One More Time (6 page)

‘You from Ireland?’ he asked. ‘I have good friend from Ireland.’ He was a short, portly man, with a weathered face and a slight limp which showed as he approached me.

‘He from Kerry,’ he said. ‘I help him when he trek here.’ From his pocket he pulled out a wallet and, after a moment of searching through various pieces of paper, he presented me with a tear-out from an envelope. Handwritten on it was ‘William Clancy, Tralee, Co. Kerry’.

‘Ah, this is your friend,’ I said, trying to sound interested.

‘Yes, he sometime write me, he sometime send me money. We both good friends, maybe someday I go to Ireland to meet with him again.’

‘Ah, very nice.’ His mention of money increased my reserve. But there was nowhere to hide.

‘When my friend was here in Nepal, he fall very badly. It was winter. I am masseur, all types! Every evening I come around to each teahouse in Ghorepani, offer my services. That night he was here.’

It was amazing how his English improved as the conversation progressed! Within no time at all I had heard the entire story: how William injured his leg in a dreadful fall and how the man massaged his leg back to perfect health and then guided William back down the mountain to the comfort of Pokhara.

‘Ever since then, we been good friends,’ he continued.

‘That’s brilliant,’ I said, trying to give an impression of sincerity. An awkward silence followed, during which I could sense that the man wanted me to say something—like ‘Maybe I could do with a massage!’ or ‘What would one of those marvellous massages cost?’ Instead I sat down and began to set up a game of solitaire with my miniature playing cards. Mani noticed the silence and took on a daydreaming air. But blatantly ignoring somebody was never my way of doing things. A part of me felt guilty.

The masseur broke the impasse. ‘You have had a long day walking, maybe you would like a massage, very cheap price?’

‘Ah, it’s okay,’ I said pleasantly, trying not to hurt his feelings. ‘Thanks for the offer, but my muscles feel good today.’ I squeezed happily on my calf for effect, to show him how supple they were. He seemed resigned with this. I, on the other hand, was secretly surprised at how much pain I’d squeezed out.

‘Okay,’ he sighed reluctantly. ‘So you feel good today. That is good!’ He looked about the room and then returned his attention to me. ‘I hope you enjoy Nepal and I am happy to meet another Irishman. I like Irish very much.’

Just at that moment Akio emerged from his shower, fresh and dressed, his hair wet and fuzzy.

‘Oh you trick-o me,’ he said, wagging a finger in my direction. ‘Water very cold!’

I considered explaining about Africa and the ocean, but since he saw humour in it, I let it go.

‘Next time I trick-o you. Next time my turn.’

‘You from Japan?’ the masseur addressed him. I watched with interest. Akio hesitated before answering. ‘Yes, but I no interested in massage.’

How could he have known the man’s intentions? Perhaps he’d overheard us; on the other hand, I was learning that Akio was strangely resourceful.

‘You have met me before?’ The masseur, too, was surprised and I could tell he was now curious about Akio.

Akio held a towel in his hand and began to dry his hair as he spoke, barely making eye contact with the man. ‘We not meet but I know what you are selling because I read about men like you in my books.’

‘I am a good man.’ The masseur became emotional. ‘I mean you no harm!’

‘I know you are man in business,’ interrupted Akio. ‘That is why I am honest with you. Massage is not for me tonight.’ The finality in his words was unarguable and the masseur was clearly defeated.

‘Good night.’ He nodded at Akio and again at me before leaving the house.

It was just after six o’clock. The evening had come upon us fast. In the dark outside a dense fog had enveloped the teahouse and added to the blackness. I continued my games of solitaire, while Mani stretched out and Akio entertained himself with a book. All of us awaited our evening meal.

In the content atmosphere that had settled over us, any niggling dread of the Maoist’s expected return was invisible. Shortly after seven, pastimes discarded,
Jagan served us our meals. While Akio and I ate, she and Mani spoke quietly to one another in Nepali.

‘Do you like?’ she suddenly asked in clear English, her words directed at me.

I hadn’t eaten much yet, too distracted with watching the children and their mother. Her personal tragedy continued to play on my mind.

I smiled. ‘Yes, it’s lovely.’

She nodded her head, but her lips pouted in a way not uncommon among disapproving teachers.

‘I can make you something else,’ she persisted. In all my time in India and Nepal, never once had somebody volunteered to replace a meal with something else. Every meal would have been the equivalent of a day’s earnings to whoever served it.

‘No, honestly, it’s lovely.’ I began to fork food into my mouth to show my fondness for the dish, perhaps overdoing it a little. But she seemed to get the message and returned her attention to Mani, who strangely wasn’t making much headway either with his beloved
dal bhat.

‘Mine is not so good-o. Many lumps!’ Akio raised the spoon from his bowl to show how badly the yellow liquid flowed. It was true that the meal wasn’t as fluid as it should have been, but I was shocked by
Akio’s unkindness. Who eats custard with potato soup anyway?

Jagan immediately sprang to her feet, took the bowl of custard with a smile and told Akio that she would replace it. I was overcome by a rush of embarrassment, then anger. It wasn’t the first time that day that Akio had acted insultingly with a Nepalese person. The Nepalese I’d met were humble, modest people. Akio wasn’t in any way sensitive to his environment, I thought. He knew this woman’s circumstances, and a quick glance around the interior of her teahouse would tell anyone that this family wasn’t in a position to be throwing food away; it just wasn’t an option.

‘Did you really have to complain about the custard?’ I whispered. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘I no like,’ he replied, screwing up his face for effect.

‘But you’d eaten nearly all of it!’ I continued. ‘You had hardly any left!’

‘But I no like, not so good-o. Better I complain so next time she make much better.’ Akio remained entirely focused as he spoke, exhibiting no aggression in his words; he was simply stating what he believed to be true.

My brother John had been just like this when we were kids. As I finished off the food that remained on my
plate, I thought of those childish fusses—skirmishes that evolved from thin air and almost always resulted in a full-blown argument. But fighting with John had never gone in my favour. I would want to shout the issue out, while John would take the calm approach, uttering only what was necessary and, mostly, what was correct. And the calmer he was, the more frustrated I became—which only ended up handing him the ultimate blow: ‘Calm down, you’re acting like a kid, you’re acting like your baby brother Sam.’ Those words were decisive and didn’t leave an opening for a comeback.

John knew that the only thing I ever wanted when I was a kid was to be an adult. While everybody else hoped to become a
fireman
or a
pilot
when they were older, I just wanted to be Adult. Maybe it was because my parents always looked so secure to me. Adulthood seemed to allow them the opportunity to have what they wanted, when they wanted it, and to be entirely safe in their unity. The unending bills, the secret arguments, the drudge of working every day to get the kids through school and to buy the week’s groceries—these were always pushed out of sight, so I could live with the notion that it all became easier when you got older.

Jagan returned with Akio’s custard, which he received with a jovial, ‘Thank-o you.’ She began preparing her young children for bed. Mani and I both finished eating, and while he sat daydreaming, I began my fifth unsuccessful game of solitaire.

There was a loud knock on the front door. Everybody knew who it was, but still we each looked around in the direction of the door, hoping that it might be somebody different. It wasn’t. He let himself in, bringing with him a stinging gust of cool night air which dissipated slowly as the door shut behind him. Jagan calmly ushered her children out of the room towards the kitchen, and Mani, Akio and I sat nervously, waiting to see what would unfold.

The man looked at us individually for a few moments. We each remained silent. Abruptly he turned to Mani and, with a cheerful smile, asked if he could sit down.

‘Don’t worry about this—’ He placed his machine gun on the floor beside him. ‘It is not such a safe time for people like me now. We need protection.’ How strangely the atmosphere in the room had been transformed: with his arrival came the bleakness of the night that up until then we’d been so well sheltered from.

‘Okay,’ he sighed resignedly. ‘I said I would come tonight and so here I am—I am an honest man.’ His words seemed to dangle expectantly in the air, as though they were expecting some kind of rebuttal; instead they scrambled away unmet. Each person was waiting to see what the other was going to do.

Mani broke the tension, saying something to the man in Nepali. Akio and I watched. The two men talked almost normally with one another. This was comforting. There didn’t appear to be any danger. Finally the two men broke off their conversation and the Maoist representative turned to Akio and me.

‘My name is Raja. What are your names?’

Akio was as forward as ever. ‘I am, eh, Akio.’

‘Yeah, and I’m Sean,’ I mumbled, painfully, silently reciting a prayer.

‘Sean and Akio, good.’ He reached into his trouser pocket and presented us with a pencilled document. ‘As you know, I am a representative of the Maoist,’ he explained. ‘We are fighting for the common man in Nepal and we look for donations from people like you two. That piece of paper that I give you is a letter from very high up in the Maoist organisation, please read.’

Akio read aloud: ‘Dear Tourist, We are the Maoist communist party. We wish for one donation of R1000
from every tourist to help our fight. We fight for the common Nepalese, the poor Nepalese. We need donation to help with medical, to help with food. We ask that you give donation and if you wish not to, we remind you that you still have long travels ahead of you. Thank you.’

The message was clear—give money or there’d be trouble. My mind tripped over its attempts at prayer.

‘You both understand?’ Raja’s words were directed particularly towards me. He could see I was distracted, agitated.

‘Yes, we understand. But—’ I paused for a second. ‘One thousand rupees is a lot of money. We’ve come up the mountains with only enough for our trek. Is it okay if we give a little less?’ The words had left my mouth before I’d considered what I was saying. But clearly I’d struck the right thing. Raja looked at me questioningly for a short while and then asked how much I was willing to give. I felt fantastic, powerful—for that brief moment my mind was totally clear of any promises, of any prayers. Earlier I had decided that I would give the Maoists whatever they wished, no questions asked, but all that had suddenly changed, with one confident reply. I could name my price now—but I was still aware of how volatile the situation
was. Five hundred rupees seemed a fair sum. Raja stared at me again while he contemplated the offer.

‘Okay, five hundred rupees is not such a bad donation.’ He spoke slowly, considering. ‘If you get money for me now, I will write you receipt so you don’t have to pay Maoist if you meet them again.’

Raja produced a receipt book and began writing while Akio and I rummaged through our wallets and I handed over my money. Raja gave me a receipt. But then the situation changed.

‘I will not-o pay!’ Akio was looking through his wallet as he spoke. Did he not have five hundred rupees? He put away the wallet and reiterated, ‘I will not-o pay.’

Even Mani couldn’t believe his ears. ‘I think it is better that you give small donation,’ he said firmly.

‘I will not-o pay. I am sorry, I do not support the Maoist.’

Raja rose from his chair and looked down at Akio. It was clear that he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He sat back down again. After some reflection, he spoke impatiently.

‘It is best that you give small donation as I think you have much travel left and you do not want to make enemies along the way.’

Mani and I stared, intrigued, nervous.

‘You terrorist, you bandit,’ Akio continued coolly. ‘I not support you or your fight. Not my problem.’ He prodded a thumb against his chest. ‘Not my problem!’ The words had determination ringing all the way through them.

Raja knew that too. With a massive lunge, he leapt from his chair towards Akio. Both men fell to the floor with a crash, Raja on top, gripping tightly around Akio’s neck. In uproar, Raja shouted as Akio struggled beneath him. Mani rushed to the panicking family in the kitchen.

Instinctively I began pulling at Raja to break up the fight. Raja kept his tight hold around Akio’s neck, and as I tried to separate the two of them I glimpsed the fury on Raja’s face, the utter focus on harming this defiant tourist.

Suddenly a crying child emerged from the kitchen and ran towards us, her mother behind her being held back by Mani. The child began to shout something in Nepali, smacking at both Raja and me with her tiny hands, obviously trying to put an end to the commotion, obviously thinking that I was attacking Akio too. With a swift swing of his right arm, Raja threw the little girl to the ground and almost as fast
regained hold of Akio. I could hear the child scream—she had landed on her back, her head following with a hard thump on the wooden floor. Enraged, I threw a heavy fist into Raja’s face. He released his grip on Akio. With a tremendous tug I pulled Raja off then fell backwards, landing not far from the little girl.

For a moment the room was still. Raja was standing, Akio was on the ground wheezing for air, and I lay dazed beside the whimpering child. In the background I could hear the muffled sobs of Jagan.

Raja looked around the room, first at Akio, then at the girl and finally at me. He brought his attention back to the child; a look of pain crossed his face as he saw he had hurt her. He muttered something gruffly to Jagan then collected himself and picked up his gun. Slowly he walked towards Akio, stopping inches away from him but making no eye contact, his machine gun by his side aimed loosely towards Akio.