Had Nisreen not returned from work much sooner than expected, complaining of a stomachache and weakness, Bibi would have turned herself full strength on Mama Moto when she finally came home. But here was something else. Nisreen doing something completely out of character. Hadn’t Issa married her because the girl worked very hard? Because she was intelligent-and-capable-and-dutiful and wrote things down correctly and filed things right away? What was Nisreen doing, slacking off like this? “What’s wrong with you now? Why aren’t you at work? Have you lost your job?”
Nisreen was surprised to find Bibi downstairs. “I haven’t lost my job,” she said. “I’m sick.” Sick? This, Bibi was not displeased to hear. In fact, she felt a twitching in the wings. Sick? With what? She called Nisreen over to the bed. “What’s wrong with you, exactly?” Bibi asked. “Sick in your stomach? Vomiting? Dizzy? Do you have a headache?” Nisreen didn’t answer. She bit her bottom lip and took off her big glasses. She ladled water from the cistern into a metal cup and drank.
“Feeling funny walking?” Bibi kept on asking. “Bleeding from your gums?” And she asked and asked and asked until, at last, Nisreen looked seriously at her. It was not the sort of thing a person shared with anyone so early, not at all, oh, no. But what was she to do, with Bibi so enormous and so close, clawing at her arm? “All right, old woman, yes. All right.” Bibi clapped her hands and felt suddenly so well that she sat up directly and put both feet on the floor. “All right, all right,” Nisreen went on. “It’s true.” Bibi all at once could not care less if Mama Moto came back to the house weighed down with electric incense burners, bread machines, and gold. Who cared if Majid Ghulam Jeevanjee was a good-luck man or no? Who gave a blessed corn husk about European men? That envelope, she thought, tears springing to her eyes, was meant for only this. For me. For me and my Nisreen. How pretty Nisreen looked with that gray tint to her skin, the sweat along her cheeks. How fine a girl, indeed.
Twenty-seven
The week Nisreen admitted she was pregnant, Gilbert got Uncle James’s wire. He winced at all the bank fees but was confident that it would be enough. He and Kazansthakis and M.G. had, after all, gone over things together. They also got a customer. And, while Bibi, had she known all there was to know, would have said it was no surprise at all, Gilbert was amazed.
A knock at the one door, which Gilbert, nimble, rose to answer, and there, yes, there he was: Mr. Suleiman, stately in a kanzu gown and blue-embroidered cap, standing in the doorway, leaning on a stick. None other than the owner of the Morris just across the way. Startled but increasingly accustomed to taking on new things, Gilbert asked him to come in. Mr. Suleiman, gaunt and lean, slipped out of his sandals and sat down. He asked after Gilbert’s family, calling Agatha by name, which unsettled Gilbert for a moment and made him feel suspicious. Agatha came out from the kitchen and sat down on the floor, laughing at the man as though he were her uncle. Sarie, unsmiling but dutiful, brought a glass of water.
Mr. Suleiman looked evenly around him and admiringly took note of Gilbert’s shelf of books. “Sir,” he asked, “have you read them all?” He spoke a teacher’s English. Sarie saw her husband blush and, despite everything she’d gone through, despite how very tired she was, felt a very faintly mollifying twinge. Their guest coughed discreetly. He crossed his bony ankles, tugged once at the hip of his white gown, and went on to praise The MohammedanPeoples of East Africa’s Coast Lands, adding very comfortably that he would be gratified one day to have a look at Sons of Sindbad, too, about which he’d only heard. Gilbert, unnerved, rather, but quite pleased, coughed, too, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Yes. A valuable book, indeed.” He was going to suggest that Mr. Suleiman might one day also look over his pamphlets when he realized that the visitor had finished talking about books. His gaze was now on Gilbert’s face. He’d come for something else.
Lowering his voice, Mr. Suleiman said, “Mr. Turner. You will forgive me if you find my visit untoward.” Gilbert looked at him, eyes wide. Since when was he in a position to find a visit untoward? It felt awfully nice, and he found himself saying, “Nevermind, my dear sir,” quite calmly, and urging his guest on.
Mr. Suleiman shifted in his seat, and Gilbert leaned towards him, hands just slightly shaking. Mr. Suleiman went on. Would Mr. Gilbert Turner please forgive him, but he had heard it from a friend, a man who could be trusted. That he himself would tell the news to no one. Times, as Gilbert knew, were difficult. Dangerous, for some. But they were neighbors, were they not? To whom else should one turn? Was it true there were, perhaps, some items that a person could acquire to remedy… a certain sort of problem?
Gilbert felt that he was acting in a play, in the perfect role. He felt his eyes go round. He cleared his throat. Could Mr. Suleiman please clarify his point? “What kind of problem might you mean?” Sarie, watching from her place on the piano bench, fought an urge to laugh or maybe cry. She had the feeling she was watching something new and old, an important thing unfolding, right there in her parlor. Gilbert’s airs both irked and fascinated her. Who does he take himself for being? Sarie thought. She tapped her thighs with outstretched fingers, bit down on her lip.
The smile on Mr. Suleiman’s face, small, discreet, made Sarie think of cats. “Vehicular, in fact.” Mr. Suleiman leaned in. “Something for the engines?”
Gilbert, smiling a bit slyly, offered their guest coffee, which Sarie, sighing, rose to boil. Gilbert thought how pleasant it was in the parlor, suddenly! How fine! While Sarie moved about, opening a can and searching for a pot, Gilbert, like a schoolmaster himself, brought his hands together in his lap. He’d practiced for this, hadn’t he?
He asked Mr. Suleiman: Wasn’t it unorthodox, this visit, this coming to him so directly, yes, at home? And how exactly had he heard?
Mr. Suleiman did not give a clear answer. The line of whispered things and gestures, little nods and winks, he said, was too complex to follow. Perhaps, in fact, he had been asked by the person who had sent him not to let on to Mr. Turner exactly how he knew. For safety’s sake. But he would go this far: “Perhaps, let’s say, there are old friends here at work. Or perhaps that cold things are involved. Ice. Cream.”
Oh, how Gilbert liked to feel that he could say yes or maybe no. Or, Come back another day. Or, You have been misled. I’m afraid you are mistaken. Sarie, sucking at her cheeks, watched her husband from the doorway. At last Gilbert said, “It’s true.”
Mr. Suleiman continued. “My taxi,” he explained.
Gilbert breathed out through his nose as high officials do. He tilted his head sideways and watched his guest through half-closed, thinking eyes, then said, “I have admired your blue taxi, Mr. Suleiman, for very many years.” Sarie brought the coffee in. Mr. Suleiman thanked her with a raising of his palm and took a little sip. She sat down at the piano.
Gilbert, with his notebook, brought his pen to bear. They talked. Once the business part was done, he showed Mr. Suleiman a book, On Island Life and History, which Mr. Suleiman, having come from those green places long ago, was very pleased to see.
When he finally left, Mr. Suleiman passed Gilbert a tight tube of rolled bills, which he had hidden in his sleeve. “A show of faith, you see.” Sarie watched it all from the piano, and when Mr. Suleiman rose to go, she gathered up the coffee things and went into the kitchen, where she sat down at the table.
Gilbert, still pink from that first blush, came to find her and said, “Look at that! It’s working.” And Sarie nodded at him. My pink husband, Sarie thought. “Well,” she said, a keening in her teeth. “I think you should be proud.” Gilbert did feel proud, exactly, yes. And he wanted Sarie to be as glad for him as he was. “Come on, now, Sarie. You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”
From behind, he placed his palms on her broad shoulders, squeezing here and there. She thought how rubbery his hands were. How hard it was to feel the bones in them, how, really, they were not far off from fat. “When I tell Kazansthakis,” Gilbert said, “he will be excited.” Sarie made a
little sound like humming, thinking, If it’s going to be like this, I will have to look un peu heureuse, I will have to try. She said, “C’est vrai. Your friend will be happy. You’ve done a good thing here.” She couldn’t say her husband’s name. Since she had first said it to Majid Jeevanjee in Gilbert’s presence (“Gilbert’s proposition”), it had seemed impossible to say again in private to the man whose name it was. “Very good,” she said.
Gilbert rubbed and rubbed. Despite themselves, Sarie’s muscles loosened. Gilbert paused a moment, moved her hair away from her long neck to reach her better there. It was nice like this, to have a proper wife. “And that M.G.,” he said. “Wait till he hears this.” Sarie didn’t mean to, but she stiffened. Then took a deep breath. She looked up at her husband and tried on a new word. “He will feel outdone, I’m sure.”
At the new, exciting cafeteria of the Mountain Top Hotel, Hazel Towson paid for Sarie and herself “I was pleased, you know, to find your little note. It was so unexpected.”
Sarie, starting on her second bowl of custard, smiled at Hazel Towson in the white-white noontime light. She was glad the fans were working. “I also took the number of your telephone,” she said. “In case you did not fetch the letter soon.”
Hazel Towson laughed. She told Sarie that she passed by the British Council office almost every day. As involved as she was, with so many responsibilities, how could she do less? Although, of course, she was very glad that Sarie also had the number now, so that she could call the house in Scallop Bay, oh, any time at all. Sarie stroked the inner circle of her bowl with the long edge of her spoon so as not to miss a single bit of cream. “I’m so glad you want to help,” Hazel Towson said.
“Mrs. Hazel,” Sarie said, shifting her long legs and trying not to step on Hazel Towson’s feet, “I want to know your plan for the syringes. The vaccines.” She took a gulp of water and continued. “I was once, you know, almost like a nurse.”
Hazel Towson smiled and nodded softly, as if Sarie had just done what she had hoped she would for years. Kindly, she said, “Of course, of course, my dear.” And that Sarie ought to dispense with the “Mrs.” “Mrs. Hazel!” Hazel said. She laughed and put a hand up to her hair. “It sounds like something from a film, you know, an old one. As if I were an ancient.”
Sarie felt embarrassed, but Hazel Towson smiled. “Would you like another custard, Sarie? It’s things like that a woman craves, you know, when she is expecting.” She motioned to the waiter, then looked Sarie in the eye. “Are you sure you’ll have the strength to help us? Though it’s true you’ve done it all before, now, haven’t you? You’ve done well with little Agatha.”
Sarie had forgotten. She hadn’t thought about the pregnancy since that day in the gift shop, when Hazel Towson had attempted to explain about the precious stones. Hazel thought Sarie’s silence meant that Sarie had grown modest and that Hazel had, in her forthright farm girl’s way, embarrassed her by laying out the truth. Yet hadn’t Hazel overcome her own misgivings and her shyness? Hadn’t she forgiven Sarie for being pregnant in the midst of middle age? She reached across the table to stroke Sarie on the forearm, as though she were a child. “It must be difficult, at this time of your life. Oh, it must be a trial. But, still, miracles do happen, don’t they? I imagine our dear Gilbert’s making plans now, isn’t he? To get a little money? You’re going to need it, aren’t you? Children are expensive. And in these times I have to say that I’m especially grateful, knowing all your worries, that you’ve agreed to help us. It means very much to me.”
Sarie put her spoon down on the table. Around them, men and women talked. Waiters in starched uniforms, bearing dull tin pots of tea and soft drinks on brown trays, appeared to glide, like vultures, circling the room. Outside, Sarie saw a flash of blue. The swimming pool, she thought. Had Mr. Majid Ghulam Jeevanjee ever swum in such a basin? She hadn’t ever asked. She folded and unfolded her white napkin, set it to the side, and looked Hazel Towson in the eye. “Mrs. Hazel.” Sarie said. “There has been a mistake.” Sarie looked down at her lap and gestured to her stomach. “I am not expecting anymore.”
Hazel Towson, equal as she was to every kind of crisis, only faltered for a moment. She leaned in close to Sarie, so that Sarie smelled her breath, which was very clean, like cinnamon or mint. “Oh, my dear,” she said. Her hard, square hand felt soft on Sarie’s skin. “I am sorry, you know. We did rather think, yes, I did… well, that it could turn out like that.”
N. S. KÖENINGS grew up in East Africa, Europe, and the United States. Of Dutch and Belgian descent, she holds a B.A. in African Studies from Bryn Mawr College and a Ph.D. in Socio-cultural Anthropology from Indiana University, where she completed her M.F.A. in Fiction. She is currently teaching in Massachusetts.
IN THE MIDDLE of a busy intersection, in a city in Africa, a careening bus, a gongo-drinking driver, and—in an instant!—a terrifying collision nearly kills a local boy. Sarie Turner, a stunned witness, cannot stay on the sidelines. She offers the boy comfort until help comes, and for days afterward can think of nothing but his fate.
Once a nurse, now a housewife and mother, Belgian-born Sarie does not expect much excitement from life, but in the wake of this fateful accident, she finds herself with a new sense of purpose. However, when she tries to visit the ailing child, she is warned away. Those in the know say that there is a bad-luck cloud over the Jeevanjee household, ruled by a dangerous man known as Mad Majid. There is no telling what violence he might commit if she dares show up at his doorstep.
Still, dead set on her mission, Sarie ventures to the shuttered green house and finds there not a lunatic but a man haunted by grief for his nine-years-lost bride. Before long, their friendship blossoms into a taboo affair that surprises both them and the neighborhood eyes and ears.
Writing with an inventiveness and delight in language that is utterly her own, N. S. Köenings captures an African city brimming with life and full of contradictions, just like the people who inhabit it. The Blue Taxi is a dazzling tale of love, courage, and what happens when lives and fates collide.
N.S. KÖENINGS holds a BA in African studies from Bryn Mawr College and a PhD in sociocultural anthropology from Indiana University, where she completed her MFA in fiction. She has lived in East Africa and Europe. She is currently teaching at Hampshire College, in Massachusetts.
“TRAGIC AND EXHILARATING… AN ACCOMPLISHED DEBUT.”
—Publishers Weekly
FROM THE BLUE TAXI
Perhaps she shouldn’t go. Perhaps this girl was thinking just as Gilbert had, about the Muslim boy, the father, these very Jeevanjees, the mistakes Sarie might make. Off keel and embarrassed, Sarie stepped away. She thought of sleeping dogs, and blankets, almost said, “Yes, let the sick child rest. You’re right. I will not go today.” But she also thought of Agatha. They, not Gilbert, and not this narrow girl, had been witness to a thing far greater than themselves.
No. Sarie stretched her neck and described a circle in the air with her substantial chin. She brought a finger to her ear, pried Gilbert’s warnings out, and flicked them to the floor. She would not go back to the old flat to admit she had been bested, would not leave this clinic in defeat. Had she not felt required by the boy, the road, the world, that day on the corner? Sarie squared her rugged shoulders and looked Nisreen in the eye. “I am sure that we must visit.” She turned to Agatha and though her daughter hadn’t stirred, Sarie felt confirmed. She looked back at Nisreen. “We have to go, you see.”
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