Fire in the Unnameable Country (20 page)

Me, she cried with a snort and a piggish squeal at his mirror inquiry: Who am I. Why I'm Lady Jerusalem, everybody knows me.

My father removed his fingers from her nose and wanted to relax in Lady Jerusalem's strong fleshy arms, which held him so tightly he nearly fell choking asleep, and perhaps he did, for a minute or an hour, but a din woke him too soon.

The young dogs had returned. Oh it's time for their milk, she said, and got up onto her feet, yet from where in this wilderness would she find such a thing as milk.

Upon her release all the blood readjusted to its proper places in Mamun Ben Jaloun's body. He saw now that on the back wall there was a switch that Lady Jerusalem touched before stepping gingerly out of the way. The floor over there began to move as if to the whims of a controlled minor earthquake. And Mamun realized that part of
the ground on which he sat belonged to the outer section of a circle, while the parget-framed white canvas at the rear belonged to its inner remainder, on which was situated a panorama of two halves, the first of which was the hitherto described warehouse space, exchangeable at the flick of a switch with a second a domestic exhibit, furnished lightly but still outfitted with a gas stove, a cot, a small bookshelf half-stocked with volumes whose titles were unreadable, and a refrigerator.

Come on, sweeties, Lady Jerusalem said as the six or seven dogs crowded around her. She shut the fridge door and poured milk straight into their throats from the height of her ear and they caught its stream, rarely missing, and licking up the few errant spilled drops. Then she rustled up some greens and fried up a few fish steaks in olive oil with garlic on the gas stove before adding vinaigrette: A salad, she offered, as if she often entertained guests this way.

It seemed natural that they should share her cot, and when the contents of the fridge thinned, a grocer boy arrived ringing his bicycle bell and produced a rye loaf from his front basket, dried apricots and figs, fresh lobster caught just yesterday in the Indian Ocean, ma'am.

How does she procure the necessary income, he wondered, but knew it would be rude to ask.

I am allotted a stipend by the studio, she explained on her own as they supped on a lamb and mint dish. I shadow an actress, Sharmilla, you may have heard of her, I have been performing her dance routines for years; we cut a similar enough figure, though our faces differ, you might have noticed if you have seen even one of her films—our films, she corrected. I am waiting for the Director to shoot the next scene. It's a musical, of course, and a domestic scene, and I don't mind rehearsing the role, she glanced at him sharply.

Mamun Ben Jaloun assented with a nod: having been chased by guards and then a stick-wielding mob across what seemed like the
whole world, the company of a kindly shadow dancer was a welcome change. And, in a way, they were free: surrounded by only three walls, not by the regular four that construct every domicile and prison, and while passersby could come and go and watch as they pleased, Mamun Ben Jaloun adjusted even to the idea that secretaries and clipboard holders would arrive from time to time in the most intimate moments to count down the hours before filming, signalling makeup artists who, with garrulous chatter, would improve Lady Jerusalem's appearance with a few dabs of colour, and lighting staff who would shine thousands of volts onto their living quarters and exchange any hour for high noon.

The fulfilling event, however, never occurred: the makeup artists and members of the film crew always disappeared, the scene was never filmed, and for two or three days afterward, Lady Jerusalem sulked and ate tinned mussels one can after another until, bloated, she would lie moaning and begging to be administered an emetic.

Mamun did not mind caring for her on these occasions, and did so tenderly, kissing her eyelids and midriff: Sleep, it will pass.

One night American bombs fell onto the studios some miles away, and the microcosmos burned, whole countries disappeared; the moon, cardboard and two-dimensional palaces were ruined, thousands of costumes and characters turned to cinder. On that night, Lady Jerusalem's kisses tasted of explosive jetsam, ash, she was a baker, or worse yet, the oven, and he was the smouldering bread. As they huddled together under the cover of the kitchen table, he felt shrunken, as if held by the walls of a deep furnace. He longed to make blinding steps, let loose a song and hurry from this place. But he stayed. Thereafter, her embraces and kisses, every extended contact, in fact, asphyxiated him.

While it was true her physical presence was not overwhelming in sight and she remained what he considered attractive by her hair and her smells and so forth, her mouth became like a vacuum that threatened to suck away his very life with each kiss. For hours afterward, he would sit
at the edge of the cot while she smacked his back with a flat palm, as he tried to recover his voice and the wind in his lungs. When he recovered, he related his difficulties to her while she assumed her prior problems, which this time were so crippling that for the first time he thought of calling paramedics, but where could they be found in this part of the studio when the fires were still going on elsewhere. Thankfully, the crisis passed and they lived together for several months more, though in chaste circumstances, during which time the young dogs visited more often, and sometimes displayed great animosity toward him.

Know at that age, Mamun Ben Jaloun had no ambitions to become a playback singer, and we can imagine he would never have done so had he stationed himself indefinitely with Lady Jerusalem. Luckily, he was arrested not too long after.

One day there arrived a man garbed in exceedingly wide-legged bells, which were the style of the era. Above his shoulders he had thrown a long grey shawl, more like a cloak, and he stood at the open wall, smartly saluted to no one before letting loose a scroll that dragged along the ground like the longest lie. He read from that indecipherable document with its many since-therefores and notwithstandings, which apparently justified what happened next: eight or nine trolls, or little children, drew from under his loose pants and from the folds of his cloak and climbed all over Mamun Ben Jaloun and overwhelmed him, held his eyes shut and dragged him away from the screaming Lady Jerusalem, rendered helpless and held in place by the remainder of the document, which named her and kept her there.

The dolly track, it would appear, also serves as an internal rail line, as indicated by the small engine comes into view, pulling behind it
a dozen or so bathtub gondola cars, and our hero soon finds himself transported jhigjhig-takrtakr, jhigjhig-takrtakr, across green fields of sorghum and gilded paintings of fonio and wheat, or perhaps the latter too are real, as he leaves behind Lady Jerusalem, who seems deeply affected by his sudden capture.

Look: she runs along the dolly track until all the cars have disappeared, dispirited weeping as she waves, though we cannot be sure this is not another part she has been rehearsing and with which she is familiar, regard the twists and entrechats, no doubt expressions of a trained shadow dancer.

The journey is long, and eventually Mamun Ben Jaloun falls asleep to the rhythm of the miniature train, whose tight quarters force him to pull his knees up to his chest, and which moves across the dolly tracks jhigjhig-takrtakr, jhigjhig-takrtakr. (Note that the engine car is sufficiently larger even for a grown individual with very large pants and nine or eight munchkins hiding in his clothing, enough to fit all and with ample room to spare.) A jar of marmalade and thin, tasteless wafers, some nearly rotten tomatoes, a jerrycan of water: these proffered in a bag are to last him one week, at the end of which he finds his legs so weakened from their constrained unmitigated pose that up with you, his captor with the wide-legged pants drags him into the right place: Mamun Ben Jaloun finds himself sitting in an enormous wooden chair in a room with many photographs of heroes of the silver screens and pillars not unlike those in a courthouse.

My name is Soni Aadam. I am the staff sergeant of studio security, the light falls on a man's face as he introduces himself. I am also a notable producer, he lists over one hundred short films, documentaries and features, few of which we would be acquainted with. Why have you come here.

I was brought here, my father replied.

Who brought you into the studio, the man thundered.

Please, Mamun Ben Jaloun responded, with shivering knocking feet that pressed against each other underneath the desk separating the two characters: I have no wish to bother anyone.

And yet there is the remaining charge of your illicit drunkenness in Sharmilla's dressing room, the theft of her father's gifted bottle of austerlitz, beiman bettomiz, where from you are, and then khattash: a thappar-slap across the face after all the gaalis. The staff sergeant and producer chewed on the cigar on which he puffed in between words, and Mamun Ben Jaloun noticed flecks of paan had collected around his mouth from some earlier bout of mastication. The ceiling fan overhead sucked up all the smoke in swirls. For three moments the official appeared to be engulfed in a tornado.

Then two frail characters, a very old man and a hunching and equally senescent woman, gained our hero's attention; they appeared from the open door leading out to a dark vestibule, bearing two trays, one with a steaming cup of tea with milk and another bearing the contents of a dinner: hot rice, several curries in tiffin containers, and a decanter filled with daal.

The woman surveyed Mamun Ben Jaloun with her left eye, which roamed while the right eye was focused on serving. With her left hand she held the tray while also pouring the tea. With her right she poked my father's shoulder, What do you mean, she asked.

Excuse me, Mamun replied, but I haven't said anything.

The hag mumbled something with the left side of her mouth while with the right side she clearly asked the producer whether she should bring out the dessert now or wait.

My father was confused by her multiplicity, her ability to speak to two people at once with a single mouth, and he was about to ask how she performed her trick, was it an act of ventriloquism, but before he had a chance, she yessirred the staff sergeant producer, picked up the empty containers, and departed.

Meanwhile, the second character, the very old man, was combing the official's hair with his fingers, possibly scanning for nits, while the producer ate. With every bite he seemed to grow more self-assured, and in the light he seemed indefeasible.

Tell me, what class of individual are you: dancer, singer, key grip, or what, cinematographer, et cetera and so forth, do you practise a meaningful trade.

Singer, my father said, since out of the options provided it seemed most reasonable to choose.

And what do you sing.

My own songs mostly, or just fragments, melodies that seemingly appear and disappear at their own will.

So a composer, the staff sergeant producer grew interested, which is probably why Lady Jerusalem took an interest in you. Generally, I would have a trespasser thrown out of the studio at once or force him to take a charwoman's role if you truly wanted to work, but seeing that your manners aren't so bad, he looked my father up and down, and you are not so terribly groomed—which is important, as you can tell I have an assistant make sure I am always presentable, he indicated with his brow to the old man who had finished combing the official's hair and had now moved on to closely inspect his shirt—I will allow you an audition. Mmm, a singer, he continued, raising a drumstick from his plate, biting through flesh and into the bone crac-crac, we'll see about that. My father was about to ask a question about the nature of the audition but the staff sergeant producer waved it off and kicked the small old man, who had begun purring and nuzzling up against his legs under the table.

My clipboard, Ben Jaloun, he kicked him again, and the little man leapt three feet into the air, screaming incomprehensibly. My father laughed into his shirt-collar while the secretary stared down his frail employee from a great height.

Midget, you listen, he began.

I am neither midget, excusesir, nor a dwarf, the man winced, rubbing his back and shoulders, my stature is the result of advanced age only.

Ben Jaloun, I am weary of your constant amendments to my speech; and if you will, please, unless you wish to suffer several more kicks, retrieve my clipboard from there over there. He pointed off into the distant reaches of the office, which appeared difficult to navigate, replete with an obstacle course of filing cabinets and stacks of paper that reached the height of two grown men, and that were covered all over by knotted and ancient cobwebs.

Retrieving a kerosene lamp from a table close at reach, little Ben Jaloun looked pensively into the darkness.

Just what are you waiting for, the official thundered.

Please, my lord, the little man begged, it's just that this particular corner is quite resistant to light.

And this was true. The little flame from the lamp trembled as if daunted by the sheer opacity of the items that lay ahead or out of fear that some unaccountable evil would emerge at any moment. And when it went out altogether, the old man had no matches.