The rest of them decided to carry on. They were terrified. I could see it in their eyes when they peeked in, not coming close. Although Blacky insisted what I had was probably not contagious, there was no way he could be sure. They didn’t want to die. I couldn’t blame them. They couldn’t afford to wait for me to die and so Blacky would stay on with me until I did.
I dreamed. Nightmares. I saw my brother. He was in that hallway where he met his death. How had he felt? How long had it hurt? I struggled to run. “Claire!” he called out to me. “Claire, come back!” I woke up to Blacky sitting there on the edge of my cot, his sleeves rolled up, his glasses on. He puzzled over what to do next, for although he still had me on his strongest antibiotics, nothing seemed to work. He rocked with exhaustion. Then came the cooling gauze on my hot forehead. Cool water dripping down my cheek. I clung to that.
Once, Chartreuse came in and placed a small red velvet cushion under my head. He looked at me and shed a tear, then walked away, anguished.
However, fooling everyone, I lived. One morning—the very morning the others were packing up to leave—I awakened to see the vans pulling away. Helplessly I watched them go. I was so weak I could barely lift my head. What will become of me? I thought. But I noticed Blacky’s Roy Orbison eyeglasses left behind on my nightstand. And then, I was astonished to see Blacky sleeping on the cot beside me. He was exhausted. One arm was flung across his face. His foot, lumpy with mosquito bites, hung over the side.
A bird sang shyly in the courtyard. I lifted myself to a sitting position. Putrid gauze was stuck to my arm, my neck. I peeled it from me and reached for the fresh cloth. I dipped it into the fresh water and caressed myself with it. It felt so good. Then, exhausted, I lay myself back on the pillow and gazed out the window with hollowed eyes. I had been near death, I knew, because I was now so far from it.
He opened his eyes and looked at me. The air must have been unpleasant. But sun shone weakly through the vapid windows. “I’d kill for a cup of tea,” I said.
He rolled over to me and touched my cheek. “Fever’s broke,” he said and folded himself onto the chair, falling asleep almost instantly. I watched him sleep while the sun rose in the sky.
A man came in. He jabbered in Afghani. I’d no idea what he said. He poured the night’s water on top of Blacky and I thought, That’s it, it’s all over now, he’ll die of the germs. But he stood up, shaking himself like a dog, and came over to me. He sank down onto a stool. “I was so afraid,” he confided. “I thought I’d have to go to America and tell your parents you were dead and I hadn’t been able to save you.”
“It would have been terrible for them,” I found the strength to say. I realized he was weeping in relief.
The man had gone outside. Suddenly Blacky stood up. He sort of sniffed the air.
“What?” I said.
He hardly heard me. He went outside to the van, picking up a shovel as he went.
There was a terrible commotion. Blacky was shouting. Other men shouted in Afghani. I was terrified. Then he came back in holding his shovel over his head. I must have still been delusional because for a moment I thought he’d come in to bury me.
“They dug a hole and positioned us over it,” he hissed. “Remember when they guided the vans into the enclave? I remember thinking they’d put us right over a hole and I’d better watch it when I backed up. Well, now I know why! One of them laid himself nicely into the hole and wedged a huge brick of hashish under our van! Can you believe it? They expected us to carry it over the borders, I suppose. Then they would have come and fetched it.”
I gaped at him from hooded eyes. “What did you do to them?”
He swung the shovel and stopped it midway. “I just threatened them with this. I threw their hashish at them. They won’t come after us for that. But we’d better get out of here. The honeymoon’s over in this place. Without Chartreuse here I don’t know what they’ll do. We can go on through the Khyber Pass and drive until Rishikesh. We’ll catch up with the gang in the Himalayas. Okay?”
I was still so weak I merely nodded.
He rushed around the room. “I’ll help you collect your things,” he said.
What things? I thought. “My camera,” I managed to say. My throat closed. My mouth was dry. I wanted to tell him he couldn’t possibly drive in his condition; if he took sick I wouldn’t know what to do. We could die in the desert. I wanted to thank him, to tell him I loved him. I wanted, even then, to sleep one whole night in his arms.
chapter fifteen
“Don’t get up,” Blacky called dismissively. “This Khyber Pass is a bit of a letdown when you see it.” He drove steadfastly through. He was still protecting me, afraid I might relapse. But I loved it. I loved the very words: Khyber Pass, the dull red earth and crouching men in their baggy kortahs. I wrote about it in my blue cloth-bound notebook. I raised myself up to look out the window. One saw me there and threw himself along the side of the van. “Baksheesh! Baksheesh!” he cried, cupping his hands in the universal alms-for-the-poor plea.
“Bugger!” Blacky swerved to avoid him.
I lay back on my worn red velvet pillow. I’d brought it with me from Chartreuse’s house. Certainly nobody there would have wanted it. They’d have burned it. But it was my resting place. While I’d lain there supposedly dying, flashes of pictures I’d taken had passed before me. In a way, those pictures had refreshed me like lozenges. And now, as we drove out of Pakistan, I was beginning to have what I thought might be a really good plan. Something had bothered me since the beginning of the trip. No one had given me a contract for my job as junior crew photographer and all the work I was doing was on spec. Ever since Frau Zwekl had left me her lot, no one bothered to worry if I was all right financially, they just assumed I was. But really, I wouldn’t see that money for a good long while. What, I’d worried, if they let me go? It rankled because everyone else had got a cut of the layout money up front. I’d been so grateful that they had me along that I’d never mentioned it. But as we made our way through the Khyber Pass a new thought occurred to me, and it occurred to me like an epiphany. In the same way that they were not bound to me, I, after all, could not be held bound to them. And perhaps this wasn’t such a bad thing—might even one day become an advantage. They didn’t own my film if they hadn’t paid for it. If I could make a book of all my pictures, I bet I could find a buyer for it. I knew some of them were good just by the thrill I felt at the moment I shot them. Yes, I felt myself glow with the realization.
Especially the women. Heck, I had a way with the women. I shot them from inside out. There was a certainty there you couldn’t manufacture with any hype or praise. No, they were good. So good that I kept the finished rolls of film in a tapestry sack, along with my camera, that I wouldn’t part with. Even while I’d been ill and was past recognizing anyone, I’d known my bag of film was in its spot. Neurotically, once I’d been well enough to think, I’d grope in the dark to make sure it was still with me. The first thing I did in the morning was look for it. Yes. The bumpy tapestry sack was still there. My future was still there. A camera could be replaced, but never the film. Whether or not the film crew kept me on, my future might be assured just with those precious moments frozen by my choosing. And whatever I looked like when I got back to Munich, I would have a skill. I unlaced my towering espadrilles and took them off. I was done with discomfort. I put on a pair of Isolde’s famous socks with the leather soles sewn on. I could wear them out and simply move on to the next, she’d given us so many. There. And if Blacky didn’t like me as I was, I told myself, he could find someone else. I wriggled my toes. Wow. The moment of true self-possession. I would no longer go through life trying to impress. I’d walk this world allowing myself to be impressed.
I bought a ceramic yogurt pot through the van window from a poor man. I gave him so much money for it he started to choke and Blacky reprimanded me for a long time. I took a little umbrage at him telling me what to do with my own money. That’s the thing about men. The minute you s
leep with them they think they have rights. As we drove along the air seemed to hum with both our indignation.
After a while, though, he climbed into the back of the van.
“Are we moving?” I asked.
“No, of course not.” He put his head on my stomach. We lay there like that.
“It feels like we’re moving,” I said and we started to laugh. I touched the lush black curls. An arrow of fine hair slid in a marking down from his neck to the tail of his spine. It sent a shiver of lust through me. “Where are we?” I asked him when I caught my breath. “It feels so noisy. What town is this?”
“Rishikesh. Just southeast of Dehra Dun.” He stood. “It’s ten at night. You’ve been sleeping for days.”
“Yes.” I stretched, gloriously rested and replenished. Just being well was enough.
“We’re in India, finally.” He returned to the wheel. Off we went.
India. I remembered the first time I’d heard him say the word so seductively, long ago in Isolde’s flat. I pulled myself up, spread the curtains, and looked out the window, feasting upon the scene.
Droves of Indians milled around the van. Rishikesh! Through the dark streets hummed a seedy, noisy little town. It was a holy city, traditionally a stopover for Hindu pilgrims. The streets clattered with horse carts shuttling ladies in saris from ashram to hotel. Curious truck drivers stood gaping in doorways cut through with harsh white light from dangerously low-hanging, flickering lightbulbs, and barefoot, orange-robed sadhus paraded about with waist-length hair and glazed-over eyes. There was a tremendous jingle-jangle going on, prayer bead hawkers and street vendors clanging in a hubbub. It was all so hectic after my silent stretch of healing, I instantly longed to get away. “My God!” I groaned. “So many people! Like ants. Where do they all come from?”
Blacky said, returning to the wheel and starting up the engine, “I’m having a tough time not hitting any of them. They act oblivious. It’s like they don’t care if they get hit or not!”
The van inched its way through the crowds. The town cringed and jangled with activity. Lepers bounded up and shoved each other in the way of the van. “Baksheesh! Baksheesh!” they shouted.
“What do they want?” I cried and climbed into the passenger seat.
Blacky gently took my hand as he continued to drive. “Every city in India has its lepers, Claire. The holy cities attract more simply because business is better there. Indians on retreat are noticeably more generous than those at home. Because we are situated here within one of the most backward regions of India, where leprosy is believed to be the punishment of a crime committed in a previous life, the city carries the burden of these blighted inhabitants blindly.”
“But why? Why does no one help?”
“Because to approach or associate with them socially would mean to interfere with the leper’s karma, thereby contaminating one’s self not only physically but spiritually.”
“Oh, God, they’re horrible!”
Blacky’s jaw set. “Not as horrible as those Westerners who ignore them. You’ll see. It rubs off. You’ll find you can simply avert your eyes and walk on by.”
“I could never ignore them,” I protested.
Sitar music yelped tinnily from cheap radios skeletal women had traded for now-forever-gone fertility. (Have your tubes tied, here’s your radio. Next!) Their noses were pierced with silver hoops, and the stuffy odor of sandalwood and curry incense lingered over the stink of worse and rotten smells. Teams of beggars outside air-conditioned restaurants spat horrid gobs of “oyster” where the swarthy Sikhs in turbans hustled by in rubber-banded beards and arrogant disdain.
“Don’t worry, Claire.” Blacky twirled the wheel happily. “Chartreuse told me about a magical guru who runs a quiet and reasonably priced inn. It’s called the Alpine Cottage.”
“Really?” I drew back, horrified, from the window. “I can’t imagine anything peaceful around here. This is worse than Penn Station at rush hour! And the dust!”
“Chartreuse said he’s the real deal,” Blacky forecast enthusiastically.
I knew he’d been looking forward to this. I just wished we would get there soon. The arid ground, the throngs of people—it was like being caught in a wind tunnel. The Ganges, fortunately, moistened the dust with whale-sized puddles and rivulets. We followed it out of town to find that peaceful inn.
We got lost several times and by the time we drove into the hovel of trees behind the pale sign announcing ALPINE COTTAGE—ALL WELCOME, it was the wee hours. A dog barked. I saw a rainbow parrot stomping out on a tin roof to see what was up. A white-haired swami, maybe sixty, his face coffee white, his body hard as a nut and like a boy’s, came out to greet us. He seemed pleased to see us and folded his hands into a steeple. The kitchen was just a table and a bubbling cauldron in the yard, but the library was lined with books and in the welcoming room doilies graced the ragged cashmere easy chairs.
Blacky had been expecting an impressive ashram, I think, and I could tell he was disappointed by the paltriness of the place, but I reminded him that by the standards we were by now used to, the place seemed almost elegant.
There were no other guests in residence and the swami had only one apostle. His name was Narayan and he was no more than a slip of a boy. He was incredibly beautiful. He didn’t seem very holy. What most impressed him was my dazzling collection of beads, which he walked right up to and took hold of. Narayan had a way of standing too close to you. He had no sense of discretion. The swami collected our passports himself and sent his apostle off to make us some chi.
I didn’t want to stay in the cloister-like room allotted us. It was light green and had the fluorescence of a Chinese restaurant. I thought Blacky wouldn’t want sex in a room like that with two cots and the thin walls. “Why don’t we stay in the van?” I persuaded, leaning against him. He gave in and we climbed back into our cozy womb of bliss protected from invaders by the Alpine Cottage’s strong walls and gates.
That night he climbed in the van and on top of me. I protested, “But I’m so not ready!”
“I’ll take care,” he breathed, aroused, in my ear.
“Okay, then. Sure.” I gave in, easy.
He pulled my hips up onto him and straddled me, entering me with his dark penis, eliciting from me those moans of acquiescence you can’t help making, you can’t help the rapture. It just goes on and on until you know you’ve found it, there. Yes, there, your teeth little cushions around his shoulder’s flesh, your inner parasol opening, opening, pouring with rapture’s own rain.
When I woke up in the morning, Blacky and Swamiji were already drinking chi out in the garden. They’d hit it off very well. They were discussing philosophy, a subject they both seemed well up on. There were German newspapers and a copy of Der Spiegel on the small table before them so I knew Blacky had already been up and out to the embassy. My heart sank. One copy of Der Spiegel and I’d lose him for days. But life is not about controlling someone else, it’s about bringing the best out of him. I put on my biggest smile and went over.
Blacky gave a wave when he saw me. I sat down and joined them on a rickety stool. Someone had gone for sweet buns. I could have eaten them all. I hadn’t had an appetite in so long, now I was prepared to eat the plate.
The Alpine Cottage might not have been an established, touristy holy place, but it was authentic, I thought, very peaceful and well kept, however poor. Narayan seemed to spend most of his time sweeping the place out.
When I was in the middle of my second bun I realized they were looking at me in a funny way. “What’s wrong?” I said.
Blacky held out an old copy of the German paper. It was crumpled, having been read many times. It was dated two weeks ago.
“What is it?”
“It says here,” Blacky read excitedly, “members of the Democratic and Republican leadership of the House of Representatives began talking publicly and seriously about impeaching President Nixon.”
“Wow. Let me see that.”
“Oh! Almost forgot!” Blacky patted his shirt pocket. “Claire! Here.” He passed me two letters, one an official-looking beige envelope on hefty ivory stock from Zurich and the other a flimsy blue airmail letter from America.
I opened the official-looking one first. It was from Herr Binnemann.
“What’s it say?” He hovered at my elbow.
I blinked. I took my time, rereading the letter twice. “It seems,” my voice was thick as the words came out, “that Frau Zwekl had some debts. I won’t be seeing as much money as I’d thought from her estate.”
“Oh.” He raked his hair back with his fingers. “How much will you be getting?”
I handed him the letter.
“Hmm,” he said finally. Then, “Well, cheer up. It will pay for this trip, won’t it?”
I felt sick. “Just.” I sat down on a pile of straw mats. This was a blow. From heiress to adventuress.
He was disappointed for me, I could tell. But I couldn’t help feeling I’d toppled in his estimation. He assessed my misery. “Look,” he said, “you’ll make tons of money modeling when we get back to Munich. You know you will!” He flicked the bottom of my chin.
I’d thought we both knew I was going to try my luck as a photographer when I got back to Munich. “But, Blacky—”
“Hey. Come on! You have another letter. Maybe it’s good news! One bad, one good. That’s how it goes.”
Doubtfully, I opened it quickly. This was from Carmela, my sister, the older one, the beauty. You know. Looks like Snow White but mean as the stepmother. I felt myself trembling already. “Dear Claire,” it began, “What the hell do you think you’re doing traveling around the goddamn world when I’m stuck here like this, divorced, with mommy and daddy? What are you thinking? And Zinnie says when she graduates she’s going into the police academy! That’s your fault, too!”
I folded up the letter and stuck it in my bag without finishing it. I pushed it out of sight, out of mind. But I could just see my little sister, Zinnie, short and blond and fierce, making claims to go clean up the world. “A clear conscience has the strength of ten men,” Michael used to tell us. She’d fallen for it, all right.
Pack Up the Moon Page 20
