Last India Overland

by Craig Grant

  We find a dingy little pub that sells beer, but I get the distinct impression that the bartender doesn’t like us too much because he makes a joke to two fat old men sitting in the comer and they laugh and he kind of smirks at us. And I think he probably charged us at least triple for the beer because it didn’t take us long to run out of dinars and have to go looking for a moneychanger.

  Rockstar’s in a fine old mood as we walk around that city.

  “We has to write a book about all the beers we drank in Europe on this trip, Muck-hole,” he says.

  “That’d be a best seller for sure, Rockstar,” I say.

  Before we find the moneychanger, though, we find Patrick, sitting by himself in a wicker chair in a little outdoor cafe, writing in the daybook. Even though it wasn’t his turn to write in the daybook. He’d just had his turn in Venice. Which maybe tells you something about the kind of guy Patrick is.

  Rockstar punches me in my ribs with his elbow, which pretty well knocks a day’s worth of air out of me, and then says, “I bet Dr. Livingstone will lend us some dinners. Don’t you think so, huh, Muckle?”

  I say, “Anything’s possible, Rockstar.”

  Rockstar sneaks up on Patrick from behind. Patrick’s humming away as he writes, and he’s taking a sip from a tall glass of wine when Rockstar gives his left ear a yank. Patrick lets out a yelp and spills some wine.

  Right about then I get this feeling that you get from nightmares, the ones that wake you up and are so bad that you don’t want to go back to sleep. I had one of those last night actually. Me and Kelly back in Venice, before we got lost. Those three nuns in black. I dreamed one of them stood up and took off her habit. There was nothing but bones underneath. Let’s make love, she said to me, and then I woke up. Saw palm tree shadows waving at me like happy gargoyles. Tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t. Maybe because I remembered what day it was I’d got to in this.

  Patrick’s daybook entry

  On this, Day Ten of the Great Indian Trek, I take daybook in hand, once we park near the Stradun, and find my way to an outdoor cafe with covered tables, where I order a glass of wine and open the daybook. And pick up my pen. And wait for the Muse to descend. But by the time the wine arrived, a glass of musky red, sporting the bouquet of a beaker of diseased urine samples and the dubious appellation, Rebula, I had yet to write a single word. After all, what to say? There are no secrets on this bus. Everyone knows that the potato skins and bran flakes have yet to make an impact on my immovable bowels. Everyone knows that we should have stocks at the back of the bus for the benefit of one Herr Scheisskopf. Everyone knows that Mister McPherson will never get a job cleaning skyscraper windows.

  So all I can do is attempt to grasp a moment of time, and make it true, make it live. In truth, my mood is as grey as these skies above Dubrovnik. Clouds, like pregnant pachyderms, hover above my head, their water bags full to bursting. The penile snout of Mount Srd is prodding those clouds in a menacing *

  Mick

  Patrick didn’t look too happy to see the two of us. “Ah,” he said, putting down his pen. “The Terrible Duo. How wonderful.”

  I didn’t really appreciate being lumped in with Rockstar like that. What’d I ever do to Patrick? But I let it pass.

  He was about to close the daybook when Rockstar grabbed it and said, “What’cha writin’ in the daybook, Dr. Livingstone? Somethin’ about me?”

  “Not at all,” said Patrick. “Just mild ruminations about the weather is all.”

  I sat down at one of the other wicker chairs and Patrick told me to feel free to have some wine.

  But there was just the one glass.

  Patrick smiled a half-smile. “Come now, Mr. McPherson. I didn’t think you were one to stand on ceremony.”

  So I picked up the bottle and knocked back a gulp or two. It tasted like some kind of mix between vinegar and gin. “Rather dry, isn’t it?” said Patrick.

  I said yeah.

  Then Rockstar said, “What does this Hair Shish-cop mean anyway, Dr. Livingstone?”

  Patrick sighed. “It’s merely German for Rockstar. Fear not. It is really not in the least derogatory.”

  Rockstar looked at me. “That right, Muck-hole?”

  I shrugged. “I think so,” I said. But I knew what it meant. I used to read Sgt. Fury comics. Stan Lee’s little way of tweaking the nose of the comic censors, I guess. Shithead, that’s what it meant.

  Rockstar got bored with the daybook. Slammed it shut and shoved it down the front of his jeans. His eyes dilating like crazy. Reminded me of something Jenkins said when we were talking about Rockstar one night. He said Rockstar had eyes like searchlights going nuts during a prison break. With a guy like that, he said, you have to stay as neutral as possible. Don’t become his friend, he said, because as soon as you lose the status quo the whole thing can swing in the other direction and he’ll come gunnin’ for you.

  This was Jenkins, I think, offering me a little bit of friendly advice.

  Rockstar grabbed the bottle of wine off the table and let it all gurgle down into that gullet of his, then he let out a huge burp and wiped his mouth and sneered at Patrick.

  “That was bloody awful, Dr. Livingstone,” he said. “You actually drink this shit?”

  “If you sip it slowly,” said Patrick, “it can grow on you.”

  I knew what Patrick was thinking: almost anything could grow on you, Herr Scheisskopf.

  Rockstar looked at me and said, “What we need is more beers, ain’t that right, Muckle?”

  “That’s right, Rockstar,” I said.

  He looked at Patrick. “You got any dinners, Dr. Livingstone, I Presume? Me and Muckle, we’re all out of dinners.”

  “I’m afraid that I am equally destitute,” said Patrick. “This botde of Rebula has absorbed all my liquid resources.” Rockstar looked at him and grinned the smile that wolf likely laid on Little Red Riding Hood. Rockstar the smiler. “You wouldn’t be fuckin’ with us, would you now, Dr. Livingstone?”

  Patrick let out another sigh. Patrick the sigher. “Not at all, Herr Scheisskopf. I pride myself upon possessing a certain high moral rectitude.”

  Rockstar looked around. Looked off towards those rampart walls. Said, “Well, let’s do somethin’. Let’s go walk those walls.” He looked at me. “Whaddya say, Muckle? Wanna go walk them walls?”

  I said, “Nah, I don’t like high places.”

  Rockstar said, “Come on, Muckle. They ain’t that high.” I guess Patrick must’ve figured anything would be better than sitting there jawing, and he did have his Pentax with him. He was probably just having a glass of wine to get in the mood for some picture taking. He said, “Yes, Mr. McPherson, they’re not that high. And there does seem to be a storm of some sort moving in. If we’re going to see them, I believe it best we do so soon.”

  So I said fine, whatever you say, I’m easy, and we walked over to the rampart walls, but it cost something to get in, so I said, “Well, that settles it, we’re all broke,” but Patrick said, “Well, it’s a minimal fee, I do believe I should be able to scrape together from the very bottom of my pockets the necessary funds.”

  It cost twenty dinars to get in, which is something like four bits, and Patrick was nice enough to pay for all of us.

  Rockstar gave him a wicked clap on the back as we started up the steps. “Thanks a lot, Dr. Livingstone. Good thing you

  had those few dinners left, huh?”

  Patrick said, yes, indeed, it was most fortuitous.

  There must’ve been a thousand steps up to the top of the rampart walls and we had to stop about halfway up to take a breather. Patrick took pictures of me and Rockstar taking the breather. Rockstar grinning that smile. Then we went back to walking, about the time it started to rain. Light cold drizzle.

  When we finally got to the top of the walls, Patrick really swung into action. There was this island off to the left and this mountain mostly hidden in mist right in front of us and behind us all those red roofs of the
city fading off into more mist.

  It was a nice view. Made me homesick for Vancouver though. We walked along the ramparts slow while Patrick took pictures and it was Rockstar who asked Patrick if he wanted us to take a picture of him.

  Patrick said, “No, that’s really quite alright, though thank you very much for asking.”

  Rockstar said, “That’s okay.” Smiled. I could feel the acid vibe bouncing off him. It looked like he had this grey aura but that could’ve been the mist and cloud.

  We walked some more and then Patrick stopped and took some more pictures and Rockstar kind of wandered off by himself a ways. Which is when Patrick lifted the camera off from around his neck and handed it to me and said, “Actually I wouldn’t mind one or two pictures. Just to add a personal human element to the slide show I will undoubtedly stage, if and when I get back to Somerset society.”

  So I took a few pictures of Patrick. Him standing against the wall, smiling, or looking off towards the island and mountain. Leaning against the wall. Wall was maybe three and a half feet, four feet, high.

  And all of a sudden the camera is whipped out of my hand and Rockstar’s got it.

  “Let me take some pictures,” he said. “I forgot my Polaroid, see.”

  The one thing didn’t really follow from the other, but that was Rockstar for you.

  He went over to the rampart wall and started snapping pictures looking down and I looked at Patrick. He looked worried. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking, oh, oh.

  “Please be very careful with the camera, Rob,” he said, walking over to the wall, reaching out for it. “It’s quite expensive.”

  Which is when Rockstar goes, “Whoops,” and Patrick leans over the wall, and Rockstar must’ve had it all planned out. Just like that, he bends down and sticks his right arm under Patrick’s crotch and heaves up.

  Rockstar wasn’t no lightweight. Up went Patrick. Patrick let out a high little yelp. Tried grabbing onto the edge of the wall. But I guess it was slippery from the rain.

  Rockstar had a good hold on that left thigh of Patrick’s and he just pushed him over the wall and then all I can see is just both Patrick’s legs waving in the air.

  “Christ, Rockstar,” I said, and I had this feeling wash over me like people must get when they suddenly find themselves in shark-infested waters.

  I was maybe picking up on the way Patrick suddenly felt.

  I ran over to the wall. Patrick was screaming in this high, choked little voice that didn’t carry very far. He didn’t have his glasses on any more. His hands were scrabbling around near his waist, looking for a handhold but his fingers only came within an inch or two of the top of the wall. Rockstar still had hold of Patrick’s Pentax. It was banging against the wall. Rockstar was shaking him and there was all these dinars falling out of Patrick’s pockets.

  “Gee, Dr. Livingstone,” said Rockstar in a voice that had a mean cackle in it. “I thought you was broke. Looks like you got lots of dinners!”

  He shook him some more but that was all that came out. I grabbed onto Patrick’s right leg but I couldn’t get much of a hold, I couldn’t pull him back without Rockstar’s help. All those rocks and waves below, so fucking far away, made my head swim. And I could see there was a problem starting to develop. Patrick jerking around like a fish on a hook had made him snap his buttons or something. His pants were starting to slide off. I could see the cheeks of his ass. Little streams of shit were rushing out. “Pull him back, Rockstar.” I yelled. “Grab a brain.” Rockstar looked at me.

  “This is crazy,” I said to him in what I hoped was a level tone of voice. “You’ve freaked him out. Now pull him back.”

  By this time, Patrick had quit screaming and just went

  slack, limp, a sack of bones in skin.

  A little gleam of sanity returned to Rockstar’s eyes. He said, “Yeah, okay, Muckle.”

  We started pulling Patrick back over, and I really don’t know if Rockstar meant to or not, Dave says does it really matter? but he lost hold of Patrick’s Pentax when he was getting hold of Patrick’s arm and down it fell. It seemed like a long time before it finally smashed up on the boulders below.

  When we do manage to get Patrick hauled back over the wall, he just lays there in a blubbering heap. All that runny shit trickling out of him.

  I get the daybook from Rockstar, scrape most of the shit off with some blank pages, and then I try to pull Patrick’s pants up, but he wasn’t in the mood to co-operate much. Rockstar was standing around with his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish. Some tourists, no one from the bus, turned a corner on the wall about fifty yards away, took one look at us and turned around and went the other way.

  I told Rockstar maybe he should just take off, I’ll take care of Patrick, and he didn’t waste a minute, he said sure, Muckle.

  I waited five or ten minutes but Patrick still didn’t snap out of it, so finally I put a hand on his shoulder and I said to him, “Well, look at it this way, Dr. Livingstone. At least you ain’t constipated any more.”

  Patrick finally did get his act together, sort of. Enough that I was able to help him down all those stairs to find a can, and it wasn’t until he was finished cleaning up that he realized his camera was gone, his glasses too.

  “I’m going to kill him,” he mumbled beneath his breath. And that was all he had to say about it.

  I wanted to ask Patrick how it felt, to be dangling above the hairy, scary jaws of death like that, but I decided to save it for some other time.

  On the way to the bus, Patrick asked me to keep what had just happened a secret. I don’t know what his reasons were, though Dave says they weren’t anything too profound. Patrick figured that what had happened wasn’t anything that Rockstar was going to broadcast, and he was right about that, as far as I know.

  Rockstar wasn’t on the bus when we got back, and he wasn’t back when it was time to leave so Pete left without him.

  The rain started coming down in sheets as we pulled out of town.

  Back at camp, Patrick let Suzie know that he was going to take a nap in the tent and that he would appreciate some privacy.

  “What are you going to do?” said Suzie. “Pull your pud all afternoon?”

  “Precisely,” said Patrick. He looked real mournful, with the rain plastering the little bit of hair he had down over his forehead. He walked with his head bowed through the mud to his tent. I remember watching him zip the tent flap down and thinking that there was no way I would want to be alone in a tent with his thoughts, not on a rain-soaked day like that.

  As for the rest of us, till of us except for Tim and Teach sat on the bus and listened to music and wrote letters home and watched the rain come down. Kelly wanted to know if something happened and I said Patrick just slipped on some wet steps, that’s all.

  Rockstar showed up late that night. I was in my sleeping bag, talking to Jenkins about movies, when he unzipped the flap and crawled in. He was totally blitzed. He didn’t say a thing. He just crawled over to his Li-lo and conked out.

  The next day Pete told us we’d be staying put for the day because the rain hadn’t stopped and he was worried about the roads through the Black Mountains. So we went back into Dubrovnik and Pete showed us a few churches and a couple palaces and we had lunch and then it was back to camp for more rain watching. I got into a little conversation with Kelly about tarot cards. We’d been listening to Dylan’s Street Legal. There’s that song “The Changing of the Guards.” None of it made any sense as far as I was concerned. We listened to it about a dozen times that day. Just kept rewinding it and rewinding it. Drove everybody else nuts, I think.

  Kelly said she figured the song was aimed directly at either the subconscious or the superego. She’d never really had a one-on-one chat with either, she said, to know the exact difference, but it was one or the other that had the power to bend spoons and arrange cards, all of which led to her shuffling that tarot deck of hers, the cards all circular. She asked me when I was
born. When I said I was a Cappie, she took out a card called the Knight of Pentacles and laid it on the table

  and shuffled some more and laid out twelve cards in a circle.

  Dave says it’s not important to go through that reading. We didn’t actually get through it thanks to Patrick. But I remember some of the cards. The Queen of Swords in what Kelly called the Eighth House. The house of death and sex and taxes. Had a picture of Kali on it. She had eight arms and six boobs and she was squatted like a vulture on this cat. And then there was the Nine of Swords in what Kelly called my Sixth House, of health. Guy laying flat on his stomach with nine swords sticking out of his back. Kelly pointed out he didn’t look healthy at all and I should maybe watch my health. And in what Kelly called the Seventh House, of marriage, there was the Two of Swords. Blindfolded woman carrying two swords. Kelly said this meant my love life was going to be presented with what she called the need for decision.

  “There isn’t, necessarily, any right or wrong decision,” she said. “There is just the decision itself.”

  She was telling me about the Queen of Cups in my Fifth House, of creativity and love affairs, but that was when Patrick sat down wearing what must’ve been a spare pair of glasses. Looked at this card called the Five of Wands. Had soldiers fighting on it. Told us some stupid limey joke but told it in this sad way designed to make me feel sorry for him or something. Patrick and his fucking sense of dramatics.

  I would’ve been really pissed off. But it was kind of hard not to sympathize with him. And Kelly pushed all those cards together before she had a chance to tell me what the rest of them meant, and I called her on it, and she said they’re not meant to be taken all that seriously, Mick.

  Patrick asked her if perhaps the cards could answer a question for him.

  “I have quite an interest,” he said, “in matters arcane and occult.”

  Kelly said, “I try to do only one reading a day.”

  Patrick said, “But I’m afraid I have an important decision to make concerning my immediate future. It would be interesting to see what the metaphysical world had to say about it.”