do about that cake?
And then she thinks one last, frightful thought. I can’t do anything right for Dolly’s grand opening. “Forget I mentioned it,” she says sadly.
“No, wait,” Ollie says.
“Chef,” says Alana.
“Whatwhatwhat?” says Chef Armend. But he does not shout those words. He does not holler them. Possibly for the first time since he was a young chef, timid and afraid of the experts in the field, Chef Armend lowers his voice. He whispers.
“Why don’t you let us help?” Alana says. “Ollie and me, we’ll help you make that cake.”
“Youyouyou?” muses the chef.
“Yes,” say Alana and Ollie.
“Rose petals,” the chef says as if he has just discovered that the words have a certain roundness and flavor.
“Yes?” say his three listeners.
“Rose petals,” the chef goes on, “have flung themselves into my life too many times. No coincidence. It’s a sign.” He turns to Ollie. “Youyouyou! Get me a bag of them.”
“Rose petals?” says Ollie.
“Nonononono, rabbit ears!” barks the chef, returning to his old self. “Of course rose petals, you butterbrain! NOW!”
“We’ve got some in the fridge, Chef,” Ollie says.
“I need FRESH!” growls the chef, and Ollie hurries out.
Chef Armend’s eyebrows dance like animated caterpillars. His chin goes into convulsions. His nostrils flare. His ears twitch. A horrific noise emerges from between his lips. And Dini grins. The cake will be made. All will be fine in this dance that Dini is trying so hard to design and execute. Chef Armend has just chuckled.
“Whenwhenwhen is this . . . this opening?” demands the chef.
Dini gulps. “On the nineteenth,” she says. “That’s in four days, not counting today.”
He purses his lips and glares at the ceiling, then at Dini, and then at that far horizon. “Withwithwith this CAKE,” he howls, “I will honor my grandmother!”
Dini and Alana high-five each other in a burst of pure joy.
A great cloud has lifted off Dini’s mind. There are still things to be taken care of, but among all the no-noes, here’s a ringing yes-yes-yes. It’s a turning point, she tells herself, that’s what it is.
Chapter Forty
Not Much to Ask For
DINI KNOCKS ON THE DOOR of room 503, ready to take the grand opening plans to the next step. Ready for Dolly to see their dance and applaud, maybe even help the movements along with a few professional tips. Tomorrow’s the dress rehearsal and it’s time for action.
Did anyone hear her knock? She can hear voices inside. It’s going to be fine, of course it is, especially if everyone pulls together and helps out by watching out. Everyone means everyone, she tells herself firmly. That means they do need the star’s help. It’s not so unreasonable to ask for it. Is it? She knocks again.
“Come in!” says a chorus of voices, so Dini leans on the door. It opens. She enters.
This is what she hears:
Soli: “But, Dolly darling, I didn’t mean—”
Mean what? What is he talking about?
Dolly: “Soli, I was at the zoo, having a wonderful meeting with that precious pachyderm, and you came bursting in and ruined everything! She’s a sensitive elephant, you know, and what about my nerves?”
At the zoo? Dolly went to the zoo? And Soli? When did all this happen? This dance is getting out of hand.
Chickoo Uncle: “Dolly, maybe we can work something out.”
Dini is all for this. Working something out sounds like a very good idea indeed. She takes a quick, sharp look at those assembled.
This is what she sees:
Chickoo Uncle, hovering anxiously.
Maddie and Brenna huddled together on the green velvety sofa.
Soli Dustup, evidently in pain, clutching at his shoulder.
Dolly, waving her hands, so that her bangles go chan-chan-chan. Is she dancing? Alas, no.
“Now, you listen to me, Soli my good fellow,” Dolly is saying in her silvery voice, which can turn to daggers when weapons are needed. “I don’t care how impractical you think I am being. I love that elephant, love her with all my heart and soul! So of course I must have her in my opening. I must. It’s not much to ask for, is it? I’m telling you, I can see right away that she’s a star.”
Soli says something under his breath.
“You should know a star when you see one,” Dolly carries on. “Soli, listen to me! If I don’t have her at my opening, my heart will break into a thousand pieces. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chapter Forty-One
Fans
ON THE MORNING OF THE Rehearsal, with a few hours still to go, Dad has errands to run. He gives the grand opening dancers a ride from Maddie’s house in Takoma Park to the Metro Center station smack-dab in the middle of D.C., from where they will take the train to the Promenade Hotel. “See you later,” Dad says. “Don’t go roping any more elephants. Or chefs.”
“Very funny,” says Dini.
“Dead serious,” Dad protests.
They wave good-bye to him and hurry down the steep escalator into the belly of the Metrorail system. The train ride is great fun, especially as there are now Bolly-Dazzle posters in the subway cars and in the station. Dolly’s fabulous face floats across those posters, misty hair and sun-sparkly earrings and all. Crowds of Metro riders stop to look at those posters. They linger, point, laugh, talk, and admire. Potential fans, every one of them.
The train is not very full, so they can try their dance steps out in the aisle. “I don’t—know,” says Maddie, nearly pitching over as they round a bend, “if this is such a wonderful idea. Maybe we should go sit down.”
“It’s perfect,” says Brenna, without missing a step. “Dare you,” she says, and dances backward.
They try. Maddie is the first to collapse giggling onto a pale blue vinyl seat. Dini soon follows, flinging herself into a sand-colored one. Brenna could probably do this with her eyes closed.
Not everyone is appreciative of the dancers. “Watch your step,” says a woman two rows behind them.
The girls look guiltily at one another, but they can’t stop laughing because this has been so much fun.
“Next station stop, Federal Triangle,” says the driver’s voice.
“Oh, that’s us,” says Maddie, recovering her breath. “Two blocks to the hotel from here.”
With a slowing of wheels and a high-pitched whine, the train stops. “Federal Triangle,” the driver’s voice proclaims. “Doors open on the right-hand side. Stand clear of the door and watch your step as you exit, please.”
“What did I t
ell you?” demands the cross woman.
The Promenade Hotel has been invaded by reporters, by photographers, and by a gaggle of Dolly fans. They have seen the articles in the Post. The special press conference is an added thrill. They have come to see their number one star.
The manager scurries from here to there and back again, doing his best to keep all enthusiastic visitors under control. “Yes, you can take pictures.” “Yes, Ms. Singh will be down momentarily.” “Just bring your equipment up in the freight elevator.” “No! Please don’t move the furniture around.” “Yes, this is a one-hundred-and-five-year-old building, built by a copper baron in . . . ” They follow him in clumps, sticking out their microphones at him, taking pictures with zest and verve.
“Did I tell you about the new museum in Bombay, my dearest friends and Dolly fans?” inquires Mr. Soli Dustup. The fans mill around him like a bunch of sixth graders, talking over one another, laughing at their own jokes, getting Soli’s autograph—all this while they wait anxiously for Dolly to make her appearance.
A hotel desk clerk materializes at Soli’s elbow and hands him a note. “Message, sir. From the Smithsonian. You may want to check your hotel voice mail. He says he’s called a couple of times already.”
Soli excuses himself to return that call, leaving Dini, Maddie, and Brenna to the mercy of the fans. A babble of questions breaks out. Yes, Dolly’s here, and yes, she’ll be down shortly for a brief press conference, and yes, it’s true that the events of Dini’s life and her meeting with Dolly form a part of the new movie. Yes-yes-yes. With a bunch of make-believe, but haan-haan-haan, there’s a little reality in there too.
The questions come full tilt, and the girls learn about the Dolly fans too. Busloads more are on their way from New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, and as far away as North Carolina.
“Is it true you girls are going to do a dance?” someone asks.
“Yes,” Dini says. She explains about the opening dance. The grand opening dance. Talking about it to so many admiring fans makes it real somehow. Dini begins to feel faintly starry herself.
The Problem with Being Slightly Heroic Page 9