Turtle 9: Yeah, this is amazing. Who would have thought?
Turtle 8: But we had it yesterday as well. And the day before.
Turtle 9: I know. Who would have thought?
Have you ever wondered about the giant who brings in the food? You know Big Man in Shiny Suit (Leonardo wears his pilot uniform on the terrace most of the time).
Don’t spell out his name. That’s a sin. You can say BMISS.
Why can’t I use his name, if that is his name?
Don’t ask me. Turtle 5 told me.
I had asked Turtle 4 last night; she didn’t say anything about not spelling his name. She says he is not a name, he is a concept: he is the universe looking after us.
Wait a minute . . . you were with Turtle 4 last night?
Yes. Why?
You’re not ready for her. She’s a fast one. You’re a twat. Has anyone told you that?
I thought I was a turtle.
And don’t use that word. We call ourselves Made In His Image. Say MIHI when you talk about yourself.
Whose image?
The food source, our sustainer, our creator. BMISS.
We’re made in his image? What does that mean? He doesn’t look anything like us.
Have you ever seen his face?
No, it’s too high up.
So? He made us. And of course, because we are perfect and at the centre of the universe, he made us as perfect as he possibly could.
We’re at the centre of the universe?
You’re just too stupid to understand the world. You need to sit down with Turtle 3 for a good long while and figure things out.
How does Turtle 3 know everything?
He was here from the beginning. And he can understand BMISS.
But he’s just a turtle.
No. He’s a MIHI.
How could he possibly understand BMISS?
Don’t ever, ever ask him that; he heard the original Words.
What Words?
Stop bugging me. Let’s go look for some worms.
(While they’re waddling away to the left corner of the terrace) What does Turtle 3 have to say?
He thinks there’s only one giant who matters. BMISS.
But Turtle 2 said there are many giants. I’ve seen them.
Okay. Let me get this clear: Turtle 3 says there’s just one who matters, after all only BMISS feeds us. Turtle 2 says they all play a part. I don’t know. But I believe Turtle 3.
Okay. Is that a worm?
No, that’s a piece of rope. Don’t eat that, otherwise you won’t be able to shit for days.
All right. You’re fucking smart.
I know.
I want to believe in BMISS. How do I do that?
Just pray and the answers will come.
Pray to whom?
To BMISS, of course.
Of course. They don’t call you genius for nothing.
Maybe God looked like Leonardo? My phone rang: the comforting sound of someone remembering me. I hoped madly it was Chiara. She was giving me the cold shoulder again. More like freezing-zero-Kelvin shoulder. After our drinks and a great evening (her words, not mine), she disappeared again. Maybe she had crawled back into the giant vulva above her head.
There was no number.
Hello?
Krantik, it’s me, Vineet. That was Pooja’s brother. Star debater, president of the students’ union in his college days.
Hi, Vineet. Thank god you called. How are you? How is she doing?
We trusted you, Krantik. We trusted you.
I know. I’m sorry.
You know we could have got anyone. There were offers from New York, London, investment bankers, McKinsey. And we chose you.
Yes. Yes, I know. Thank you.
And this is how you repay us?
No, you don’t understand. I had nothing to do with it.
You were with her. In Amsterdam. Is that how you behave with your fiancée? We’re a good family, I don’t need to tell you that.
We didn’t do anything. I mean . . . we just wanted to meet. I thought she would tell you about our meeting. I didn’t do anything.
My dad can’t even go back to his constituency. Yes, Pooja’s dad was a member of parliament. Which is a huge deal. And yes, she could have married anyone. But my mom pursued her like she haggles for fish. Don’t blame my mom, I don’t. She thought, with my father dead and all, it would be good to marry into an influential family. God bless her soul. Like I said, around her, I’m like the Dalai Lama. In fact, I’m like the Dalai Lama on weed.
And our mother, Vineet continued, she’s getting her palpitations again.
I’m so sorry. I hope she’s okay. Where’s Pooja? I lit a cigarette. On the road, the homeless man from our neighborhood peered into car windows hopefully. He had a beard like the ZZ Tops. And a giant hat, like Slash when he was riding his guitar in that deserted churchyard.
We’ve sent Pooja to our guru’s retreat for some time out.
Great, I thought, first she tries to kill herself. And now she’s being molested by some god-man. ZZ stretched his arm toward me. I nodded him off. He showed me the finger. So I slipped him a coin; I respond promptly to insult. Then he laughed, in a brotherly way. I walked away quicker.
You need to tell us, Krantik, what happened?
I’ve told you everything. We were talking, I had gone in to pay the bill . . .
Did you stay in the same room?
It’s not like that. We had separate beds.
Guru-ji says if she has to recover, first she has to admit her sins. But she’s not saying anything. There are dark planets on her path now. Maybe even your planets interfering with her life.
But you saw my horoscope! My Saturn phase is over.
We trusted your mother. But look at you.
Vineet, I’m sorry. I didn’t do anything.
Why did you choose Amsterdam?
I didn’t; she said she always wanted to go there.
But her flight was bought with your credit card, wasn’t it?
That was a gift. I mean, you want me to look after her.
Did you do any drugs?
Vineet, I’m a manager. You know me: would an IIT graduate do something like that?
Don’t give me that IIT bullshit. I can employ twenty IIT grads in my firm. Did you buy any drugs?
I don’t even smoke. I just wanted to make her happy. That’s all.
Krantik, you’re a good kid. I know you. I can read people when I meet them. And you have a good heart. But you need to take responsibility now. Intention is not everything. Action is what matters. Do you understand?
Yes. Action is what matters.
We’ll work with her. We’ll make this work. I’m her brother, I’m always there for her. And you too. We’re all in this together.
Of course. Of course.
I’ll keep you posted. Guru-ji said it would take another six months. But when she’s better, we’ll go ahead with the wedding functions. Of course, when you’re free. I’ll let you know the date well in advance so you can plan your leave.
Okay. I had reached the bar. There were glowing lights, all melting into each other.
You understand what I’m saying?
Yes, I do. I fumbled for my cigarettes, pulled another one out.
You have a bright future, Vineet said. But if you fuck with us, he growled. Listen. If you fuck with us.
I tried to put the cigarette back. I missed.
Then you’re fucking with the wrong family. We don’t just take intentions. We take action.
Vineet . . .
You’re like my brother. You know that? You’re like my little brother.
Yes, I know.
Good night. You be good. Take care of yourself.
I will. Thank you, thank you.
The thing is MPs have shitloads of money. That’s what my mom figured too, Mother Teresa that she is. (And no, I’m not talking about her all the time because of some Oedipal complex. I’m talking about her be
cause she got me in this bloody mess.) And people with money, like Vineet’s dad, can buy things. Like villas and spa packages and organic broccoli. A lot of money can buy crazy stuff: like goons with massive muscles and little patience. Or guns for hire. Surplus capital from Wall Street and from Indian MPs could also possibly end malnutrition and poverty. But I don’t think Vineet would consider that a sensible use of his dad’s resources. His game is more like guns for hire. Or renting daily brutalization in a prison for the target of his wrath (falsely accused and imprisoned of course, through a judicious use of said mammoth resources). Or targeting my mother. No, they couldn’t. This was really taking my trip.
I tried Chiara’s number again. This time she disconnected after two rings. Usually she just lets it ring. At least she’s taking some action. Matters more than intention.
Ciao. Are you coming in or not? It was Federico. He grabbed me and did the man-cheek-kiss thing. One-two and now we’re friends. I could still feel my aching jaw, little chips had broken out of a tooth. But I hated going to the dentist. And the tooth itself seemed okay now. Damaged, but hanging on. Like all of us.
Fede was sitting with an older woman. She was wearing something expensive: the kind of stuff where you don’t need to show the brand. I was feeling sick, but now I had to stay.
That’s Laura.
Ciao, I am Krantik. Federico’s friend.
I know. He told me. She had pearls and a smile that gave nothing away.
What do you do?
Results-based management. Measuring the performance of different wings of our company . . .
I know what results-based management means. I run my own logistics company. My husband owns it, but I run it. Like most other things in his life. Except his cheap whores.
Hey, but I’m not a cheap whore. Or am I? Fede asked.
You’re an indulgence, Fede, she said. You remind me of Haight-Ashbury.
You were in California in the sixties? I asked.
Do I look that old to you?
No, I meant maybe as a kid.
And Fede, you’re not my pimp. You don’t have to bring other exotic creatures to my table. He’s not even that good-looking.
Hey, I’m not here for . . . what the . . . Fede was laughing, a low gurgle, I don’t know if he was actually laughing or he thought it would sound good. A low gurgle, like a bong in motion.
I need to go.
Stay. Fede held my arm. I love you man, don’t leave me with her. She may become my wife.
My life was filling up with crazy old men. And a girl I couldn’t understand. It was like being in a Woody Allen movie.
He told me you didn’t jump, Laura said.
What?
When he did his suicide run, you didn’t jump from the car.
It was moving fast.
I would have slowed down. You didn’t even freak out, Fede said. Pooja was at her guru’s place: maybe they were doing laughter therapy. Or Vipassana meditation. Maybe she was levitating right now. And Chiara was probably at home, laughing at my missed calls, sprawled below a giant medieval vagina while her own was being plumbed.
I should be going, I have to finish some work. And I only came because Fede asked.
Listen, Kantip, Laura said.
Krantik, I said, there’s an R and another K at the end.
Kran-tik. I’m sorry, I’m twenty years older than you. I’m sorry. Don’t you Indians respect your elders?
Where did you hear that?
What?
About us Indians?
When I was in Goa.
I never heard that in Goa.
But you know football, right?
Yes, I do.
So who do you think’s going to win?
If I cared enough, I would invest some thought into that question.
We always bet on Roma, Laura said.
What do you bet?
Stupid stuff. Like my marriage.
I have five euros.
If that’s all you have that counts, you can put it in.
Do you guys know the players and their form well enough to bet?
Does it matter?
I thought it would. I mean to enjoy the game.
Enjoy the game, said Fede. What? Are you a Coke com- mercial now?
No, I was a status update, a photo waiting to be done up. I was a story attached to an ass full of haemorrhoids. The bar was filling up. Beers being lifted to waiting lips, glasses filled with rotting grapes, smoke clouding into lungs on the benches outside and spiraling out into a slowly wasting world. There’s an ozone hole bigger than our dreams and it’s letting the sun in. But Al Gore has a Nobel now. A Bangladeshi immigrant is doing a mime show outside the door. He taps on a bald head here, pinches a moustache there. People laugh, some dig into their pockets for the right kind of change.
What happened there? I asked.
Roma just won a corner.
And that’s good, right? You are betting on them.
That’s great. It’s the best thing that could happen.
What do you mean you’re betting your marriage?
If Roma wins, then I’m filing for divorce.
No one knows the exact physics of football. Sometimes the ball swings because of the humidity in the air, sometimes the bounce is uneven if the football pitch is too dry, or changes direction if the grass on the pitch is too moist. Unless you’re a twenty-foot computer processor from the 1970s, you can never know for sure where the ball will be. Or where your feet should be when you meet the ball in midair, midpitch. When you score a goal, you never know why it happened.
And if Roma loses?
If Roma loses, I do nothing. You can only bet on one result.
What about you? I asked Fede.
If Roma wins, then I’ll sell my taxi.
And do what?
And mooch off Laura’s alimony.
Who taught you this betting game?
Batukhan.
Who’s Batukhan?
He taught us to watch football, said Laura.
Or to play our lives with football.
Do you want another beer?
I didn’t know what I was doing there. Like a turtle on a terrace. But Turtle 8 often doesn’t know why he does stuff. When everyone finishes his or her rotten-tomato supper, Turtle 8 has to walk to the eastern end of the terrace with Turtle 9, check the scene, and report back.
Turtle 8 to Turtle 9: Why’re we doing this again?
To check on what’s happening.
But nothing ever happens.
This is your job. So you better do it well.
What’s a job?
It’s what we have to do. If we do it well, everything will be okay.
Fine. (He continues walking, though his shell feels really heavy right now.) What will be okay?
You know, BMISS will look after us. Our unions will go well.
What’s my union?
You and Turtle 4.
Oh, yes. That’s important.
You guys are nice together. Why did you choose her?
I don’t know. But this one time, a great leaf of lettuce was floating on her back. I could already smell the fungus. So I climbed on top of her.
Oh, my BMISS. That’s so romantic. Okay, stop now. I’m getting teary-eyed, we need to pay attention.
And what if I want to go to the other end of the terrace.
You can’t.
Why not?
That is the Corner of Chaos. Down that path lies the End of the MIHI World.
Okay. Then I guess I won’t.
Hey, what’s that? Hold back; it could be an intruder.
I think that’s the same piece of rope.
You’re getting smarter every day. I’m so proud of you, man.
Could this end in a draw? Laura asked. I had a new beer.
Yes. But not in this tournament, Fede said. They’ll have a sudden death if the teams end up even.
Good. Just wanted to make sure. One can never be too prepared.
That’s true. That’s always true.
The stadium erupted. Roma scored. It was Fiorenzi. A bicycle kick, with the goal behind him, his body three feet above the ground and his feet above him. He was like a sculpture made of air.
VAN DAMME
I was on the metro on my way to the office. Again. Pressed against a nun, breathing down on her Christian-hijab head. She looked up, her eyes burning with piety, so much of it that her eyebrows had disappeared. No, that was only because she was Filipino. (What? Is that racist? No, it’s not. There’s nothing great about having well-toned eyebrows. Ask the Indian or Arab men who always have bushy eyebrows.)
Scendi? Are you getting off? she asked me. She’s probably named after a saint. As a kid, she’d watch her father go out to sea, wait till he came back with lobsters, pincers tied but stupid eyes always open. You made it back? Yes, Saint Michael was kind. Who’s Saint Michael? Protector of the seas. Then why doesn’t he give you more fish? Because there’s only one man who could multiply fish. Who’s that: Felix who works at the factory? No, Jesus Christ. She didn’t get it, so she went to pick up shells and kill those worms that burrow into the sand with Pedro, who told her he had a worm in his pants as well. And now when she remembers that morning, she crosses herself and does the Hail Mary twenty times.
No, I said. I stepped aside, while she got off.
There were also a couple of Bangladeshi immigrants in the cabin. Okay, I lied earlier. I’ve spoken to them a few times. Tough life they have here: eat potato and rice every day (send every penny they can save back home to parents with backaches and crutches, or to the Mafia immigrant smuggler who got them to Europe—he’ll kill their mom and dad and even their pet dog if he doesn’t get his payments on time). The Bangladeshis who sell umbrellas on the streets of Rome wait for the first sign of rain to race out into the streets. Living fifteen to a room, so if anyone needs to fuck, they have to take the girl into the bathroom. It’s true, these things happen. The guys in the metro looked tired. They were probably up all night working. Or in the loo.
Some people got off at Piramide, but we were still packed with all our faces inches apart. The mornings are okay. You can smell cologne. The evening rides are pickled in sweat and semi-wiped asses. But sometimes in the evenings, you see a woman with lost eyes, wondering why she’s going back to the same man. He wouldn’t take out the washing and he doesn’t even pay the restaurant bill (once a month, when they can afford to go out). It’s the crisis, and yes, he’s looking for a better job and he’s always faithful, and he does the dishes. But why the fuck is his underwear still out on her side of the bed? She’s had a long day at the office, and her deserted eyes are seeing all the worlds she could have inhabited, but that are now filled with prettier, richer people. Maybe if she said yes to coffee with Mario who works in accounts and then they made out in the bathroom near the conference room, life would be okay. I often sit next to the tumbleweed ladies. Sometimes all you feel is desolation. But sometimes, they want to claw their way out of their holes. And they’ll do whatever it takes to feel the sun on the back of their necks again. And then I can smell woman. Which is even better than Chanel.
No Direction Rome Page 5