“You think I am bad. A bad boy.”
“I’m teasing you, Ali. Anyway, I don’t care.”
“You should care.”
“Why?”
“Because it is what women do.”
“Now you’re teasing me.”
Ali bared his teeth in something like a smile. “I would like it sometimes if you laughed.”
Ingrid frowned deliberately. “Ali, is there something wrong with Abdul’s second wife, Sari?”
Ali glanced toward the stairs. “She is not well,” he confided.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. What I have heard is that she has a pepo. A bad spirit inside of her. It is a kind of sickness.”
Ingrid remembered the term from her reading. A pepo was a majini that possessed someone, making the person either deranged or zombielike. “I have heard her crying at night.”
“A bad pepo can ruin your life.”
“How does one get a bad pepo?”
“A pepo grabs you when you walk out in the bush, or by large trees. Sometimes they grab you in town.”
“So a pepo can grab you anywhere. It’s not Sari’s fault she has a bad pepo.”
“She might have invited one.”
“Why would she have done that?”
“Who knows? She is a woman.”
“Now, Ali, that’s not enough of a reason.”
Ali grinned. “It is more than enough. Didn’t you know women have faulty souls? Just hearing the voices of other people can be dangerous. That’s why we lock them up.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“No, it’s all a joke. Our island is a joke. Sometime you must start laughing.”
When Sari came up the stairs, she seemed exuberant. Her face was flushed as she extracted Ingrid’s pages from inside her bui-bui. “They are now in English,” she said proudly. Ingrid realized that Sari was quite capable of happiness.
“Where have you been?”
“Dancing at Riyadh Mosque. The Imam there read your pages.”
“I thought women weren’t allowed in the mosques.”
“This one is different. This the mosque of Habib Salih.” Sari’s face lost some of its light. “But please tell no one I have been there.”
“Don’t worry, Sari. Thank you for this.” Ingrid’s eyes were already scanning the translated passages, which were penciled in a neat script. The first was from a chapter in the Koran called “Al-Nur,” or “Light.”
As for the ungrateful who do not have faith,
their works are like a mirage on a plain,
which the thirsty man thinks to be water
until he comes to it and finds nothing there—
but he finds God in his presence,
and God pays him his earnings;
and God is swift in his accounting—
or like the darknesses in an ocean deep and vast
covered over with waves,
upon them waves,
over them clouds.
Darkness one on top of another;
If one stretched forth a hand,
One would hardly see it.
And whoever God gives no light
Has no light at all.
The verse stopped there. The next passage came from “Saba,” or the “Sheba” chapter, which occurred later in the Koran.
Thus on that day none of you
will have power over anyone else,
whether the helpful or harmful.
And We will say to those who did wrong,
“Taste the torment of the fire,
in which you do not believe.”
And when Our clear signs
are recited to them, they say,
“What is this but a man
who wishes to deter you
from what your fathers worshiped?”
And they say,
“What is this but a fabricated lie?”
And those who deny the truth
when it comes down to them say,
“This is obvious enchantment.”
The lines in red below the map repeated the middle part of the passage:
“Taste the torment of the fire,
in which you do not believe.”
At the bottom was a note for her from the Imam. “Come to Riyadh Mosque,” he had written. “I must hear the story of these pages.”
“Taste the torment of the fire . . .” More than to explain the story of these pages, she wanted this Imam to dispel her worry over the vengeance of his translation. Reluctantly, she matched the Imam’s translations to passages in her Koran and found them to be almost identical. She left the guesthouse abruptly, heading for the hotel.
Ali was in the office. “I have been hearing about Habib Salih,” Ingrid said.
“Habib Salih is famous,” Ali’s voice turned mellifluous as he instantly transformed into an expert tour guide. “He founded the Riyadh Mosque. It is a mosque for the people. Slaves, workers, fishermen. He had them sing and dance maulidi, since they were not educated enough to read it. Also it was not proper for them to read it because they were slaves and workers and fishermen,” Ali added with a flourish. “But Habib Salih believed that what people did was more important than who they were and the position or parentage they had.”
“According to one of my books that you think say nothing, Habib’s mosque took the people one step closer to Allah. It says that with ecstatic dance comes ecstatic rapture, which is where God lives. What do you make of that?”
“I think you have been reading too much, making your own philosophies.”
“Maybe,” Ingrid said, laughing. “But I am beginning to believe in my own philosophies. I think they merit research. Could you take me to this mosque?”
“This,” Ali said. “I will have to see.”
Under Ali’s supervision, Ingrid ransacked the office for maps. “Why didn’t you tell me where Templeton stayed that first night?” she demanded, suddenly irritated by Ali. “I think he might have been here.”
Ali shrugged. “I didn’t care where he stayed. I only knew the direction he walked when he left the hotel.” They finally found one old map. The layout was similar to the map Ingrid had found in Templeton’s notebook. “This is where the other village is,” Ali pointed. “But this map is no good.”
“What other village?” Ingrid asked. “Kitali?”
“Yes, where our people have gone. The crazies. Mad as rabbits.”
“Mad as hatters,” she corrected. “But what are you talking about? What crazies?”
Ali shrugged. “I won’t take you there. They cast spells, make you lose your lunch.”
“Can you please explain more fully?” she asked patiently. “This is important. Tell me what you know about this second village.”
“Before I was born there was a split in the island. Chief Mohammad took his people away because there were so many evil majini at Salama. Now, right near them, there is a second hotel and again there is talk of splitting, though there is nowhere for them to go—except back here. I don’t want them to come back here. I have heard they don’t talk.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You might think.” Ali inspected the map. “But this map is wrong. This isn’t where the village is at all.”
“You’ve been there?”
“No. But this is not where it is.”
“Is there another map somewhere?”
“The professor took all the maps.”
“More news! And where might he have put the maps?”
“Once he had them spread all over the office floor. He was crawling around them like an infant. Then he took them away.”
“Took them where? Where in God’s name are all these things he might have had?”
“I think he had a lady friend on the island. Maybe he took them to her.”
“Why would he have done that?”
“A gift, maybe.”
“Do you really think he took all those maps to a girlfriend, Ali?”
“I think he is no longer on the island, Miss Holes.”
Ingrid went back to the guesthouse and sat on the roof with her two maps of the island. The location of the other village was not exactly the same on both maps, but it was close enough. “The second village is Kitali,” she wrote. Covering the hotel map with Templeton’s, she added, “ ‘M’ stands for Mohammad.”
The walls of Templeton’s house in Michigan were papered with maps: layers of them, like geologic strata of his life, his work. Once Ingrid had pulled back the loose corners, sliding her hand between the smooth surfaces, trying to see what had come before. She was still looking for bread crumbs then, some way to understand him empirically so she could say to herself, “See here, this is what makes him worth my while. Look at his background, his experiences, his choices . . .”
“Have you or have you not been married?” Ingrid had demanded.
“Married!” he erupted and then folded into a fit of coughing. “Why, are you considering it in the near future?”
“No.”
“Good girl. Get more work done. Tell me something, are you a lover?”
“What?”
“Do you consider yourself a passionate person?”
“Yes. No. You’re asking about relationships, aren’t you?”
“If that’s what you’re passionate about.”
“Well, I’m not, really.”
“No need to fight love, girl, it dissolves quite readily on its own. I say let the piercing notes of passion and pain ring out—there are only so many of them in a lifetime, and they are a joy to hear. Can you imagine a symphony without the violins?”
“But you never married.”
“Marriage is for the truly heroic. If done properly, it is probably the single most worthwhile undertaking in one’s life. But one needs vast amounts of humility and patience. I am expecting these virtues to arrive at some point.”
Ingrid predicted that he would evade marriage the way he had evaded other norms of human behavior. He could even do without basic human needs of sunlight, sleep or food, staying locked in his office for days at a time, with Mags faithfully guarding his door. She would shake her head ruefully when Ingrid stopped by. Not yet. Ingrid waited because the vigor and resolve with which he broke his fast thrilled her, bursting up to gulp the air, the light and the joy of discovery making his appetites suddenly ravenous—“Give me bloody red steak and red wine—I need life pumping through me!” She had heard such declarations before when he bounded out of what Mags referred to as his “deathbed.” Really it was a deep meditation, a hibernation in which the information he had gathered and consumed settled inside him and began to make sense and something more.
Once he had dictated to Ingrid because his hands trembled too much to write. Another time, when Mags had sent him home to bed, he tied his robe when Ingrid came with provisions and, barefoot, led her to the gravel in his driveway where he drew pictures with his cane. He whispered emphatically as he scratched the images. “Tell me you can see it.” Ingrid’s eyes were on the winter-pale light that lit his tangled gray hair like a halo. “I think you should put your shoes on,” she said, with a real fear that he would catch his death through the soles of his feet.
“Dear girl”—Templeton laughed—“you’re trying to calm me down.”
“You’ve been ill. Or something.”
“This is who I am,” he smiled, a strange old man-angel sweeping his wand through the morning air. Triumphant.
“Well, then,” Ingrid conceded.
“Do you see it?”
“Maybe. Yes.”
Templeton’s cane flew into the air like a baton. Ingrid leapt toward it to keep it from cracking his head. “You needn’t have,” he told her. “I almost always catch it. If I don’t, it’s a sign from above that I need more rest.”
If Templeton didn’t return by Christmas, she would go to Kitali. That gave her three days. Ingrid tossed her pen above her head to see if she could catch it. She did it twice, dropping it once and catching it once. She started to play a game. If, out of ten tosses, she caught more than five, she would go to the bar and treat herself to the newfound pleasure of an afternoon beer.
CHAPTER
13
The Body Worker
After a few long nights on Tarkar, Stanley stole into his house one afternoon for his mail and a change of clothes. His floating haven of peace had recently been threatened when one of the crew members had made Nelson translate a curse on both Stanley and his hotel. It made Stanley think he should be supervising them more carefully at Kitali; curses were a good excuse for bad behavior. But late at night and in the early morning, the beginnings of fear nipped at him like little dogs. He became prone to overactivity, haunting the hotel bar after hours and micromanaging affairs on Tarkar he barely understood—further endangering the goodwill of his crew.
Stanley crept down the path to his house, listening for Daisy’s voice from the rooftop. Satisfied that she was either asleep or away, he pushed open the front door. Jackson, coming from the kitchen with a broom, jumped when he saw his employer standing on the doorstep.
“Jackson!” Stanley exclaimed in a loud whisper. The sight of the boy seemed to make him overjoyed.
“Mr. Wicks! You frightened me.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes sir. Melissa and the baby have gone to the beach.” He paused, his face full of anguish over whether to report on the other half of the household.
“Don’t worry, Jackson. I don’t need to know about the others.” Jackson smiled in relief. “At least they’re not bonking upstairs.” The smile dropped from his face like a stone. Jackson, Stanley realized, was on edge. He could not think of what to say. Almost anything that came to mind would only make the boy more nervous. He was peeved with new reason at Daisy. Our little community has been damaged! To be fair, while Jackson’s young mind was being imprinted with Daisy’s immoral behavior, Stanley had quite dishonorably abandoned him. He felt ashamed and then angry with both himself and Daisy. We could have been such good influences, he thought. This all could have gone so differently. Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
Stanley went to the bookshelf and perused the titles. None of the books had moved since he’d put them there. They were collecting dust. Was Daisy simply not interested in literature? He pulled out E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India and settled into the window seat. Jackson was sweeping the floor, clearly trying to remain industrious in the face of his household’s decline. Stanley felt he owed the boy something. Instead of suggesting that he dust the bookshelf every now and then he asked, “Ever read, Jackson?”
“Not often, Mr. Wicks.”
“But they teach you in school, don’t they?”
Jackson smiled and moved his head to the side a little to indicate that school might not have been his peak experience. “Well, if you’re ever interested, I’d be happy to teach you.”
“Teach me?”
“To read, Jackson. There’s a whole world inside this book. See how small a book is? There are ten different places inside these pages. It’s an amazing trick. Listen to this: ‘Except for the Marabar Caves—and they are twenty miles off—the city of Chandrapore presents nothing extraordinary. Edged rather than washed by the river Ganges, it trails for a couple of miles along the bank, scarcely distinguishable from the rubbish it deposits so freely . . .’ ” Stanley glanced up to find Jackson still standing and motioned him to sit. “ ‘There are no bathing-steps on the riverfront, as the Ganges happens not to be holy there; indeed there is no riverfront, the bazaars shut out the wide and shifting panorama of the stream. The streets are mean, the temples ineffective, and though a few fine houses exist they are hidden away in gardens or down alleys whose filth deters all but the invited guest . . .’ ” Stanley looked over the book at Jackson, who sat rigidly at the table. “What did you think of that?”
“I think India sounds like a very dirty place. I would not like to go there.”
“You
see?” Stanley put down the book and flipped through a stack of mail. “Chandrapore is not one of the better places. Now what do we have here. Bill, bill, bill, boring, bill, letter. Ah, it’s from my father. Let’s see what he has to say.” Because Stanley had not yet released him, Jackson remained motionless. “Blah blah, oh, now this is interesting. Listen to this. Here is a taste of my home in England. My father writes: ‘Took the train into London for the opera opening. La Bohème, this year. I find these surtitles unfortunate; the performance loses something when you learn that these characters are just a bunch of lazy, melodramatic artist types bellowing about how cold it is.’ ” Stanley paused to laugh. “ ‘But the bubbly at intermission was nonpareil. I treated myself to a medicinal dose and slept through the second half.’ That’s my father, the old grouser. Loves the bubbly.”
Jackson smiled and waited for his dismissal. When it did not come, he asked, “What is bubbly?”
“A terrible, wonderful drink. It can make you very happy.”
Jackson brightened. “We have some here?”
“No. No bubbly,” Stanley said regretfully. “It doesn’t keep very well here.”
Jackson’s brow furrowed with concern. A moment later it smoothed out. “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be lovely, Jackson.”
Stanley’s tea had steeped to perfection when Daisy’s shrieks of laughter became audible. They shattered the delicate silence of the afternoon, driving India, the Marabar Caves and lovely Miss Quested into the ground. My God, Stanley thought, the woman can make noise. Jackson and Stanley glanced at each other like fellow warriors about to be taken in their own fort. To the side of Stanley’s anxiety was annoyance that the highly agreeable mood in the room had been dashed to pieces. Jackson, who had relaxed, was noticeably nervous again, his eyes pivoting from Stanley to the door as if he were preparing himself to watch a jousting match. He stood looking stricken as the shrieks grew louder. They were almost at the door. “It’s all right, Jackson,” Stanley said. “Adolpho must be sidesplittingly funny.”
The enemy burst in, packages in hand. She was wearing a thin dress that didn’t cover her well enough. Stanley noticed she wore no brassiere. He stared openly at her breasts, where he could see the round darkness of the areolae, the slight hardness of her nipples. “Hello, Stanley, it’s been ages. We’ve been shopping. Can you imagine? I didn’t think there was anything to buy here.” Stanley put down his book and feigned interest as she pulled objects from her bag; a package of henna, a cloth of some sort, chocolate, gum and something wrapped in a banana leaf.
An Obvious Enchantment Page 14