The Five Fakirs of Faizabad

by P. B. Kerr

  “Less fun?” Philippa sounded surprised. “A lot of people might disagree with that.”

  “Then they don’t understand what life is all about,” said Silvio. “To grant all a man’s wishes is to take away his dreams and his ambitions. Life is only worth living if you have something to strive for. To aim at. You understand?”

  “You’re a very unusual man, do you know that?” Philippa couldn’t help but be impressed. “Most people would give anything for a djinn to grant them three wishes.”

  “I stopped feeling like most people the day I got sucked out of an airplane at ten thousand feet,” said Silvio.

  “By the way,” asked Philippa, “how did you ever survive getting sucked out of an airplane?”

  “About two-thirds of the way down I hit a hot-air balloon,” said Silvio. “It broke my fall quite a bit. Just as I slipped off the balloon, it was flying over a circus. I fell onto the big top and that helped to break my fall, too. Even so, I still went through the roof of the tent. And it just so happened that I arrived in the circus just as a high-wire act was in progress, and they had a safety net for the man walking the tightrope. Which I fell into.”

  “Gosh, that was lucky,” said Philippa.

  “Wasn’t it?” Silvio grinned. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m really a very lucky fellow. You want another example? The Japanese television producer who accidentally drove off a cliff with me in the car? The car burst into flames before it hit the ground but, fortunately for me, I had already jumped out. I missed some power lines on the way down. That was lucky, too. Then I hit some trees. Luckily for me, the man who was supposed to have pruned the trees that day was late; otherwise there would have been no branches to help break my fall. It’s true, I broke a lot of bones that day. But I count myself lucky. Very lucky. You can’t argue with that.”

  Philippa smiled. “I’m not even going to try,” she said. “You know what? It’s a real pleasure to meet someone who’s not greedy for wealth or power or whatever. You’ve taught me something really important here: Not everyone wants something. Some people are just really happy the way they are.”

  CHAPTER 4

  BUMBY’S JINX

  John and Mr. Groanin went to Bumby Town Hall to see if they could make an appointment with someone important on the local town council.

  In the entrance hall was a directory board that listed all the names of the people who worked for the town council. Through an open door was a room with uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs where several Bumby residents were awaiting their appointments. They looked like a typical cross section of the town’s diverse population: There was a short, fat woman with a shopping bag and bad eczema; there was a tall, fat woman with a shopping bag and bad eczema and a small boy with eczema who was noisier than a campsite; there were two tall, handsome-looking men with very long beards and even longer hair; and a suspicious-looking character with red hair, narrow eyes, buckteeth, and — most suspicious of all to Groanin — a bow tie with polka dots.

  Seeing him, Groanin nudged John and then nodded at the man in the bow tie. “Never ever trust a man that wears a bow tie in the daytime,” he whispered. “Especially one with polka dots. Unless he’s a clown in a circus. And even then you’d be wise to be on your guard.”

  “Winston Churchill wore a bow tie,” said John. “What about him?”

  “True, lad, but so did Karl Marx. And Sigmund Freud. And Frank Sinatra. You can bet that character is up to no good. You mark my words.”

  Groanin read out a few of the names of the people on the council from the directory board as he tried to decide whom they should see.

  “Right then,” he said. “There’s Mr. Higginbottom, who’s the mayor. There’s Sheryl Shoebottom, the mayor’s secretary; Henry Sidebottom, the town clerk; Arthur Shipperbottom, the press officer; and Colin Shufflebottom, the chief financial officer.”

  John sniggered. “Is everyone in this town called something-bottom?”

  “It’s not that kind of bottom, you daft little toe rag,” said Groanin. “I say, it’s not that kind of bottom. Trouble with you Yanks is that you think everything means what it says, when in fact it usually means something totally different. That’s what comes of pinching our language — the English language — instead of inventing your own one. The word bottom was originally spelled ‘botham,’ and is an old English word meaning ‘the broad bottom of a valley.’ There’s a lot of valleys in this part of the world. Hence the large number of ‘bottoms’ who live in them.”

  John sniggered again. “I can’t help it,” he insisted. “It just seems kind of weird to have so many bottoms in one place.”

  “And this from a boy who lives in a state with towns called Cat Elbow Corner and Hicksville and Yaphank and Yonkers.”

  “There’s a town called Cat Elbow Corner in New York State?” John sounded surprised.

  “Seneca County,” said Groanin. “It’s near Glenora, if that helps.”

  “Nope,” admitted John.

  After thinking about it for a minute or two more, Groanin decided that they should first speak to the mayor’s secretary, Sheryl Shoebottom. So they went up to her office and asked her if they could have an appointment with His Worship, the mayor.

  “Can I tell him what it’s about?” asked Miss Shoebottom.

  She was a tall, thin woman with a long horseface, and a hairstyle and mouth that looked as if they had been set in plaster of Paris.

  “The lad here is an eccentric millionaire,” explained Groanin. “He’s taken a shine to the town and wants to do it a good turn.”

  Groanin removed his bowler hat because he was speaking to a lady. This was unfortunate because the stink bug that had landed on his head while he’d been sitting on the beach had made several bad smells in its anxiety to escape from under Groanin’s hat, and these had all accumulated to make one very large bad smell that was immediately noticeable once Groanin’s bowler was removed from his bald head.

  Fortunately for Groanin, and John, Miss Shoebottom did not hold him personally responsible for the bad smell. She was only too well aware of the plague of stink bugs affecting the town of Bumby and, as soon as her nostrils picked up the smell, she went into action with an aerosol can of something chemical that smelled only a bit like roses. She even sprayed a little inside Groanin’s hat and on top of his head.

  “There,” she said. “That’s much better.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Groanin, uncertain if the smell of chemical roses was an improvement on the smell of stink bugs.

  “You were saying,” said Miss Shoebottom.

  “Aye, well, merely that the lad here is an eccentric American millionaire, and that he’s taken it into his head to do the town a good turn. Three good turns, as a matter of fact.”

  Miss Shoebottom looked at John critically, the way she might have stared at a scruffy dog that needed a bath. The boy was about fourteen years old. Quite tall for his age, probably, with darkish hair, and on the edge of turning quite handsome, she thought. His clothes were black and ordinary looking.

  “Oh, yes?” She pulled a face. “Where’s his gold watch?”

  “You what?” said Groanin.

  Miss Shoebottom sighed impatiently. “What I mean, luvvy — and no disrespect to you, sonny — is that he doesn’t look much like a millionaire.”

  “Well, who does, these days?” said Groanin. “I say, who does look like a millionaire? And to be quite honest with you, I’m only using the word millionaire because it’s a tad vulgar to go bandying around the b-word.”

  “The b-word?” Miss Shoebottom frowned.

  “He means ‘bottom,’” said John.

  “I do not,” said Groanin. “And I’ll thank you, sir, to let me make the explanations.” He looked at Miss Shoebottom. “The b-word. Billionaire.”

  “If you ask me,” she said, “he doesn’t much look like one of them, either.”

  “Aye, well, I wouldn’t disagree with you there, missus,” said Groanin. “But the fact is,
the lad’s pockets are loaded with brass, and I have the honor to be his butler. It’s my responsibility to help him dole out cash to them as needs it.”

  “We’ve never had a lad who had his own butler in Bumby,” said Miss Shoebottom.

  “It’s only Yorkshire folk that think they’ve seen it all, right enough,” observed Groanin. “And who think that what they haven’t seen isn’t worth seeing. Listen to me, missus. The lad’s in a position to help this poor town get off its knees before it’s too late.”

  “Tell you what, love,” said Miss Shoebottom. “You leave your names and an address with me and I’ll get His Worship, the mayor, to give you a call when he’s got a minute. All right?”

  Groanin nodded. “We’re at the Oasis Guesthouse,” he said.

  “Mrs. Bottomley’s place,” she said. “I know it.” Only just managing to contain another snigger, John went outside the office.

  “Just don’t leave it too long or he’s likely to take his charity up the road to Whitby,” said Groanin.

  Groanin thanked Miss Shoebottom and followed the boy out into the corridor, where he found him staring at the portraits of three previous mayors: Mr. Frederick Oakenbottom, Sir Geoffrey Longbottom, and Mrs. Hilda Longbottom.

  “Don’t say another word,” said Groanin.

  They went outside onto High Street.

  “There are some weird-looking people in this town,” observed John, catching sight of a man wearing a pink turban. “If you ask me, some of them look a bit sinister.”

  “It’s true, that,” agreed Groanin. “Yorkshire folk do look a bit sinister. Speaking as someone from Lancashire, I’d have to agree with you there.”

  “I don’t get it,” said John. “You’re not from Yorkshire. So why not vacation in Lancashire?”

  “Wouldn’t be a holiday unless I could get away from everything,” said Groanin. “Coming to Yorkshire is the next best thing to going on vacation in Lancashire, without actually going to Lancashire. See, if I went to Lancashire I might bump into someone I know and that would be a disaster.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s lots of folk in Lancashire I never want to see again as long as I live. Now put a sock in them questions and let’s get back in time for our supper. It’s sausages tonight.”

  They returned to their room at the Oasis Guesthouse.

  It was not well named. John thought it couldn’t have seemed less like an oasis if it had been an abandoned car factory. It wasn’t even much like a guesthouse, since the place seemed to have more rules than a Carolina golf club.

  “I was thinking,” said John.

  “That makes a change,” said Groanin.

  “I might go back to the mayor’s office, invisibly, and see what kind of fellow he is. Get a feel for him, you know. I want to make sure he’s not a crook or anything before I go handing over three wishes like a box of candy.”

  “Good idea,” said Groanin. He sat down in a lumpy chair and shook open a copy of the Daily Telegraph. “I’ll have a read of the paper while you’re gone. But don’t be late. It’s sausages tonight.”

  John lay down on his hard bed, closed his eyes, and silently lifted his spirit from out of his body. It always felt a little strange leaving himself behind. He hovered near the ceiling for a moment, observing the dust and the trailing cobwebs that Mrs. Bottomley had ignored, and then swooped down beside Groanin to blow in his hairy ear.

  Groanin shuddered visibly. “Give over doing that,” he shouted, and swatted the air around his head with the newspaper for good measure.

  Chuckling happily, John floated out of the guesthouse and into the street.

  Mostly he behaved himself, but being of a mischievous disposition he could hardly resist stroking a policeman’s fat neck and lifting up a whole tray of cakes in the Most Haunted Tearooms as he passed through the town. There were times when John thought that being invisible was the best fun anyone could have in this world and halfway toward the next.

  But nearer the town hall John stopped floating for a moment as something unusual caught his eye: something that even he had never ever seen before — and John had already seen a lot in his fourteen years of life.

  It appeared to be a species of small white ape.

  Almost as interesting was the fact that the ape seemed to be invisible to everyone in Bumby except John. Not only that, but it was clear that the ape could see John even though he himself was invisible. And if all that wasn’t remarkable enough, it quickly became apparent that the small, white, invisible ape could speak excellent English. Even better than Groanin, it seemed to John.

  “Hello,” said the ape.

  “Hello,” said John.

  “My name is Cornelius,” said the ape.

  “Mine’s John.”

  “You can’t begin to know how pleased I am to see someone who can see me,” said Cornelius. “It’s been weeks since I spoke to anyone who spoke back.”

  “You can see me?”

  “Just the faintest outline, it’s true,” said Cornelius. “Are you a ghost?”

  “Er, no,” said John. “A djinn.”

  “Ah. I’ve heard of those. But I’ve never met one.”

  “Are you an ape?”

  “I’d agree with that description but for the fact that I can obviously speak. To my knowledge, apes are not capable of speech. But to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not exactly sure what I am. Cornelius is just a name I picked up in the local TV shop. There was a movie on called Planet of the Apes and one of the apes — one who looked like a darker version of me — was called Cornelius.”

  “How can you tell what you look like if you’re invisible?” John asked reasonably enough.

  “Oh, I’m not invisible to myself,” said Cornelius. “Nor indeed to you.”

  “How did you get here, in Bumby?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “So why don’t you leave?”

  “Where would I go? What’s the point of leaving somewhere if you’re lost? Besides, there was another TV program I was watching that said if you’re lost, the best thing is always to wait where you are until someone finds you. And now someone has.”

  “Oh?” John glanced around. “Who’s that?”

  “You, of course.” Cornelius frowned. “Apart from that, it’s all a big mystery to me, I’m afraid.”

  John thought for a moment. “You know, I could maybe help you there.”

  “Could you? How?”

  “Being a djinn, I might be able to give you three wishes,” said John. “I say might because the plain fact of the matter is that I’m still learning how to be a djinn, so sometimes the wishes don’t come out exactly right; and I also say might because I never gave three wishes to anyone but a mundane before now. That’s what we djinn call a human being. I’m not sure how it works when I give wishes to … well, whatever you are. Let’s call you an ape for now.”

  “All right. But what could I possibly wish for that might help my situation?”

  “You might wish to remember something that you’ve forgotten, such as your real name, and what you are, and where you come from — where your home is. That kind of thing.”

  “Could I really wish for all that?”

  John shrugged. “I don’t see why not. The only trouble is I can’t give you three wishes while I’m in my current transubstantiated state. I’ll have to go and recover my body first and then sort you out. Of course, it’s just possible that once I am in my body again, I won’t be able to see you. After all, I’m sure I would have seen a white apelike creature wandering around the town before now. So we’d better think of something now in case that should happen.” He shrugged. “Unless, of course, you know a way of making yourself noticeable.”

  Cornelius shook his head.

  “All right, then,” said John. “Follow me.”

  They returned to the Oasis, where supper was being served. As Groanin had promised, it was sausages. The house was full of their smell. John told Cornel
ius to wait in the garage, where Mr. Bottomley, the landlady’s husband, kept his motorcycle.

  “Listen carefully,” John told his new friend. “In the event that I come back down here and can’t see you, I want you to tap three times on the exhaust pipe of the bike to tell me you’re here and that you’re ready for three wishes. Let’s try that, shall we?”

  Cornelius tapped three times on the exhaust pipe as instructed. The sound seemed quite audible to John.

  “Good,” he said. “As soon as you’ve tapped that you’re ready, make the three wishes we already discussed, and then I’ll utter my focus word. My word of power. That should make your wishes come true. At which point tap three times again and I’ll know that it worked. Then I’ll lift out of my body and we’ll talk. Got it?”

  “It sounds complicated,” said Cornelius. “But, yes, I think I can remember all that.”

  John floated back upstairs and collected his body. Groanin was already downstairs waiting for his supper. John got up from the bed and ran downstairs which, in the old guesthouse, sounded like a small earthquake.

  Mrs. Bottomley came out of her kitchen with a frying pan in her hand and stared fiercely upstairs. “Do you have to make that racket?” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” said John.

  “Boys,” said Mrs. Bottomley. “You’re all the same. Rude and noisy. A disaster area. If you’re not clattering down them stairs, you’re sprinting up them, or singing in the bath, or laughing like a drain, or slamming that front door, or shifting around in bed like a bear with insomnia.”

  John apologized again, only this time more profusely.

  “It’s all very well apologizing,” moaned Mrs. Bottomley, who was ill suited to working in Yorkshire’s tourist industry.