Five miles down the road we break down. The electrics are gone. Two hours later we’re still stuck there with the breakdown people phoning us every fifteen minutes telling us they can’t find 114
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us. There are one or two obvious things I know you can check for, and Muscat and Gamay have the same level of automotive knowledge as me. We stand there staring at the engine, because that’s what you do with an engine or piece of equipment that’s not working and you don’t know how to repair. You stare at it manfully as if you are pondering all sorts of solutions, whereas in reality you’re waiting for the breakdown people. It’s a bitchslap for our masculinity, and we do our best to pretend that it isn’t.
Far off in the distance I glimpse a bus. I just have the opportunity to see Cosmo being carried off towards Miami. It’s a bad moment. If I had anything to go back to, I’d give it up and go back.
It’s another two hours before we’re recovered. I suffer a powerful temptation to shoot the breakdown people, but I realize that, gratifying though it would be, and invaluable as it might be as feedback on the quality of their service, it won’t help my deification. Unidirectional, baby.
By the time I get back home it’s very late and I’m surprised to see one of the builders, the carpenter, sitting watching television with a half-naked cutie, drinking what again bears a strong resemblance to Sixto’s beer. The carpenter is angry at my entrance and, maintaining that he had forgotten a tool, leaves with the confused cutie. There are still two or three empty rooms in Sixto’s place and the carpenter must have been doing the “come back to my palatial pad” routine. I find it outrageous that someone not even living in the house is pretending to be the owner. Leave that to me.
G
I contemplate miracles. Walking on water I dismiss as too tricky, and also a bit redundant. Great effect, but what good does it 115
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do anyone? Sighting the blind, raising the dead: those are the miracles that get you noticed, those are the services that the public wants.
I go down to have a holy breakfast. In the kitchen, Gulin is wobbling on a chair struggling to change a strip light. I step in because it seems courteous and because, with fifteen years in the lighting business, this is one thing I can handle.
As it turns out, I can’t sort out the fitting which makes me glad I didn’t mention that I had fifteen years in the lighting business.
Over tea, Gulin and I trade biographies (I sold electrical goods). She is Turkish, a former primary school teacher who decided one day ten years ago to fly into LA, with no work permit, no job, no contacts, no friends, three hundred dollars and maybe that many words of English. Anyone who knows LA, I think, will stand and salute. She has numerous anecdotes about the rich and famous whose children she looked after, and who were naturally, very unpleasant to work for. Then she got married, to a Turk.
“We went to Las Vegas for our honeymoon. The honeymoon was a good idea, the marriage wasn’t.”
Her husband is a security guard. There are lots of stories about security guards, none of them good.
“Are you divorced?”
“I can’t divorce.” She explains she had to disappear without warning and leave LA, because otherwise her husband would kill her. Some women telling you this would be unconvincing but a young lady who soldiers into LA on her own isn’t one prone to panic or exaggeration.
“He’s an unhappy man. He wouldn’t accept me leaving.” I understand.
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He’s me. I can see it. You go to America, work your balls off, eat macaroni cheese and tinned spinach for years, and instead of making it like your fellow villagers who went to America, your cousin Mehmet, for example, you are in a dead-end job earning just enough for burgers, a movie at the weekend and a trip back home every two years should you care to admit to not having made it. The only plus is your wife, whom you can’t stand any more, but who is still your wife. When you realize that this life is over, that you haven’t been nominated for anything worthwhile, there are three standard responses: you give up and erase yourself in television or booze, have a mad roll of the dice like me, or choose to make someone pay.
Not for the first time, I recognize that women are tougher.
If their worldly progress doesn’t progress the way they like, women can handle it. Men, in general, can’t. Gulin’s solution, pure disappearance, is the only practical one. Going to the police? Has he threatened you? No. Has he beaten you? No.
Has he ever assaulted anyone? No. Why do you say he’ll kill you? Because I know him. The notepads would come out only once her brains were on the wall.
Gulin’s a very sturdy woman, so sturdily built that I can’t help speculating that you could slap away with her, hard, doggy-style, and not end up fifteen yards from your starting point.
But I consider this academically, theoretically, because this holy stuff truly grows on you. I’m getting quite above earthly matters and penile servitude.
Of course, this abstinence is abetted by age. When you’re eighteen and male, all you want to do is eat fried chicken and copulate until you pass out, but now I can take it or leave it, which is ironic because the whole point of my scheme is to have bountiful supplies of pleasure and to trinket up.
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G
Finally, I hear from the Hierophant.
“You have a servant heart,” he tells me, as I assure him his parishioners are all in good order. He’s calling from Cleveland and tells me that he won’t be back for some time yet. His mother is still very ill. He sounds tired and mentions that the Evangelists have been singing his praises.
“They’ve got the sixty-seventh most happening church here.
I always wanted to get on that list. Ah well, the Lord should be enough. It does no good to dwell on those most happening churches run by fornicators and coke fiends. The Lord should be enough for you and me, Tyndale. And you’ve proved to be a slowie rather than a showie.”
“Is that good?”
“I’ve had showies before. They come along, talk big and then vanish without doing what they promised. Or I’ve had to boot them out. You’re a tortoise slowie, reliable and you finish what you start.”
I’m rather moved by his faith. Slowie isn’t the praise I would have chosen for myself, but praise always gets through.
“We need to be doing more for the unchurched,” the Hierophant muses. “Perhaps we should start a young Christian organization. That’d be a good way to get onto that most-happening church list. To move forward.”
We? What he means is I can go out and bust a gut keeping kids away from all the things they’re most interested in.
“That’s a good idea, Gene. I was just saying to myself the other day that would be a good way forward.”
“That’s it, Tyndale, we’ve got to keep moving forward. Watch out for those giant midgets.”
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Why does everyone think going forward is such a great idea?
What if there’s a hundred-foot drop onto pointy rocks ahead of you? What if there’s a very comfortable bed behind you?
And what’s the deal with the most happening church? Why not just say your church is happening? Surely if you’re dealing with the churched, your word is good enough. Or if verification is obligatory, scare the congregation away for a few weeks, so it can rocket from four to forty-four. A thousand per cent increase.
Beat that growth, growers of congregations.
Will the Hierophant ever return? Or will the Evangelists sign him up? He’s a battler, but there comes that day when you get tired. It happens to athletes. One minute, they’re world champions, the next they won’t stir from bed. It’s the same for preachers.
The Hierophant’s sixty-six and, having been at the wheel in his absence, I can confirm his church is going nowhere. If the Evangelists in Ohio offer him a cushy post as drill sergeant, why not t
ake it? It would suit me.
I ponder my failure back home, and how bizarre it is to be here, still penniless, but in the religion business. In the sunshine.
Why couldn’t I make it back home? You’ll say to me, Tyndale, my old china, why didn’t you do something about being stuck in a dreary job? What did you do about it? And I’ll say to you, I did do something. I did something a lot. I applied for all sorts of posts. I studied Arabic for three months in case I got a job in Dubai. I studied Czech for three months in case I got the job in the new office in Prague. I joined the right golf club, and bloody expensive it was. That’s what makes it so annoying. I could have done nothing, saved the fees, and still had the failure.
The Reinholds arrive to congratulate me on Cosmo’s depar-ture. “How did you do it?” they ask. I modestly shrug my 119
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shoulders. They’ve brought some flowers for the church, big, bright and expensive. I wish they’d brought some of the folding stuff instead. I need some new, more Miamian threads. But I’m pleased that I’ve done something good, however small.
When I get back to Sixto’s, a worried Gulin is patrolling outside.
Her cat, Orinoco, is nowhere to be found. Did a runner when the builders were changing a window. I’ve always disliked cats, but Orinoco is so well behaved and good-natured that I’ve been stroking him when no one is looking. Orinoco knows something.
There’s wisdom trapped inside that cat.
Despite not being a cat owner and having decades of cat contempt to my credit, I authoritatively assure Gulin there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t know why we all have this urge to talk confidently about subjects we have no knowledge of.
Gamay calls up on behalf of the DJs.
“Tyndale, listen man, I’m in the middle of sorting out my schedule. Should I leave a day aside for any joining ceremony?”
“You don’t listen, do you?”
“No, all I’m saying is, compañero, I wouldn’t want to make your life awkward by you arranging something and then me having arranged something.”
“Don’t phone me.”
“Okay. I get it. I get it. Totalism. But before I go, I only wanted to say if it’s an issue of space, like… there’s only room for one person… but not enough room for two, you know, that’s a problem that isn’t a problem. Muscat’s awful careless when he cleans his gun.”
“I’m going to hang up now. I’m telling you this so you understand when you don’t hear me any more that it’s not a technical glitch, it’s me hanging up on you.”
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He and Muscat are expecting a reward for having done something right? What do they expect? A badge? A uniform? A Multinational Crime for Beginners manual? I don’t know what to do with the DJs. Momentarily they became a good solution for getting rid of Cosmo; only now does it occur to me that they may develop into a bigger problem than Cosmo. People, I’ve noticed, can get really angry when they feel they’ve been cheated, particularly when they actually have. Should Gamay and Muscat discover I’m just a chancer from another continent, the ugliness would flow freely.
Muscat phones up.
“Tyndale, this is Muscat. You know Gamay and I, we did that work for you?”
As if I would forget ordering a kidnapping. It’s touching he views me so satanically.
“I just wanted to say we appreciate being given the chance.
Thank you for thinking of us and you know, if you need anyone, you know, terrorized with some serious terror, bear us… I mean bear me in mind. I know we never discussed money, but I’m able to start real basic—”
I tell Muscat that he will have to wait. “It’s easy to do something. Doing nothing’s harder. You may not hear from me for six months. If you can’t wait, if you can’t take the discipline, you’re out.” Perhaps they’ll get impatient or get arrested.
G
One of the few boons of having a job is that it gets you out of bed. If you have no obligation to get out of bed, it can sometimes be very hard to persuade yourself to rise. Most mornings I lie 121
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in bed praying as hard as I can, despite not believing in God.
Praying that everyone will be happy.
I would like everyone to be happy, apart from a few mass murderers, my former employers, bankers. I’d really like everyone to be happy. Why can’t happiness be granted to everyone or at least most of us? Why does everything have to be so hard? All the elements are there for a reasonable life. It’s like loneliness.
It’s ridiculous that it exists, because however deformed or weird you are, there’s someone out there like you; or, if you prefer, there’s someone out there not like you.
I pray hard, because there’s nothing else to do, but eventually I need a cup of tea. Downstairs Gulin is now despondent about Orinoco: “Four days he’s been missing.” Naturally, I assume that Orinoco has expired according to cat protocol: wheeled to death or eaten by some strange immigrant group. Gulin is touring the neighbourhood putting up posters and asking after Orinoco, to no avail.
“Whadya gonna do?” she sighs. She is so miserable and, precisely because she fights to hide it and doesn’t ask for help, I volunteer to join in the hunt. I am provided with a snap of Orinoco and guided to some blocks north of Sixto’s where she hasn’t yet canvassed. As I start my investigation, I realize that my wandering around asking about a cat might look a little suspect.
The area I’m patrolling is markedly downmarket to Sixto’s.
It’s not an area that would be the first choice for burglars or home-invaders, but I wonder if any of the residents would find my quest plausible. Having a dark thought was a mistake. It’s curious that optimistic thoughts such as “I will win the lottery”,
“that promotion’s mine”, “I must find that antique armoire perfect for the corner”, rarely bear fruit, but thoughts like “I’m going to get done” do.
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A stubby man is watering a lawn. I explain my mission and get looks of puzzlement. The Waterer doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak enough Spanish yet to spanglish a bridge. I show him the picture of Orinoco and, instead of shaking his head, he beckons me to follow him.
We walk round the back of the house, which is heavily vegetated, down a narrow path towards a shack. I’m now out of sight of the road, out of sight full stop. I’m uneasy about this, but I’ve asked about the cat, so it would be unreasonable to back out now.
I follow the Waterer into the shack. In a cardboard box are five ginger kittens. He picks up two of them and offers them to me in an all-yours gesture. The last thing I want are two kittens.
I smile, shake my head and utter the word “no”.
“No” is such a cosmopolitan word, at home up in Anchorage, or down in Cape Horn. A word understood by billions of earthlings. Understanding isn’t always such a good thing. I add
“thanks” to the “no”, but the “no” has done its work.
The Waterer is angry. So angry he must have been steaming about something before I inquisitioned onto the scene. He shouts. Then he has another round of shouting that makes the previous shouting tame. I can’t imagine he’d have been more furious or hate-contorted if I’d murdered his family. I am already backing off, smiling hard, when he produces a gun, grabs my hair and pushes the gun into my ear so forcefully it would have been painful if I hadn’t been numbed by terror.
There are a number of questions here. Why is he so angry?
Does he feel I have insulted his kittens and thus, by extension, him? That I have rummaged deep in my throat and spat the results on his generosity? Why exactly does he keep a gun in a shackful of kittens? Is he simply a far-sighted man who has 123
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firearms secreted all around his property in convenient, easy-to-grab locations?
I have never been so scared. I know I’m going to die and I shit myself, although I’m so busy with the
terror I don’t mind.
The Waterer shouts for a long time, but eventually I figure out that the only reason he doesn’t shoot me is not any regard for life or fear of any penalty, but because if he shoots me he’ll have to spend time digging a hole or dragging me out to the Everglades. I can’t say I knew him well, but I knew that’s what he was thinking.
The walk home is unpleasant.
G
“What happened to you?” Gulin comments on my mashed ear the next day. I say nothing about my misadventure because I’m so shaken I don’t want to relive it. I doubt if I’ll live long enough to find it funny.
Sixto is quietly addressing the builders, “All I want are windows that look the same as the others. They don’t have to be atomically similar, but let’s say an averagely observant person couldn’t tell they’re different from twenty feet away.” It’s impossible to say whether his appeal is having any effect.
In addition to my sore ear, my underwear is moist because our tumble dryer has broken down. I am developing a new theory that no one enjoys life, that enjoyment is a unicorn, when Gamay and Muscat phone to provide me with more evidence.
“I said you’d have to wait.’
“Tyndale, this isn’t business. This is not, not business. We want a drink, socio. A cafecito or something.”
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A career in lying clearly isn’t lying in wait for Gamay. I’d anticipated they’d be off my back for at least a few weeks.
Perhaps I should do something decisive to get rid of the DJs and not just trust they will wither away.
I agree to meet Gamay and Muscat at a fancy hot-dog diner of their choice, Dogma .
“Now for the dryer,” announces Sixto seizing the phone.
Making my coffee I hear a series of exclamations from Sixto: how much, when, sorry, how much. I feel for Sixto. I don’t know how people our age or younger are running countries.
Like Sixto, running a household is beyond me.
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