18mm Blues (20 page)

“How much is that?”

“About a dollar and a quarter. When in your life have you ever paid a dollar and a quarter for a pack of gum, except maybe in an airport? They figure when they've got you they should take you. What an outrage!” She blew out a funnel of invisible chafe. Grady had never seen her so annoyed, and over such a minor thing. It made him wonder what other furies she was capable of. Would she, for instance, be this aggravated if he ever forgot to raise the toilet seat? He thought so. Decided after hardly a few moments of consideration it was in her favor that she was so volatilely stoked. It gave her tone. He wouldn't want her predictably agreeable. As a matter of fact, he told himself, he was rather looking forward to their first vigorous difference and, of course, the intense loving that would follow. Not that he wanted theirs to be one of those fight and fuck relationships. He'd never let it get to that.

While these were Grady's thoughts he watched Julia rip open the pack of gum to reveal the silver foil-wrapped ends of the five sticks it contained. His lagged eyes, fixed on this inconsequential procedure, seemed to magnify each step of it. The coordination of her thumb and the nail of her second finger pulling out the top stick, tearing away its green paper wrapper (outer garments) to show its foil covering (flashy underthings), then inserting a thumbnail beneath the helpful serrated edge to peel off the foil and have the thing … nude.

She folded the length of the gum twice, put it in her mouth.

She hadn't yet told him she loved him, Grady thought, at least, not verbally. She did a stick of the gum for him and he opened his mouth to receive it.

Nor, for that matter, had he in words told her he loved her, he thought.

Another stick for herself, another for him. That left the last.

He refused it but believed she'd insist he have it, but she didn't, just denuded it and added it to her chew and resumed where she'd left off on a page of Alice A. Bailey, a paragraph having to deal with the reasons certain souls might be reluctant, even refuse, to make the transition into the afterlife.

CHAPTER NINE

Close to three hours and precisely 374 air miles later Grady and Julia were being processed by a customs official at Mingaladon Airport in Rangoon. The official was an unattractive fellow with such a severe and irregular overbite that the tip of his left incisor was visible when his mouth was closed. That, along with the deep downward creases from each corner of his mouth and the obdurate glare of his dark eyes, caused the immediate impression that he was unfriendly.

However, in return for a look through Grady's and Julia's passports the official activated such a smile that it seemed he might have found something amusing on the pages. There in magenta and green ink were the seven-day visa stamps and, inserted for examination in the back of Grady's passport, were the applied for and issued Union of Burma credentials that identified him as a qualified gem dealer approved to attend the Emporium. Also there, the required currency form Grady had filled out in duplicate just prior to landing. It not only required that he declare how much money he was bringing in but that during his stay he also keep a written account of every exchange and expenditure he made. The whole thing would have to balance out precisely upon departure. Grady considered declaring only a hundred of the hundred and fifty thousand he had on him. There had been instances in his pursuit of gems in various other foreign places when being able to come up with some unexpected cash had worked wonders. Thus, his hand had wanted to write a hundred thousand on the currency form. His better judgment, however, owned up to the whole hundred and fifty.

Passport, credentials, forms, all were in order. The official, as though expressing personal joy, raised his stamping device high and slammed it down on a vacant passport page. Noting date and time of entry. Then came the first words he'd spoken:
“Hkunni,”
he said, “seven, seven days, no more.” He held up seven fingers and wiggled them for emphasis. Grady, in boning up on the dos and don'ts of Burma, had read how strict the government was about visitors adhering to the length of their visas. Seven days meant not an hour more. Overstayers would be punished. Punished?

Grady and Julia proceeded to the next area, where their baggage would be inspected. The inspector they got was no less good-natured, although Julia thought it intentionally perverse the way he made a shambles of the contents of each bag as he searched. She prided herself in being an excellent, extremely organized packer, and now there were her silkies and flimsies and, as well, her everyday, practical cotton underthings topping the peak of a haphazard pile. Grady noticed how the inspector kept coming back to those and riffling through them.

“What nerve,” Julia remarked.

Grady hoped she wouldn't cause a scene, thought she was bound to as without waiting for the inspector's consent she flipped down the lid of that particular bag and zipped it up. Then all four bags were closed and zipped and the inspector wielded a chalky, yellow crayon to slash his validating mark across the face of each. They proceeded then through an outward opening door to where, most prominent, was the teller's window of an official money exchange. Grady converted a hundred dollars into a sheaf of kyats. Gave half to Julia for her possible needs.

Neither Grady nor Julia felt as though they'd finally arrived in Burma until they were out of the terminal, in the awful humidity and being ulteriorly welcomed by what must have been twenty hustling taxi drivers.

The taxi they chose was a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air, red and cream with its original paint miraculously surviving. It had a whiplike radio antenna, no hubcaps and one of its tires was a vintage-type whitewall, no doubt weary of being time and time again recapped. The driver and owner of this vehicle was a typical slightly built Burman with a contradicting moon face and a stringy mass of jet black hair. He smiled and kept smiling as rather victoriously he loaded the bags into the trunk. One of his upper front teeth, Grady noticed, was completely gold capped and inset with a heart-shaped piece of lavender jade.

The driver got behind the wheel, started up, but wouldn't pull out until the fare was negotiated. He began with a straight face at fifty kyats (approximately seven dollars), which was tantamount to thievery. Grady, on principle, didn't let him get away with it, nor with a reduction to thirty kyats. Grady knew from his pretrip reading what was fair, and twenty-five kyats was settled upon. The driver pulled the taxi out abruptly and soon had it beyond the airport complex and headed at its old-age full speed south in the direction of Rangoon City.

It was late afternoon. There had been the usual brief but drenching daily rain and the air was still steamy from it, more redolent than fresh with the pervasive scent of some sort of spice. All the windows of the car were down (no handles to roll them up), and, despite the humidity, it felt pleasant to Grady and Julia to have the fifty-mile-per-hour turbulence striking their faces and whipping their hair. Meanwhile, the driver was offsetting his tedium by making the playful most of the depressions in the highway where rainwater was pooled. He splashed every possible puddle, swerved sharply several times to splash some he would have otherwise missed.

All the way down Prome Road to where it intersected with Yard Road. A turn onto Yard and then after a short ways the view about a quarter mile off to the left was enriched with the stupa of a major pagoda, a single, sharp, bell-shaped spire coated with gold. A little farther on the stark white multi-tiered base of the pagoda could be seen. This sight was erased by a right turn onto Kaba Aye Road, followed within the minute by another right for the long hooking drive of the hotel.

The surrounding grounds of it were extensive. The shrubbery, azaleas, camellias and the like, and the trees, various palms and other tropicals, were nicely trimmed and shaped. Julia, but especially Grady, was encouraged by how verdant, well nourished and tended were the large areas of lawn and the many ample beds of flowers.

Then there was the huge hotel.

A five-story chunk of concrete. Built by the Soviets in 1960, its architectural personality was unmistakably Khrushchev—a close cousin or perhaps even an identical blueprint twin of one of those make-do structures put up about that same time around Moscow to house the common comrades. Flat sided, no such thing as a balcony or a setback, small, repetitious windows. The only embellishment, and that no doubt an afterthought, was a red canvas canopy from curb to front entrance. Four soldiers stood precisely spaced to the left of the entrance. Four more to the right. Staunch look-alikes, identically uniformed, bandoliered, automatic rifles slung, they appeared ready to take on trouble or cause it. Except, Grady noticed, none of them had on shoes. Didn't being shoeless make them not so intimidating? Grady told himself to ignore them or consider them a sort of honor guard.

He and Julia entered and crossed the spacious lobby. It was moderately bustling, and other soldiers were standing here and there. At reception the clerk turned to the varnished teak counter to serve them. He would have been a nondescript Burman had it not been for his mouth. It was naturally pursed, crimped all around, looked as though it would be painful, or, at the very least, difficult for him to open it.

He didn't. His greeting was a single nod.

Grady produced his and Julia's passports and his Emporium credentials.

The clerk didn't look at the passports, just took them. He glanced at the Emporium credentials, consulted a reservation list, ran down it several times until he had Grady concerned.

“Bowman,” the clerk discovered aloud, mispronouncing the first syllable.

To Grady it seemed that he'd only just heard his name but, as well, seen it come from that mouth.

“Three-thirty-seven,” the clerk said as from somewhere beneath the counter he came up with a key attached to a clear disc the size of a Ping-Pong paddle.

“We wish to be shown the room first,” Julia said firmly.

“Yeah, we'd like to see it,” Grady seconded. Actually, he and his lag were ready to settle for any space that would allow him to get horizontal for a while.

The clerk summoned a porter who took the key and led the way to one of the elevators and on up to the third floor. Three-thirty-seven was two-thirds of the way down the excessively wide corridor. The porter unlocked the door, swung it open and waited outside while Grady and Julia went in.

The room had a high ceiling but was small. Crowded by its furnishings, which were only the essentials: a double bed, night-stands, dresser drawers, an armchair. All of a lesser quality than even average guest-proof motel room furniture. It was veneered blond, a half-century outdated with the brass plating of its cast iron pulls and knobs worn off. Beige wall-to-wall carpet that had been given up on, stained upon stain and with little or no nap left along bedside and in other most-used areas. The place was so permeated with cigarette and cigar smoke that Julia held her breath as she gave it the once-over.

Hurrying out she remarked, “I've stayed in better than this years ago in Lam Pam.” As though that was unlikely but the most suitable comparison she could think of.

“Where?” Grady asked, glancing back longingly at the bed.

“Where what?”

“Where's that, Lam whatever?”

“I've no idea what you're talking about.”

“I must be hearing things.”

“Must be.”

“Or you must be saying things.”

“All I said was I've stayed in better.”

“I sure as hell hope so.” Grady let it go at that, and within a minute or so they were back down in the lobby facing the clerk with the pursed mouth. Who was impassive to the fact that they didn't like the room, merely stated that it was a
deluxe
accommodation.

“The best you've got?” Grady asked incredulously.

“Our superior deluxe rooms are all taken,” the clerk informed, and, after a beat, added, “I believe.”

The
I believe
wasn't missed by Grady. He realized the clerk's cash register eyes, should have earlier on and saved all this bother, he thought, and went into his pocket for a hundred kyat note (about fifteen dollars). While his fingers were at it he decided for sure measure they should double that. He slipped the two hundred kyats to the clerk.

Evidently discretion was unnecessary. The clerk examined the money in plain sight, tucked it into his jacket pocket, sucked his lips tighter in triumph, and came up with the key to 543, presumably a superior deluxe.

This time the baggage went up with Grady and Julia. To 543, which promised to be better because it was located at the very end, facing the corridor. It really wasn't more of a room. It was just as small, just as badly furnished, just as used, just as smelling of smoke. Neither Grady nor Julia commented on it aloud, even after the porter was tipped and gone. Grady felt that he'd been tricked, taken, and Julia, sensitive to that, held back expressing her fault findings, as valid and obvious and numerous as they were. Instead, first thing, she removed the coverlet from the bed, turned down the sheet and plumped the pillows. Hummed as she unpacked hers and his.

“I'm hungry but sleepier than hungry,” she said as she lay down nude beside him.

“Order something up,” he mumbled. Tomorrow was the first day of the Emporium, he thought. He'd have to have his best eyes and his head straight by tomorrow. He doubted he'd be able to get to sleep. His mind was racing so. But within a couple of minutes it went over the cliff and plunged into sweet black.

CHAPTER TEN

The Emporium.

It was held in an area of the hotel situated off the main lobby, a large facility perhaps most adequately described as a convention room or auditorium. The room was more than just adequately lighted, brightly so, with numerous fixtures extended from the twenty-foot-high ceiling. Beneath the lights were counters joined end to end to form rows. The surfaces of these were covered with a black fabric and they were similarly skirted. Situated as they were, the rows of counters created wide aisles. A wider, perpendicular center aisle helped circulation. Barefoot but armed soldiers were positioned around.