Читать книгу India Vik - Liz Gallois - Страница 6

In moments of tenderness or lust Jill croons, ‘Davood, my little toy boy.’ He likes her cool touch on his cheek, smoothing the soft down. He shaves, but so far the desired bristles refuse to sprout.

Jill helps Davood to the grilled fish set before them on the platter. He’s trying to look like a man, but is afraid his face is a give-away.

The Papillon restaurant is a tourist-only joint, owned by an Indian from Pondi who brought his skills to this more northerly town. Mineral water is always brought to the table as soon as patrons sit down, and newspapers and games are provided. It’s a refuge from the poverty and heat of the streets.

Jill is all decision—beer, food—she orders for both of them. The fish skeleton lies on the plate. They play chess, and when she leans across the table to whisper in his ear, her hand over his, he’s happy to leave before the end of the game. She picks up the bill. Later in the afternoon when they reappear, Jill orders beer, and they play chess again. Davood concentrates on the board.

Davood is asleep when he hears his mother’s voice. ‘You’re late for work Davood, it’s eight o’clock.’ He thinks he can remember the lullaby his mother sang to help him sleep when he was a baby. But later it was, ‘Wake up Davood, school time.’ Each evening after he finished playing with his top out in the dusty street, or cricket with other boys in front of the church, he begged to have the television turned on. Most nights he watched television until his parents’ bedtime.

‘He needs his sleep, get him to bed,’ from his father.

‘Leave him, he’s a good boy,’ said his mother. At school he sat at the back of the class, closed his eyes, and slept.

When he brought his reports home, his mother said he was a good boy but not cut out for schoolwork. After his father died, Davood denied the school’s complaints of truancy.

His mother apprenticed him to his uncle Salman to learn cobbling.

‘I can’t teach him anything if he’s not here,’ said Salman. ‘I can’t even rely on him to look after the shop.’

Davood, bored, hung around the little town. He needed some money of his own. His mother never gave him enough. He got friendly with the porter at the Tourist Delight Hotel.

He liked the backpacks and the suitcases of the guests—passports to another world. He liked the women’s bare arms and the curve of their breasts at the neckline of their dresses as they bent forward.

He started unsalaried work at the hotel, running messages for guests.

He noted when guests came back at the end of the day, and knocked at their doors. ‘Any mineral water, beer, snack? Any washing for dhobi wallah?’ He ran to the hardware shop for water, further along to the grog shop for beer—in those days, as a Muslim, he didn’t drink. He went to the street stall for snacks, and waited contentedly while the bhajas and alloo bondas sizzled in the deep smoky oil, breathing in the comfort of the frying spices and feeling part of the man’s world of work. He handed an assortment of coins back in change that assured good tips. Davood negotiated a percentage on his custom from the shops and the dhobi wallah. Through his contact with tourists, his English improved.

At first he was content with the evening trade, but when guests asked, ‘Can you bring breakfast to the room?’ he started arriving at work at seven am and slept in a corner of the hotel lobby in the afternoon. He borrowed his mother’s alarm clock for these early mornings, then bought his own.

His mother smiled her approval when he handed over some of his earnings to her.

Davood kept his eye on the movement of guests returning from sight seeing. He noticed her arrival.

‘Help with your parcels Madam?’ He entered into a game with her, his eyes teasing, hands together with a slight bow from the waist.

‘OK then, I’m so hot. Take these would you?’ She handed him parcels wrapped in newspaper, the string already loosening and slipping off. She unlocked the door and Davood waited respectfully to be invited in.

‘On the bed here will do.’ She rummaged in her bag for his tip.

‘Any mineral water, beer, snack for Madam?’

‘Cold mineral water, really cold?’

‘Of course Madam. How many bottle?’

Again Davood gave her the laughing look above the little bow with his hands joined. He had never been so bold with other guests, but her red hair with dark roots showing through, the sweat on her upper lip and the stains under her arms, made her approachable.

It’s 10pm. Davood climbs the stairs of the hotel to Jill’s room where they agreed to meet. He knocks on her door but there’s no answer so he uses the key he picked up from reception. It’s his first time in her room by himself. He turns on the ceiling light. Jill always has just the two bedside lights on when they are together. Davood lies on the bed. He sits up. He looks in the drawers of the bedside table. In one are packets of condoms—he already knows about these. He takes one of the condoms, blows into it to form a balloon, and ties a knot. He taps it into the air and watches it fall to the floor like a big moon.

Then he unzips the flap of Jill’s backpack. Her spicy sweet perfume greets him. Inside nestle neat bags, some plastic, some embroidered bags he has seen before, bought while they were out shopping. She paused over the fabric, feeling its quality between her fingers, admiring the embroidery, pretending to see her face in the little mirrors. ‘Which one will I take, Davood?’ Davood tried to second-guess her choice. ‘Davood, do you think 200 rupees is too dear for this one?’ He knew the embroidered bag was overpriced. On the other hand, these articles were for tourists only. In his family luxury items like jewellery were bought to mark an event like marriage, through the intermediary of uncles and aunts who could recommend an honest merchant. This kind of casual shopping was new to Davood. So he humoured Jill or not, depending on whether he was enjoying himself or bored.

Davood takes one of the embroidered bags he and Jill had chosen and looks inside. A few pairs of white socks rolled up, neatly folded knickers and lacy bras, and a wrapped cake of soap. The plastic bags hold neatly ironed jeans and shirts. Davood is familiar with these garments as he has personally delivered them to the dhobi wallah for washing. A bulky cotton draw string bag holds a pair of elastic-sided boots he hasn’t seen before. He takes the boots and a pair of Jill’s socks and sits on the bed. He slips his feet out of his leather chappals, like everything he’s wearing, a present from Jill, and with one sock on, he tries the right boot. The smooth fit gives him a little shock of pleasure. He tries the other boot and stands, flexing his toes and walking to test the size as he would in a shoe shop. The mirror above the shelf only shows the upper half of his body, but he looks taller. The boots have slightly high heels. He looks down at them protruding from his jeans and sticks his foot out to look at the heel.

In the backpack he finds a double-sided brush and a tin of Nugget inside another drawstring bag. The boots are already shiny and clean but he sets to, dulling the boot leather with paste. He likes the sharpness of the shoe polish in his nostrils. Davood notes only slight wear at the back of the heel, and no sign of a thinning sole under his thumb.

He’s still got Jill’s socks on when she comes in. He’s giving the boots a final polish.

He pulls them on. ‘Very good fit, your boots.’

‘So my toy boy wants his little boots? And how is he going to pay for them?’

He moves towards her, puts one arm around her waist and takes her hand and puts it firmly over his crotch. ‘You’re a quick learner,’ Jill says, and leans into him.

‘There’s never enough light in streets. It’s dangerous at festival time, Hindus drink, you never know what they do,’ says Davood.

He feels like a man of the world, protecting Jill, making her aware of dangers, but he enjoys even more the feel of the new/old elastic sided-boots. His feet are too warm in them but he doesn’t mind at all. He links his arm through Jill’s. His chest swells under his shirt.

They stand at the top of the steps at the square ornamental tank and look over the heads of those below. A balding older man makes a path for Jill so she can have a better view. Davood stays at her side. A barge leaves the far shore. It’s festooned with lights, and seems overloaded with men. A garlanded, painted goddess reigns under a canopy. As it approaches men jostle on the steps to get closer. Some leap off, others extend hands to help them jump on or off.

‘What are they doing?’ Davood hears Jill ask the older man. The barge leaves the shore again.

‘You see Meenakshi, the Goddess? She is Shiva’s consort. She is waiting for Shiva to join her.’

‘When will he come?’

‘I don’t know, Madam. The priests will see to it.’ Jill thanks him.

Davood and Jill stay a while, then climb up the steps back into the bazaar.

‘Do all these men believe they might be Shiva’s consort?’

‘Hindu ritual, I not sure. The later it gets, safer you will be in hotel.’

‘I know what you want,’ she says. ‘Come on then.’ She entwines her fingers in his.

On their way Davood stoops where a young woman crouches behind her marigold and jasmine garlands spread on the pavement. He chooses jasmine and raises it over Jill’s head, settling it on her shoulders. He smiles his mischievous smile, hands together, does his little bow.

Davood is asleep when he hears his mother’s voice. ‘You’re late for work Davood, it’s eight o’clock.’

‘No more work, I go to Australia.’

People mass at Chennai airport. The spaces aren’t big enough to fit them all. They spill out the doors, and press to get back in. Davood stops himself from hanging on to Jill’s jacket, like he used to hang on to his mother’s skirt. Jill finds the end of a luggage queue, which reassures Davood and he slips back into feeling pleasurable excitement.

‘This country of yours could do with a few decent airports,’ Jill says. She looks drained in the 2am heat.

‘You’re right, very crowdie, less crowdie in Australia,’ he says.

‘Crowded, you noodle.’

‘You’re right, crowdie.’

Davood stands near the sink, tea-towel in hand. Jill’s outside in the sun with her coffee. He keeps taking glasses out of the rack. He barely wipes them and puts each glass away with a thud in the cupboard above the sink. The night before Jill had invited many friends to a drinks party. Davood is still a long way from finishing the clean-up. First he empties all the ashtrays into the bin as Jill has taught him. ‘Little Indian toy boy.’ Then all the plates are scraped into the bin, and these are now washed and stacked on the table. He has yet to stow them away in the dining room sideboard. Then it’s sweeping, mopping, vacuuming.

As he wields the mop he rehearses the conversation he overheard last night.

‘Did you cop the little Indian toy boy?’

‘Talk about cradle snatching.’

‘I guess Jill needed a final fling.’

Davood attacks the corners of the kitchen with the mop, nicking off some of the paint on the skirting board as the mop socket strikes with all the force of his arm.

He considers how hard he’s tried to earn his keep. Like this morning’s clean-up.

He remembers the first time Jill had called him ‘My little toy boy’, at the Tourist Delight Hotel. It had been, his thought was imprecise, but hot, a woman’s hand on his cock for the first time. He thrusts the mop into the bucket, causing soapsuds to cascade over the kitchen floor. He leaves the kitchen and slouches at the end of the balcony away from Jill. He says nothing to her, he knows her teasing too well. He wouldn’t have minded the party so much if only he’d had some friends of his own, but Jill and her friends were the only people he knew.

Davood visits the local college and inquires about courses. He decides on Introduction to Commerce, but is apprehensive that he might not be accepted because of his lack of English. The woman at Student Administration reassures him.

‘Your writing might not be as good as your spoken English, but you can get help, you’ll catch up,’ she says.

The application form for his student visa lies on the kitchen table for a few days for Jill to complete. He tries to discuss it with her several times, but she evades him, and he offers to pay rent from his earnings baby sitting and cleaning for her friends, after she makes up a bed for him in the room that used to belong to her son. Jill takes no notice of his offer. It’s as if she’s deaf. When one day he finds the form in the bin, he straightens his shoulders, and decides what he should do. He approaches some of Jill’s friends. Could they help him with his student visa? Their answers are evasive too and he sees they are embarrassed, not wanting to interfere in his and Jill’s business.

Davood’s on the look out for his taxi. Beside him, his black nylon bag is packed. All of its zippers that make it extensible are undone. Davood spent all his savings from the jobs he had done for Jill’s friends. He bought a new pair of elastic-sided boots. Beside his bag is a cardboard box, containing a red, blue and green tulip-shaped vase, Davood’s present for his mother. Davood plans to keep it with him in the cabin of the plane. Jill has given him a generous taxi fare, she has to be at the office, and can’t take him to the airport.

‘I’m not sorry I came to Australia, good experience,’ he says as they say goodbye.

‘Yeah, well, all good things have to come to an end,’ Jill says.

The vase is heavy in Davood’s arms as he stands beside his bag in the early morning light at Chennai airport. He watches tourists following their porters and luggage, hears the haggling with the porter over the tip after the luggage is deposited in the boot of the white Ambassador taxis. Davood longs to be back in the luxury of the plane’s cabin where a steward is always about to serve a drink and another meal. At the same time the mix of pollution, the scent of the frangipani growing incongruously close by and smoky oil from the food stalls catch in his nostrils. He’s home. He dares not spend any of his remaining money on a taxi or autorickshaw, and tries to concentrate on where the bus stop is.

The hotel compound in Chennai offers an interesting array of buildings, including the once magnificent Hostel for English and Anglo-Indian Ladies opened by the Collector in 1898, according to the dirty brass plaque to the right of the front door. The tourist lady has taken some photos of the early sun catching the building, reflected in the small lake where a blue flash above the water signals a kingfisher. The building now houses young Indian women who at this hour glide along in their saris or salwar kameez, leaving for work or study. It’s quiet in the compound with the traffic from Poonamallee High Road not yet at full pitch, the pollution kept at bay by the compound trees.

For the second time Davood talks to the tourist lady. He mops the corridors early before starting his kitchen duties, which take up most of his day. Occasionally he relieves at the front desk, the midnight to dawn shift. This is because of his fluent English. He still hopes to be promoted to office duties but vacancies are taken by young boys with commerce degrees. Davood’s catching up with study at night in a Diploma of Office Management. The night work and study tire him out but he thinks it’s worth it.

Yesterday the tourist lady asked him about the kingfisher and said, of course she knew his home town, Mamallapuram, she had just come from there.

‘Do you go back to visit, Davood?’

‘No Madam, not since mother died.’

Again Davood talks with the tourist lady. ‘Once I met a lady at Mamallapuram where I had my first hotel work. After I went with her to her country to study. Australia. Very beautiful.’

‘So you’ve travelled?’

‘Just to Australia Madam. Young boy then. No beard then. No family responsibilities in those days. Now good wife and only one daughter so far,’ Davood says. He’s aware that the tourist lady, like most tourists, loves to chat with Indians. ‘My Australian friend, she give me elastic-sided boots. I am liking them very much. Worn out now. I would like to own same again.’

He pauses.

‘Maybe your husband wear boots? Maybe you send me second-hand boots from your country?’