The PuppetMaster

by MacNair, Andrew L.

  I listened as I edged my way around the crowd. I could no longer see Adam at that level, being now a part of the throng, but I could observe, and feel, the sentiment. More than a few were bewildered—the spaghetti metaphor still baffling. Most nodded in agreement, but here and there, anger was shaping on faces.

  Adam’s voice called out firmly. “But, friends, does this mean we should love this energy one iota less? No, no, no. Quite the opposite. We are a species of compassion and should love this energy even more. Loving it means loving all. Repeat that to yourselves.” That request appeared to ease a few of the concerned expressions.

  “Today I offer you The Simple Plan.” And as this was said, I watched in embarrassment as the crowd in front of me parted like a hairline. The fingers of Adam’s left hand were motioning for people to move to each side. In his right, a cold bottle of Fanta beckoned. To me. I was being given an invitation to the inner circle, and suddenly felt like I was trudging slowly up the aisle to my third grade teacher’s desk to receive a Child of the Day sticker. Surya and I rolled sheepishly forward.

  Handing me the icy bottle, Adam winked and continued, “The Simple Plan is a union of three thoughts and actions, three means, each dependent upon the other, none more, none less important than the other two. A blend of Absolute Compassion, Pure Science, and Common Sense. Though how common common sense is these days might be in question.” Without warning, Adam hopped from his chair and turned slowly to focus on everyone within his vision. His pupils bored into the crowd that had now swelled from the upper part of the Ghats to the moored boats of the river. Bathers turned, children stopped scampering, and a hush seemed to descend on the bank. “ABSOLUTE COMPASSION, PURE SCIENCE, and INTELLIGENT COMMON SENSE.” His words shot into the throng like gravel. “they are the heart of The Plan, friends . . . and from them all good will come.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Right. And when we have cultivated this compassion for our human family, for our air, water, food; when we love the great energy with all our strength, then we create only good. Love for the energy begets greater love. And, like molecules of water entering the ocean, we will merge, and the entire human family will be lifted.” He paused and took a short pull on his Fanta. I did the same.

  “We are bound by universal responsibility to take The Simple Plan and use it. In every action, every deed and thought, we must ask, ‘is this done with compassion, common sense, and right science? Ask it in everything, but be aware that we will make mistakes, but we will learn, and with new intelligence and compassion, we will repair the errors and move forward together.”

  It was at that moment that I spotted Jitka, and incredibly, she was smiling and nodding her head. Beyond her bobbing forehead, I saw the glistening curves of Uli’s hair, and immediately the taste of our ephemeral kiss returned. The chakra that Satnam had touched suddenly warmed like a glowing ember.

  “Imagine hundreds of projects; the world’s nations working together--distillation and irrigation systems pulsing water into the deserts, oxygen pumped into a wounded atmosphere, poisonous gases decreased. Imagine the sick being cured, the hungry being fed, and the suffering of billions eased. Imagine the cessation of violence and hatred. These are not as difficult as we might think. And the doubters? The ones who say it is trapped in complication and cannot be done? They are mistaken. It can be. It will be. We have only to let go of our obsolescence and accept The Simple Plan.”

  I looked around and saw that the multitude was separating like clarified butter and cream. Small clots of orthodox Hindus, Muslims, and Christians--in the only vein they’d been in agreement on for an eon--were muttering angrily. Terse words hissed arbitrarily from the crowd—‘blasphemy, sacrilege.’ Then from somewhere near the upper steps the ugly, but predictable, ‘achut, achut. He is nothing but a filthy harijan.’ It was spit like venom. The larger group, those who had been in agreement with Adam’s words, had been nodding peacefully until that moment. Someone in their midst yelled angrily back.

  One thing was certain; there wasn’t a drop of lethargy in the returning heat.

  I looked up the embankment toward the mosque. Imam Nomani still stood with a small congregation. Qereshy’s group had slipped away.

  Adam’s words poured out for an hour. At times they drifted like fine ash, at others they shot into the crowd. He described ways to merge with the energy through breath, music, meditation, and movement. He elaborated on its nature, all the while setting forth his plan to transform a violent world to one of functioning unity. At moments it made us laugh, at others cry. “Oh sure, my friends, a pack of bearded, grumpy clerics interpret a few lines of scripture penned twelve hundred years ago and tell us that God not only allows but commands an gullible child to step aboard a crowded bus wearing a vest of dynamite? Kill yourself, kill others and you will become divine? This is common sense? This is compassionate? We will shout with a single voice that it is not. A group of celibate old men in designer robes dictate that contraceptives are sinful in a world that is exploding with starving children. This makes sense? Shout that it does not.” He pointed to the river and all eyes followed his outstretched finger. “We douse our healthy children in this water so full of microbes that we might walk on it, and are told that by doing so they will pass go and never have to roll the dice of the living again. Do not be so deceived.” At that, a ripple coursed through the predominantly Hindu section.

  Adam held nothing back. He struck out at every government, religion, or ideology that condoned violence, ignorance, or intolerance. He swept aside the illogical like fine talc and replaced it with new visions.

  Ignoring any reaction from his audience, he finished with, “And then, my brothers and sisters, imagine dying. It isn’t so hard or frightening. We are made of the great energy after all, composed of it. We don’t disappear at death or get wrapped into a fatherly embrace on a couch of puffy clouds, nor do we get to frolic with a bevy of shapely virgins. False pictures from old books, and they are wrong. Death, if we may employ the metaphor, is a melting of salt crystals into the ocean. That is death, energy into energy, light into light. The brilliance of a billion suns growing a fraction brighter, neither terrifying, nor permanent, only a transformation of energy, the greatest, purest compassion there is. Universal bliss.” Adam’s arms stretched out to the crowd in a parental embrace. “Absolute compassion, my friends, pure science, and common sense—very simple.” His arms dropped slowly to his sides. There was no folding of hands, no wave of good-bye, merely a folding of his canvass chair and it was done.

  For the first time since I had been attending his lectures—admittedly only three--there was an ovation. Perhaps two hundred of the Benarsis in attendance began clapping while vendors and entertainers circulated quickly to ply their merchandise. The disgruntled drifted away in small groups. Others turned to glare at the speaker and his followers.

  For some time, I couldn't say how long, I stood in the shade of the palm as if in a dream. It felt like a time when I was very young and my parents had set me on a blanket in a park above the ocean. I drowsed to the sound of the waves, at peace. There were no bruises in my world, no bandaged knees, only goodness. It had been a long time since I had felt that. Satnam’s words echoed back. “In my opinion, my boy, this is not merely a preventative or a temporary stay of the symptoms. It is a cure.” A cure. Good deeds would be done, and I had a part to offer. I looked up to see Uliana Hadersen recently of Tönder, Denmark smiling at me.

  Adam, appearing almost child-like, ascended the steps above me. As he moved away he whispered, “Enjoy it, Bhim, all of it, but do not tarry. You are an impetus.” Puzzled by this odd statement, I wondered how much he knew. And how? Damn!

  Uli’s voice sparkled behind me, “Svester, the best guide in Varanasi is taking us to our new home today.” I felt her arm slip inside mine, her hand wrapping warmly about the base of my thumb. I turned from Adam’s retreating back to the blueness of her eyes. “He tells me it even has a real view of the river und a kitch
en with an oven.”

  I believe she was already moved in.

  Jitka’s granite voice restated her sentiments of the day before. “It could be a schwein pond und it would be better than where we are, Uli. Gott, my back feels like twisted bread.”

  At that moment I felt dreadfully shy. It was the doubt that always follows a first date. I hoped the feeling at the end of our evening together was genuine. It had been true, hadn’t it?

  Uli, squeezing my thumb, whispered in my ear, “It was the most beautiful date I’ve ever been on. Ever. When can we go again?” I wondered if she heard my sigh of relief.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. “Choose the time and I will make a new tour.”

  Jitka seemed to be gradually accepting the notion that I wasn’t preparing to kidnap her sister and sell her into slavery. I guess she'd also found the stir-fry at Johnny Chang’s to her liking, so I could be trusted, to guide her to good food sources at any rate.

  The crowd was thinning, drifting away to other distractions. Men and women in semi-clothed wetness returned to the river’s edge. The water had changed, and not just in my imagination. A dusky, yellowish-gray stained the surface. The effluence from the gullies had washed into the rainwater, cleansing the lanes, but staining the current with additional filth. Suddenly, I wanted to move south, away from the shala.

  “Are either of you hungry?” I asked optimistically.

  Jitka grinned and nudged me with an elbow. “I could eat one of those damned cows standing up there. You know a place with bratwurst und spatzel?”

  “Might be hard to find in this section of town . . . but I do know an Afghani cafe with kabobs and pilaf that might measure up. We can get lunch and then I’ll show you the flat and introduce you to the landlord. If it looks right we can move your belongings this afternoon.”

  Then I became nervous that I was directing too much.

  Uli, who still hadn’t released my arm, smiled slyly and said, “Lead on Macduff.” And into the slickened gullies I did.

  Lunch was a success all around. Jitka, I soon discovered, became a tamer and rather humorous beast when fed sumptuous quantities of lamb accompanied by nan, currants, and pilaf. We sat cross-legged on a dais layered with plush carpets as a studious-looking Afghan brought us appetizers and milkshakes. The air was heavy with drafts of water pipe tobacco, baked bread, and Hindustani music.

  As the cucumber and yogurt soup arrived, the conversation turned to Adam’s extraordinary speech.

  “Ist klar, what he says,” Jitka rumbled through lumps of nan. “Science will pull us out of the mess humans have brought the world to. Bestimmt!” Three crumbs shot capriciously towards my tea cup.

  Perhaps I was less hopeful of science being a panacea, but added that I thought the world in general could use a dash more common sense.

  It was Uli who delicately reminded us, “It must be all three. It is as he said, none more, none less than the others. A way of love, science, and good judgment.” I felt her toes edge against the side of my foot and a current of electricity shivered up my leg. “It is strange, but I believe I could remember every word he said. It stays here,” she tapped her temple. “like it is printed.” I knew what she meant. The words returned easily.

  We ended our meal with pistachio dessert and more dialogue. Harmony and good deeds were pleasant thoughts. Jitka kept us amused with jokes about projects involving stinky methane and soybean diesel. It was clear she had a solid foundation in physics and chemistry. “You know,” she rumbled, “He knows his quantum physics, this Adam. He understands string theory, und that is saying something. You know, the little spaghetti pieces?”

  I nodded distractedly. Since his discourse, a nagging uneasiness had begun hopping gnome-like in the back of my mind. I’d observed the mood of some in the crowd—the negative and sour. People don’t embrace change so easily, especially when it involves faith, and especially in a city like Varanasi.

  The bill arrived on a small silver tray surrounded by cardamom seeds, the local after dinner mint. I wanted to treat, but was firmly outvoted. They would pay. After all, I was the guide and apartment finder. As they buckled their sandals and I laced my worn tennies, I voiced my apprehension. “You know, sometimes in a city like this, with all its old traditions, new ideas aren’t accepted so easily. I hope Adam is . . . careful how he . . . expresses himself.”

  Uli glanced up and said, “It proves again how dangerous it is to be good.” I must have looked puzzled trying to remember where I'd heard the quote before. “George Bernard Shaw when he was told that Mahatma Gandhi had been assassinated,” she said.

  Thirty-Nine

  The tip of Sutrdharak’s knife nicked a miniature hole in the large map in front of him. Five lines converged at the tiny perforation he had made, but the lines didn’t captivate his interest, only the place where they joined.

  He frowned at his indiscretion. The chart was still essential in the planning and couldn’t be reduced to ash quite yet, and now there was a tiny clue for anyone who cared to study it. The chart was topographical and highly detailed. Sutradharak calculated the curved lines around the nick again, and since the map was already marred, took a blue pen and drew a series of small lines on either side. Next to those, he penciled numbers. Satisfied with his calculations, he allowed himself a rare smile. Location, undoubtedly the most essential factor to the success of battle. He touched the lines with a finger. Sufficient height and depth, and at the correct time of year. It will suit our purposes well.

  The team he had assembled wasn’t large, and that pleased him. Four to place the detonators and run the ire, a fifth as a communications specialist. There was also a back-up driver if the situation became necessary. Each of them were highly trained, held valid documents of residency, and were totally disassociated. There were no connections, physically, financially, or otherwise to himself or the employers.

  The cell phones, RDX, wire, and blasting caps had been sealed inside cloth bound copies of the Islamic Hadith. They, in turn, had been posted to a non-existent madrasa religious school in Delhi. The address was real, the school was not. The PuppetMaster delighted in the irony—instruments of death inside holy books, and any interception would only add further confusion for the intelligence agencies and media.

  He folded the map into a tight square, sealed it in plastic, and pushed it into the recess near the high-speed cable behind the baseboard.

  Now only a few details remained—the most critical being correctly positioning himself for the detonation. He realized this was his one act of vanity, and admitted that it came from two things, pleasure and ego. But unless the explosions were simultaneous, like the temple and rail station in Varanasi, he always bore the responsibility of pressing the buttons. Watching the fireworks display, and the instantaneous or lingering death, was his reward.

  Just as he was closing the laptop, a window popped onto the screen announcing a new message. That’s odd, he thought.

  He opened the message and read it with a combination of mild irritation and tingling excitement. His employers desired a small change in plans. Their schedule had changed, which meant his would change. They needed an additional event, something small, but enough to attract attention.

  Sutradharak transmitted an assenting response and spun the ring on his smallest finger. This would require swift planning and implementation. That was not always sensible; he liked thorough, meticulous preparations with sufficient time. Rushing led to mistakes.

  Pondering this change of schedule, he donned his hat and jerkin and once more transformed into a purveyor of goat products.

  Forty

  “Bhim, It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  It wasn’t really perfect, but it was pretty hard not to like it; the flat was airy-fresh with a good view of the river. When the haze lifted you could see the palace on the far bank. There were two small bedrooms with single beds of reasonable firmness, a fan, kitchenette, and water that flowed with a semblance of
clarity. When I led them to the rooftop with the water tank and an even better view, they were ready to move in.

  Trying to polish my champion image, I added, “With some scrubbing and bit of fixing up we can make it work. I’ve got tools for the leaky faucet and oil for the doors and windows, and I’m pretty sure Lalji has hidden a couple of old paintbrushes somewhere.”

  As Uli began arranging scarves around window frames and lit sticks of incense, all culled from her magical handbag, I went below to speak to the landlord.

  I wanted a local’s rate and was prepared to squabble for it, but he agreed to my price quickly when it was discovered I was one of his brother’s most loyal customers. He also knew Sahr and Devi, neither of which surprised me.

  When I returned, Uli offered Jitka a proposal, “Bhim and I will fetch our bags und you can do a bit of cleaning. Ist good ya, Jitka?”

  Jitka stopped bouncing on the mattress long enough to say, “Ya, ya, ya! Go, und fetch them and I will have our meitshaus shining like spiegals when you return.”

  Against an oddly gnawing apprehension, I let Uli to lead us back to the hotel by way of the river. She wanted to go along the water, she said, and return to the flat by taxi. Surya was stowed safely under the steps at the flat, but an inexplicable unease still nibbled at me. At first I thought it was the nervousness of being alone again with Uliana, but I knew that wasn’t it. She made it all so easy.