The Five Fakirs of Faizabad

by P. B. Kerr

  “Tibet?” said Philippa. “What’s in Tibet?”

  “When I was inside the omphalos at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem,” explained Nimrod, “the oracle revealed to me that if I wished to bring about the impossible — suddenly to make a great many people feel that the world is a better, happier place than it was before and that they themselves can actively share in the world’s new good fortune — then I should find Shangri-la.”

  “Shangri-la?” said Philippa. “You mean there really is a lost paradise in the Tibetan Himalayas where time and history have no meaning?”

  “Apparently so,” said Nimrod. “Except that it’s not really called Shangri-la but Shamba-la. This archive, the Joseph Rock Archive I brought with me from the Jewish National Library, explains exactly how to get there. Wherever we seem to be going now appears to be vaguely southeast, which is on the way to Tibet, as the crow flies.”

  As if to confirm this, a crow flew alongside them for a while, and even perched on the edge of the carpet for a short rest before Mr. Burton, who held that crows were birds of ill-omen and therefore unlucky, shooed it away.

  Finally, after almost ninety minutes, the flying carpet dipped toward what Nimrod declared to be Germany’s Main River, which is not the main river in Germany — that’s the Rhine — but a tributary of the Rhine called the Main.

  “We seem to be heading for Frankfurt,” said Nimrod.

  The carpet dipped again and seemed to aim itself at the city’s tallest buildings in Frankfurt’s banking district, and then at one building in particular — a rather ugly-looking skyscraper with a signal mast and a yellow logo that enabled Nimrod to identify it as the Commerzbank Tower. Like many other European banks, the Commerzbank had gone bankrupt several months ago, and there was an enormous sign on the uppermost window that read zum verkauf, which in German means “for sale.” Next to the signal tower was a flat roof on which, some eight hundred feet above the city of Frankfurt itself, was a small blue carpet and two people waving at them.

  “It’s Moo and Mr. Swaraswati,” said Philippa.

  The carpet circled over the rooftop for a moment and then descended slowly.

  “Thank goodness,” said Moo. “I thought we were going to be stuck up here for ages. We’ve been waving to those blasted window cleaners on that building opposite for almost an hour. They were waving back, too. They must have thought we were just being friendly.”

  “Not waving but drowning, eh?” said Nimrod as his carpet settled on the rooftop. “Well, it looks like they’ve got something else to think about now. Us. We’d best get going soon, before a television crew turns up. It’s not every day people see a flying carpet.”

  “It’s been a very trying time,” said Moo. “After we lost you, Philippa, we thought we were done for. Especially when we crossed the North Sea. Where on earth are we, anyway?”

  “Germany,” said Philippa. “Frankfurt. The Commerzbank Tower, I think.”

  “These carpets are designed to land somewhere safe, eventually,” said Nimrod. “When they lack direction and control. And you can’t get anywhere safer than a bank.”

  “That only used to be true,” said Moo. “Either way, I’m very happy to see you all. Very happy.”

  “That reminds me,” said Nimrod, and having explained to Moo and Mr. Swaraswati that they were all now going to Tibet, he added, “I’m reliably informed that to gain admittance to Shamba-la we are going to need a really happy man in our company.”

  “This is Germany,” said Moo. “Finding a really happy man here isn’t going to be easy. At least not until the beer festival in October.”

  “Mr. Burton?” said Nimrod. “Would you say that you’re really happy?”

  “My life has not been of sufficient benefit to others for me to say that I am truly happy,” he said. “What happiness I have known has been like a beautiful butterfly that settled upon my shoulder when I wasn’t looking.”

  “I’ll take that as a no, then. Moo?”

  “I don’t know why we’re on this earth,” said Moo. “But I’m darned sure it’s not in order to be happy.” She shrugged. “But whatever it is, I should think that being the head of the British KGB and happiness are an impossible combination.”

  “Mr. Swaraswati?”

  “Since it seems I must ride on another of these terrible flying carpets, I could hardly describe myself as being truly happy, no,” he said.

  “We could always fly back to England,” said Moo. “My local milkman is always whistling a happy tune. Drives me mad with it. Of course he doesn’t look very happy. We English never do. Our teeth aren’t good enough for us to smile a lot.” Moo punched Nimrod gently on the shoulder. “What about you, Nimrod? You’re wise enough to seem quite happy.”

  “Too kind, dear lady, too kind,” said Nimrod. “It’s true that wisdom is the greater part of happiness. And I feel very happy. But strictly speaking, I’m not a man at all. And nor is Philippa. Which is to say, she’s a djinn, not a human being, and we have a bit of an advantage when it comes to being happy.”

  Philippa nodded. “There is no greater happiness than making other people happy, I think. Although as I’ve discovered, granting someone their dearest wish isn’t always that easy.”

  “Well said, Philippa,” said Nimrod.

  “Which reminds me, Uncle Nimrod,” said Philippa. “Yes, of course. Why didn’t I think of him right away? A really happy man. I think I know exactly where to find one. And it so happens that it’s on the way to Tibet. As the crow flies.”

  CHAPTER 31

  THE HUNGER CRY

  Zagreus, the bigfoot, watched the flying carpet carrying John and Rakshasas the wolf until it was just a dot on the western horizon and then let out a big, smelly yak-sized sigh. Already he felt the parting from John acutely, for he was of the opinion that he owed the boy djinn everything: But for John he’d still have been stuck in Bumby, a Jinx with no idea of who or what he was supposed to be.

  At the same time, Zagreus was feeling comfortable in his shaggy skin for the first time ever, as far as he was able to tell, and had quite forgotten who and what he had once been before being a Jinx; and even that would soon fade from his memory.

  The bigfoot sat down heavily next to the burial mound of snow that contained Groanin’s body and occupied himself for several minutes throwing snowballs at a lodgepole pine. He was good at throwing snowballs. There is no creature better at throwing snowballs than a bigfoot — not even a small boy with a policeman in his sights. But after a while he got bored throwing snowballs and, feeling hungry, he went over to the tree he’d been aiming at and, ripping off several branches, ate several pounds of crunchy, scented pine needles. Then he burped and sat down again.

  There was nothing else for him to do now except await their return. Until then, he knew what he had to do. Indeed, he was thoroughly alive to the very real danger that existed inside the park. Somewhere in the immediate vicinity was a hungry wolf pack and at least one grizzly bear. If what John had said was correct, they would both have caught the scent of Groanin’s blood on the snow and even now would very likely be trying to track down its source. Simply put, the bigfoot’s job was to see that neither the bears nor the wolves were able to dig up the butler’s body and eat it.

  Zagreus burped again and brought something up. Still getting used to being a bigfoot, he was a little surprised to discover a large portion of his own meal arriving back in his mouth from his stomach to be chewed a second time. It was only now that he realized he was a ruminant, and that his body was unable to produce the enzymes required to break down the cellulose in plant matter, and that he was going to have to chew the cud that was what the bolus of semi-degraded food he’d just regurgitated was properly called.

  That might have disgusted him as a human being, but it didn’t disgust him as a bigfoot. Chewing the cud felt as natural to Zagreus as it would have felt to a well-adjusted cow. Chewing the cud was something to do at least. And he was chewing that cud for quite
a while before the pine needles were all chewed enough to swallow a second time. Chewing was hard work.

  Silence settled on the thick and brilliant Yellowstone snow — so bright that Zagreus felt obliged to close his eyes against the glare and, for a while, he dozed quite unaware of the fact that Groanin was sitting next to him and had been for some time.

  “Wake up, you great daft lummox,” said Groanin, and punched Zagreus on his enormous hairy shoulder, but the bigfoot did not respond to the butler’s fist.

  Groanin, who had overheard John telling Zagreus that the butler was in a place between life and death, knew it was absolutely crucial that his body remained cold and uneaten by any wild animals if ever he was to be revived, but he already despaired that the sleepy bigfoot would prove unequal to the task of guarding him that now lay ahead.

  “You’re supposed to be guarding my body,” he said. “I say, you’re supposed to be guarding my dead body. Not snoring away like a flipping lumberjack’s saw.”

  Groanin shook his head irritably.

  “By heck, I pity the female bigfoot — assuming there is such a thing — that has to live with that flipping sound,” he muttered. “I’ve heard some snoring in my time. My old dad could have snored for England. But that. That’s superheavyweight champion-of-the-world snoring, is that. Bigfoot, my elbow. Bignose, more like. Big lungs. You big daft lummox.”

  In the far distance, a wolf howled a quavering note that was full of melancholy and hunger.

  “Did you hear that?” Groanin felt a spasm of fear pass through him like a cold wind and then another one as suddenly he realized that he wasn’t much more than a breath of cold wind himself. For the first time he had an insight into what it was like to be a djinn, albeit a djinn in a transubstantiated or spiritual out-of-body state. “That was a wolf, wasn’t it?”

  But Zagreus remained loudly asleep.

  Another wolf howled a reply to the first as if they were coordinating a search for the butler’s body.

  “Wake up, you outsized chimpanzee,” said Groanin. “Before them wolves start to chow down on my corpse. Come on, you hairy baboon. Wakey-wakey.”

  Zagreus opened one large brown eye. He had not heard Groanin’s voice, but he had heard the wolf. His hearing was as sharp as any predator’s.

  He stood up — by now he was almost nine feet tall — and walked around in a circle for a while. Groanin didn’t know it but the bigfoot was leaving his strong scent on the snow like an invisible stockade in the hope that the pack of wolves would smell it and treat it with caution. He was correct in this respect; wolves were afraid of a bigfoot, almost as afraid as they were of a man with a rifle.

  “Here, shouldn’t you build a fire?” said Groanin. “To help keep them wolves off?” Then he shook his head. “On second thought, ignore that suggestion. A fire might start to melt that heap of snow that is keeping my body cold. I’m nothing but a bag of frozen peas, I am.”

  When he’d finished marking out his territory, Zagreus sat down again, and this time he sat down on top of the burial mound.

  “If you don’t mind, that’s my head you just parked your enormous backside on top of,” complained Groanin.

  Zagreus stayed put even when the first wolf turned up and lay down like a contented dog at a safe distance from the burial mound. A big silver-gray wolf, he licked his jaws and glanced around as another wolf came and lay beside him, and then another. None of them seemed fierce so much as patient — very patient, as if they realized it was only a question of waiting there long enough before Zagreus fell asleep or got bored and abandoned his lonely outpost.

  Zagreus grinned a bigfoot grin and made a snowball — the cruel kind, with a piece of ice at its core — and hurled it at the first wolf, striking it full on the muzzle.

  The wolf yelped with pain as the piece of ice connected with its nose, and retired to a safer distance. So did the others.

  “Good shot,” said Groanin.

  Zagreus hurled another snowball and then another, both of which fell just short of the wolves in their new position.

  “Looks like they’ve found your range,” Groanin said redundantly.

  Zagreus beat his leathery chest and roared, but the wolves stayed put at this display of bluff.

  “I can’t bear to look,” said Groanin, beside himself with worry. “I think you’ve got your work cut out and no mistake, Zagreus, old mate.”

  The butler got up and walked away, almost certain that it would not be very long before the wolf pack was tucking in to a full English breakfast. He didn’t look back. The sight of his snowy burial mound with a great hairy man-ape sitting on it surrounded by wolves was too depressing to contemplate.

  “If I come out of this alive,” he told himself, “I am never ever going to buttle for that man Nimrod again.”

  It was a conversation that lasted for several miles.

  “This is what comes of going abroad and mixing with foreigners,” said Groanin as he walked effortlessly through the snow and into trees. “None of this would have happened if I’d stayed on in Kensington like I wanted. There are no grizzly bears in London. Not even at London Zoo, which is the way I like it. Nasty animals with teeth and claws. What was God thinking of making such a beast? I didn’t want to come to this horrible place. Or any of the other horrible places I’ve been with that blasted man Nimrod. But would he listen? Would he, heck. All His Lordship cares about is that he has his tea made by a proper English butler. As if that made any difference. Well, I’m through with all that. From now on he can make his own tea. And cocoa. And coffee.”

  Groanin wiped his nose and realized that he was wiping it not because it was wet but because he could actually smell fresh coffee. Real coffee. Had he imagined it? Quickening his invisible footsteps, he crested a hill and saw the bright little yellow diamond of a campfire in the distance. And having little idea of what else to do with himself until he was either properly dead or safely rescued, Groanin thought that this was probably as good a place to await John’s return from Tibet as any. There was something cheerful and welcoming about a campfire that called to him in the unmistakable accents of civilization: a hearth, the sound and conversation of another human being, the smells of cooking food and hot coffee.

  Nearing the fire, he saw that he had arrived back at his own campsite, the one the bear had chased him away from earlier.

  And with nothing better to do, Groanin crawled back inside his tent and started to read David Copperfield.

  CHAPTER 32

  GOOD HEALTH AND A BAD MEMORY

  As usual, Silvio Prezzolini started his day in the tourist shop at Pompeii by carefully dusting all of the merchandise, of course paying special attention to the Roman cameos. As he worked he tried to ignore the scientists from Princeton University who sat in a trailer outside, observing him from a safe distance in an effort to determine if the effects of random or so-called unlucky events could be measured scientifically. So far the scientists hadn’t measured anything very much, except that it got very hot in Pompeii and that they were putting on weight as a result of all the pasta and pizza they were eating. And certainly nothing unlucky had happened to Silvio in a while.

  As he worked, Silvio sang a little tune called “Guaglione,” which always reminded him of good food and wine, and pretty girls, and riding around Rome on a Vespa, and sunshine, and a day on the beach; and as usual it wasn’t long before he quite forgot all the terrible things that had happened to him since the age of two when he had fallen from a third-floor window and, uninjured, been run over by a Neapolitan pizza delivery van.

  When he’d finished singing “Guaglione,” he sang “Ciao, Ciao, Bambina” — and sang it very well, too — which put him in an even better mood as it made him think of smiling Italian children, and friendly dogs, and delicious ice cream, and blue skies, and certainly nothing at all of being sucked out of an Alitalia aircraft when the door fell off, or being struck by lightning on a football pitch, or his forty-two car accidents. He was even able to gr
in when he saw a little girl carrying a toy panda without any memory of his time at the Rome zoo when he’d been severely assaulted by an escaped panda named Felix.

  When Silvio had finished dusting his merchandise, he opened the shutters on the shop, took a deep, euphoric breath of life, and told himself he was the luckiest man in the world to have such a wonderful job. Which was enough to make the small, balding man with a limp (from the time he was hit by a piece of debris from a failing Russian satellite) start singing “La Pansè.” Everyone who lived and worked in Pompeii liked hearing that song a lot as Silvio sang it just like Renato Carosone.

  As well as his many accidents, Silvio had almost forgotten the little American girl with reddish hair and glasses, and he took a few moments to remember that she was a genie and had offered to grant him three wishes because Il Foglio, an Italian newspaper, had described him as the unluckiest man in the world.

  This time the girl was accompanied by a tall man wearing a red suit. The man had a big nose and a wide mouth and a full head of curly dark hair. He looked clever, like a scientist: not a mad scientist exactly, but perhaps an eccentric one, if the color of the suit was anything to go by. Or maybe a Renaissance prince. Someone distinguished and extraordinary, anyway. Instinctively, Silvio guessed that the man must be a genie, too, if only because he was with the girl and because there was something in his large eyes that was more than just intelligence. It was power. Not a frightening sort of power, but something else. A kind of imperturbable strength, perhaps. An inner glow, like a holy man or even an angel.

  “Hello,” said Philippa.

  Silvio smiled uncertainly. “Hello,” he said.

  “This is my uncle Nimrod.”

  “How do you do, sir?”

  “We were very much enjoying your singing, Signor Prezzolini,” said the tall man. “Weren’t we, Philippa? Let me have people around me who sing, I say. People like you, Signor Prezzolini, are the real artists of this world — the painters who put some color into our dull hearts. But for you, all would be quite monochrome, sir. An imperfect daguerreotype of some long-forgotten place.”