Golden Biker

by Alexander Von Eisenhart Rothe

“I’ve got it!” triumphantly she held up the packet of Aspirin.

  Rainer looked at her seriously. “Bea—darling, have you listened to me? I do have very good connections; also in India. We could arrange something pretty fast.

  Would only cost me a phone call. What do you think?”

  Beate looked at him. “What do I think of what? Are you seriously suggesting that I should get him killed? The man I shared home and bed with for twenty years? The man who day in day out went off to work, so I could have a pleasant life, who stayed at my bed when I was sick and with whom I shared so many tears and laughs? And I should have him killed, just for his money?”

  Rainer gave a silent nod.

  Beate shrugged her shoulders, punched a pill out of the box and took it. “Okay, let’s kill the bastard! I happened to spot something stunning in black at Gucci’s, anyway!”

  Ignorant of the fact that this very minute, orders concerning his violent death were passed on over the telephone, Gerd walked through the streets of Bombay in apathy. If he had had any idea where he was going it could have been said that he was lost. But he aimlessly wandered straight ahead clueless to where his feet would lead him. Deeper and deeper he got himself into a maze of lanes, wooden shacks and shelters made from polythene sheets. At the roadside shapes in rags were washing themselves in dirty puddles. One ‘government certified ear hygiene specialist’ was squatting on the ground and was retracting earwax from his clients ears with a long thin needle—and as proof of his proficiency had adorned his signboard with a long row of orange-yellow globs. Right next to him a mobile dentist was offering his service; his brownish encrusted surgical instruments were neatly lined up on a blanket covering a chest. On a little shrine between them stood a figurine of Ganesh, the elephant God, and some smouldering incense sticks.

  Soon Gerd’s dress pants were clotted with filth and mud, whose provenance one rather not wanted to know about. Dark faces stared at him, him being the stranger that did not belong here at all. Hands groped at him, dishevelled bodies were babbling at him in a language he did not understand. He was in the middle of the slums, ever which way he tried to walk, there seemed to be no way out of there. He moved through the throng of people dividing in front of him like water and just before clashing into them he realised three men in front of him who did not make way. All three of them were wearing grimy trousers, ripped t-shirts, their teeth stained red from chewing betel nuts. They seemed to want something from him but unfortunately they were speaking Hindi and Gerd did not understand one single word.

  “Excuse me, do you speak English?” he tried.

  Instead of an answer one of them pulled out a knife and moved towards him. Instinctively Gerd took a step back, bumping into a man who had moved behind him unawares.

  Suddenly a sharp order cut through the tense atmosphere. Gerd who had slowly started to panic looked in the direction of the voice.

  It was Sherie, the beautiful dancing girl from the beer bar, by God; she looked even more gorgeous amongst all this squalor and filth. (She would also have looked gorgeous in any palace of course, just to put your mind on the right track) To Gerd and by the look of it to every other man Sherie was like a goddess descending from the heavens.

  With the soft flowing movements of a silk curtain in a springtime breeze she glided towards Gerd, took him by the hand and purred in almost perfect German: “This is no place for you.

  Come on, I shall take you away from here!”

  Only after they had disappeared the three Indians found their voices again

  “Holy cow, what a bibi!” one of them gasped.

  The other looked at his knife sadly and put it away again. “Too bad really, if the bibi had turned up two minutes later the foreigner certainly would have bought my knife!”

  Gerd without putting up any resistance was led by Sherie’s hand until they found themselves in a run down room of the ‘Grand Palace Hotel’, which had seen far better days. The only furniture in the room was a dirty double bed, a wobbly table, a small washbasin and a rickety dresser. The windows were fitted with perforated fly screen instead of glass; the walls had a filthy whitewash. A tired creaking fan was straining circles at the ceiling. In short—it was a real dump. The only attraction in the room was Sherie who magically produced a bottle of whisky and a clean cup from her handbag. Gerd still looked at her as if she were a revelation.

  “Let’s drink to our reunion, shall we?” she purred and poured them a drink.

  “How come, you speak German?” With a graceful gesture Sherie handed him the cup. “I have many customers from Germany. At one point it made sense to learn the language, so that’s what I did. It’s really helpful! Prost!”

  Gerd took a big sip. The strong whisky left a pleasant burning sensation in his throat. “Are you,... are you a... ehm, ah, well are you?”

  She took the cup from him and dumped the remaining whisky in the sink. “A prostitute? Of course, I am what did you think? And now the two of us are going to relax a little! Take of your shoes. What would you like me to do, tell me! Some secret fantasy maybe?”

  “I am... actually I am…Yes there is something that I always wished for, but it has nothing to do with, ehm, sex. It’s more about... ice skating...” All of a sudden Gerd had trouble articulating. Strange, it could not have been that one sip of whisky. “That’s odd, I am so tired all of a sudden. So terribly, terribly tired...” he stammered and fell on to the bed.

  As soon as he was lying down the room started to swirl around him.

  Along came a little dwarf.

  “Whassup Gerd?” said the dwarf.

  “Hello!” Gerd answered, where do you come from?”

  “Shift work! Strip mining. Working hours are a bit poxy but hey, I’m not complaining, being a dwarf and all. What to do?”

  “Ehm, listen dwarf, I do find all this a little peculiar. What is going on here, where did the woman go, where exactly am I?”

  The dwarf laughed out loud. “Oh boy, Gerd, you silly sod you’ve just been rendered unconscious by every trick in the book and now you’re dreaming nonsense, that’s what’s going on here. Or do you really think that dwarfs riding tiny red elephants are for real?”

  “What tiny elephants?”

  “Oh forget it, Gerd!” said the dwarf, jumped on a tiny red elephant and rode off.

  As some might have guessed by now: Sherie had sent Gerd into the land of dreams with the help of knockout drops. This of course was not very nice of her, yet in some way understandable. Had she not been the victim here and not the culprit? Had not the circumstances led her astray? She did have an unhappy childhood:

  She had grown up in the slums, the eleventh child of an old-established family of shit shovellers belonging to the bottom caste. Indeed she had everything it took to lead a short, unfulfilled life in squalor and poverty in India: Pariah caste, eleventh child and a girl.

  Almost everybody belonging to the caste of ‘untouchables’ accept their fate, scrubbing the gutters hoping for the next life. Not so Sherie.

  The day she could walk, she was sent begging. Soon it was discovered that she possessed a grim determination and she’d stoop to do anything to get what she wanted. At the tender age of five she was swearing like a hammered sailor, beat up the kids from the higher castes that had the misfortune to cross her way and nicked their toys. When she was eight a fat rich Indian appeared and wanted to buy her for a child brothel in Delhi. Her parents were not disinclined but the deal fell through when Sherie poured a bowl of boiling Dhal into the fat man’s lap. When she was ten she was to be married. She pushed her cross-eyed fiancé, who naturally belonged to the same crummy caste as she, in front of a moving car. The fiancé was left with a broken arm, which turned out to be lucky for him, since begging became much easier after that. Her parents seized the idea and wanted to break Sherie’s arm at a couple of places. Bu
t Sherie pre-empted this by repositioning some traffic signs during the night, thus converting the nearby main highway traffic—smack dab right through their hut. A twelve and a half ton rig made her an orphan. At fourteen she met Báaba Singh, who under several layers of dirt, discovered her exceptional beauty. He washed her, dressed her and had her turning tricks. Sherie did not mind. On the contrary, for the first time in her life she wore nice dresses and now at least the blokes had to pay for what they had been taking from her in the back alleys even if it had been against her will.

  Soon the relationship between her and Báaba became that of a daughter to her father. He realised the girl’s keen intelligence and her strong will to make it to the top. Her ambition, paired with complete unscrupulousness made her the ideal instrument for his plans. He decided to invest in Sherie. He had her learn how to read and write and taught her English (So far she had been speaking the casual Hindi dialect from the gutters of Bombay). When her talent for languages became apparent he had her pick up French and German as well turning her into his ultimate secret weapon.

  She was being introduced to his business partners from all over the world and most of them could not resist this stunning Indian girl. The ensuing bedroom acrobatics were documented via a hidden camera.

  In case later negotiations would not take the turn he had wished for, he would present the photographs suggesting that they were only waiting to be sent to the spouse or the employer.

  Those were wonderful times. Báaba’s company was growing strong, thanks to several surprisingly positive business deals and Sherie had developed a method, which let her obtain her photos without the nuisance of shagging. She doped her customers with knockout drops and re-enacted the ‘explicit’ scenes for the camera with their unconscious bodies. This proved to be even more effective since one could frame the unsuspecting men with perversions they would shriek away from terror stricken had they been awake. Marvellous shots of German CEOs in dressed leather and studs; French sales reps in diapers and pacifiers or buck-naked Americans with a dog collar around their neck with a bone in their mouth.

  What Sherie liked most about this method was, that she no longer had to use her charms to seduce the foreigners. They were simply handed their glass of whisky and—Boom!—they were in dreamland while Sherie with artistic fervour, was arranging her pornographic still lives. As we said above those were wonderful times. But those times were about to come to an inevitable end.

  With a silent nod Sherie greeted the massive Sikh standing in front of the beer bar. She was let in and she traversed the different mirrored rooms not very frequented this time of day and knocked at Báaba’s audience chamber. Without waiting for an answer she entered.

  “Namaste, Báaba-Ji!” she greeted him with the honorific due to all elders, put her palms together and bowed down slightly.

  Báaba quickly looked up and whipped something into his briefcase. “Yes, yes, namaste, have a seat!”

  Sherie plunked down into the second armchair.

  Bábaa shut the briefcase. “I am quite disappointed in you!” he said outright skipping the compulsory chitchat about one’s wellbeing and the weather. Your job, yesterday was to take pictures of that German. It did not happen. I only went for this deal with the useless pills, because I was depending on you. I knew when you were finished with him; we could have got anything we wanted. And now? We are probably getting nothing!”

  Sherie smiled at him. “What should I have done? He just up and went and left me with the whisky glass! But maybe this will mollify you.”

  With a triumphant smile she tossed a brown envelope into his lap. The old man furled his brows and opened it. It contained photographs, prints plus the negatives and all had only one principal performer: Gerd Báaba looked up smitten with surprise. “How did you...?”

  Sherie smiled at him triumphantly. “You won’t believe it! I am going through the back area in the slum quarter and all of a sudden I see this German, surrounded by some knife dealers.

  No idea what had brought him there. I assume he didn’t know it himself!”

  Báaba could hardly believe what he heard. “But he was supposed to be on his flight home, I don’t get it!”

  “Whatever! I dragged him into the Grand Palace doped him, took pictures, and left him there.

  Then I went down the road to the 1 Hour Photo had them developed... and here I am!”

  Sherie was not exactly telling the truth here, in reality she had fleeced Gerd for all he was worth, had taken his wallet, passport, wristwatch even his silk tie and eventually had tossed him into the gutter with the help of a hotel clerk and had left him there.)

  Báaba looked at the pictures shaking his head. “You really have a sick imagination. Where did you get the hamsters from?”

  “They belong to the porter of the hotel!”

  Disgusted he put the photos back into the envelope. “Those poor little animals!

  Nevertheless...” he got up and embraced her, “You are the best!”

  “Thank you, Báaba—Ji, I’m just the humble daughter.”

  Báaba let go of her. “Hereby my sons will get their proper departing gift after all.” He grabbed his suitcase and turned to go. “I will surely miss you!” he moaned with sincerity.

  Sherie stopped smiling. Why, you still got that silly plan of yours in your head? Báaba-Ji, you cannot just abandon me here!”

  “My sons will be taking care of business now. Inside...” his hand patting the suitcase, “... I’ve got everything I need to live a full live!”

  Sherie touched him by the arm. “Your sons, forgive me for saying so, are total idiots. They will bring the company to ruin. On top of that they have already informed me they won’t be needing my services anymore. You want to know what Harish said to me? He said that my methods are cutting across ‘respectable’ business proceedings. Can you imagine that? What will become of me now?”

  Báaba looked her deep into the eyes. “My dear child, if one day a beautiful prince on a white horse would come up to you, what would you do?”

  “I would put him to sleep, steal his horse and try to sell it someplace!” Sherie answered without thinking too much.

  Báaba chuckled “See, that’s my girl! I just happen to know I don`t have to worry about you.

  There is a fancy new brothel opening up in Coloba district, I am quite sure they`d take you with open arms!”

  He brushed her foreheads with his lips and turned to the door.

  “Báaba-Ji” Sherie said gloomily, “let’s have a good bye drink at least, you owe me that after all those years.”

  He turned around. Sherie was facing him with misty eyes and half a glass of whisky. “All right then, one good-bye shot!” he sighed and raised the glass to her, cheekily touching the tip of her nose. “To the future!”

  “To the future and may all your dreams come true very soon!”

  Half a minute later Báaba was having a desultory conversation with a dwarf perched on a tiny red elephant.

  The first thing Gerd could make out when he opened his gummed up eyes, was an emaciated Indian pulling off one of his shoes and disappearing with it. Groaning he looked up into the blue sky albeit his view was being narrowed down by a circle of innumerable black faces, curiously staring down at him. His head felt like living hell, a common headache would have meant salvation. Feebly he tried to get up realising he had been mugged and completely ransacked. His trousers torn, his jacket gone, his once white shirt had undergone an ungainly colour change after having taken a bath in the gutter, somehow one shoe had remained on his foot. On top of that he inexplicably detected a penetrating hamster pong. With a moan he collapsed back into the mud and closed his eyes.

  What had happened here? Last thing he remembered was this stunning Indian girl, offering him a glass of whisky. After that—black out.

  All of a
sudden someone was tearing at his foot. He opened his eyes and caught the emaciated Indian trying to pull the second shoe from his foot. He was seething with rage.

  Such insolence! Shamelessly taking advantage of his dire straits?

  With all the power that was left in him he kicked the thief in the chest. Taken by surprise by this forceful blow the Indian flew backwards several yards and remained where he had landed panting for air.

  A murmur ebbed trough the crowd that had gathered around Gerd. This ragged foreigner how did he dare to kick Vishnu? Okay, Vishnu was a lowlife but he was one of them and this foreigner in the mud, who did he think he was?

  Plus he is railing at everyone present! This guy needs a lesson. Any policemen around? No?

  Fine, one could actually see how it felt like to beat up a tourist.

  Initially some spunky teenagers stepped forward and served Gerd some light kicks... some more followed, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to give a foreigner the low-down.

  More and more men arrived on the scene and the mood quickly shifted from a merry collective pelting to one of a lynch mobbing. Rumours were flying about:

  “The foreigner beat up Vishnu!”—“The foreigner wanted to buy Vishnu’s children and wanted to eat them... the foreigner has poisoned the well!” ... and so forth, what people come up with when the are looking for a scapegoat to take their minds of their day to day misery.

  Soon a respectable crowd had congregated. Let’s face it if there’s some lynching to be done, you can count on the mob...

  “If I don’t eat something pretty soon, I’ll fall off the bike!” Arthur complained manoeuvring his motorbike in between a small gap of two taxis in front of him. Since they had left the comparable peaceful country roads and had delved into Bombay’s traffic, the going had gotten tough.

  “Soon we’ll be at the city centre. I know a restaurant there!” Bear called back over his shoulder.

  However he had been saying that for almost one hour, and it seemed to Arthur as if they had not moved very far. He was also struggling with heavy culture shock. Although he had been in India for a few days, nothing had him prepared for Bombay. In this huge city the slums started at the outskirts and were bigger and dirtier then he ever could have imagined. A putrid smell of squalor was hanging over the city like a curtain and the roads did not seem to be able to cope with this multitudinous of people, animals and vehicles. Beggars and cripples of all ages were throwing themselves at him, the obvious foreigner, at every stop. Whereas Bear was looking right through them impassively, Arthur tried to elude himself with politeness from the expectant hands, touching him without timidity. Every big round eye of a child dressed in rags, every stump of a beggar was inoculating him with a nagging guilty conscience. With a blank stare he concentrated on the chaotic traffic and the hovels beside the road. He had long lost any sense of direction. In this chaotic city every street looked the same. For a while he had seen an endless succession of dirty rows of houses, endless rows of cars, small shops with half open sacks of produce and spices, a foreigner getting a thrashing by throng of people—Just a minute!