The Blue Taxi (50 page)

She pondered. This pale man was probably, thought Bibi, not really, really rich.

See how those long trouser cuffs had been stitched up at the hem? See the marred, worn shoes? And what would a rich white
man be doing in Kikanga? But one could never tell these days, as Issa and Nisreen so very often said. Perhaps, she thought,
having cut his teeth with one light person from the North—the woman with the girl—Mad Majid Ghulam had learned something important
and was taking on a second. Things do change, indeed.
What if
—she thought,
what if his fortunes rise!

She thought about it for a while, turning over in her mind how she might coax Mama Moto into helping her a bit—to make a nice
tale for Nisreen. Dear Nisreen, who was (oh, wasn’t she?) looking a bit brighter now than she had looked before. Looking almost,
Bibi thought—almost but not quite, because the girl
was
really skinny—as well-fed as a bride. And what had gone on in the
bedroom not so long ago? And again the other night? Hadn’t Mama Moto nodded, silent, yes, but
nodding
and not groaning at the sky when Bibi said again how nice it would be if the girl would only have a child?
Dear Nisreen
, she thought. Bibi wanted to give little Issa’s wife a sort of present, a new story about Mad Majid Ghulam that could have
a different ending. She needed Mama Moto to help her understand what was happening out there. Then she would sit down with
Nisreen and tell her what she knew. And Nisreen might even smile.

But when Bibi called for Mama Moto to come up, Mama Moto didn’t come. She called and called: “Hebu, hebu! Hoh! Mama Moto,
where are you?” All without an answer. Where was she? Where were people when you needed them? When important things were happening?
She would have to go downstairs. Alone!

It was hard. She panted. Scowling, preparing insults as she went, Bibi struggled down the steps, holding to the wall. She
found one of Mama Moto’s cloths in the far storeroom where she slept and wrapped it round her head and shoulders, tucking
in the hairs that had sprung down over her brow. Hobbling, she groaned loudly in case Mama Moto was in fact nearby and playing
her a trick. She moved unsteadily from the kitchen and the courtyard, down the hallway to the door, holding her big stomach.
For the first time ever, Bibi wished that when Issa and Nisreen had offered her a cane, she had—instead of “Where would I
go all alone?”—graciously accepted. A walking stick would help. She hadn’t been outside by herself in a long time. But she
wasn’t planning to go far.

When she opened the front doors just slightly and looked into the street, it struck her that the road looked rather different
from ground level than it did from high above. How far up Salma’s window was! How chipped and shabby those white doors at
Lydia
House were from here! And to the right, how low and wide the ocean looked—how close. Bibi scratched her nose. It was early
afternoon, and quiet. Who could she call over? In the alley just across the way, she caught sight of Mama Ndiambongo, old
and gray, shelling groundnuts on her stoop.
She would be up and out when other people are indoors, when other people nap
. That was how she did it, Bibi thought.
Mama Ndiambongo steals when everyone’s in bed
.

Bibi hissed to get attention. She made a long sound with her teeth. “Over here! Over here!” she said. And Mama Ndiambongo,
who could not recall ever seeing Bibi Kulthum on the ground, came over with, because her back was not so good, a little leaping
in her knees and her top half bent so far that it was even with her hips. If she had had a broom in hand, thought Bibi, the
street would have been swept. “What? What? What?” Mama Ndiambongo said, frowning and excited.

Bibi—who would not have known from so high up—noticed with some pleasure that Mama Ndiambongo was missing her front teeth
and that her earlobes were a little more distended than she’d thought. “Mama Moto,” Bibi said. “Where is she?” Bibi, though
she liked to think so, was not the only one to keep an eye out on the world; Mama Ndiambongo had a ready answer. “I’ll tell
you,” she said. And Bibi, though she herself had asked, was a bit taken aback. “Idi came to take her shopping. I saw her leave
just now.” Mama Ndiambongo smiled, and tilted her small head to the side. She tsked. “You must have been asleep, or what?”

Bibi was put out. She hadn’t been asleep. She’d been upstairs on the balcony, looking at the street. How did she miss Mama
Moto when she passed? Did Mama Moto know to walk especially close to Mansour House, just next to the wall and right beneath
her Bibi—
Just under my feet in the one place I don’t see?
How often did the woman take her leave, like that, without asking permission?
And since when did Idi Moto have any cash to spare? A layabout, a small-time, no-good thief Since when did he take Mama Moto
shopping?

“I hear he has a job,” Mama Ndiambongo said.

“A job?” Bibi almost snarled. She put her hand out for support and Mama Ndiambongo, who knew how hard age was, held on to
her arm. “Since when does Idi Moto have a job he would admit to his own mother?”
And since when does Mama Ndiambongo have news that I don’t know?

“All right, all right,” Mama Ndiambongo said, pushing Bibi back towards the wall so she could let go of her arm and hold herself
up, too. “Don’t go crazy, now. They haven’t gone to London.” Bibi sniffed. “Let go of me,” she said. But she was glad to know
that Mama Moto would be back. When Mama Ndiambongo held her hand out for some shillings, Bibi gave her some.

Back inside, she closed the door behind her. Her chest hurt, and her dry scalp itched with sweat. But she’d learned something
on her own, in any case.
Mama Ndiambongo doesn’t have her teeth!
For a moment she thought she would tell Mama Moto so, but then she sighed. Surely Mama Moto, who spent her time at street
level, who did go out, who could walk far on her two legs, knew this much and more.

Bibi shuffled on into the kitchen and removed the cloth she’d worn. Getting back up the stairs would be too difficult, she
thought. And so she took a rest on Mama Moto’s bed.

Uneasy now, unkeeled, she wondered what else she might be missing. Did Salma Hafiz have crossed eyes? Was Mr. Mehta ugly?
Did Kirit Tanna have a mole she hadn’t ever seen? Perhaps. She pressed her cheek against the wall and looked at a long crack
in the white paint. But she could not stay disappointed in herself for long. She rolled over, righted her sore hips. She closed
her eyes and
turned again to more interesting questions that could, if she just waited for a while, be answered: Would Majid Jeevanjee
become what everyone had hoped he would at first? Would he start a business and give himself some pride? What would Mama Moto
bring back from her shopping, and, most of all, would she have witnessed in her travels anything worth mention?

Had Nisreen not returned from work much sooner than expected, complaining of a stomachache and weakness, Bibi would have turned
herself full strength on Mama Moto when she finally came home. But here was something else. Nisreen doing something completely
out of character. Hadn’t Issa married her because the girl worked very hard? Because she was intelligent-and-capable-and-dutiful
and wrote things down correctly and filed things right away? What was Nisreen doing, slacking off like this? “What’s wrong
with you now? Why aren’t you at work? Have you lost your job?”

Nisreen was surprised to find Bibi downstairs. “I haven’t lost my job,” she said. “I’m sick.” Sick? This, Bibi was not displeased
to hear. In fact, she felt a twitching in the wings. Sick? With what? She called Nisreen over to the bed. “What’s wrong with
you, exactly?” Bibi asked. “Sick in your stomach? Vomiting? Dizzy? Do you have a headache?” Nisreen didn’t answer. She bit
her bottom lip and took off her big glasses. She ladled water from the cistern into a metal cup and drank.

“Feeling funny walking?” Bibi kept on asking. “Bleeding from your gums?” And she asked and asked and asked until, at last,
Nisreen looked seriously at her. It was not the sort of thing a person shared with anyone so early, not at all, oh, no. But
what was she to do, with Bibi so enormous and so close, clawing at her arm? “All right, old woman, yes. All right.” Bibi clapped
her hands and felt suddenly so well that she sat up directly and put both feet on the
floor. “All right, all right,” Nisreen went on. “It’s true.” Bibi all at once could not care less if Mama Moto came back to
the house weighed down with electric incense burners, bread machines, and gold. Who cared if Majid Ghulam Jeevanjee was a
good-luck man or no? Who gave a blessed corn husk about European men?
That envelope
, she thought, tears springing to her eyes,
was meant for only this. For me. For me and my Nisreen
. How pretty Nisreen looked with that gray tint to her skin, the sweat along her cheeks. How fine a girl, indeed.

Twenty-seven

T
he week Nisreen admitted she was pregnant, Gilbert got Uncle James’s wire. He winced at all the bank fees but was confident
that it would be enough. He and Kazansthakis and M.G. had, after all, gone over things together. They also got a customer.
And, while Bibi, had she known all there was to know, would have said it was no surprise at all, Gilbert was amazed.

A knock at the one door, which Gilbert, nimble, rose to answer, and there, yes, there he was: Mr. Suleiman, stately in a kanzu
gown and blue-embroidered cap, standing in the doorway, leaning on a stick. None other than the owner of the Morris just across
the way. Startled but increasingly accustomed to taking on new things, Gilbert asked him to come in. Mr. Suleiman, gaunt and
lean, slipped out of his sandals and sat down. He asked after Gilbert’s family, calling Agatha by name, which unsettled Gilbert
for a moment and made him feel suspicious. Agatha came out from the kitchen and sat down on the floor, laughing at the man
as though he were her uncle. Sarie, unsmiling but dutiful, brought a glass of water.

Mr. Suleiman looked evenly around him and admiringly took note of Gilbert’s shelf of books. “Sir,” he asked, “have you read
them all?” He spoke a teacher’s English. Sarie saw her husband blush and, despite everything she’d gone through, despite how
very tired she was, felt a very faintly mollifying twinge. Their guest coughed discreetly. He crossed his bony ankles, tugged
once at the hip of his white gown, and went on to praise
The Mohammedan
Peoples of East Africa’s Coast Lands
, adding very comfortably that he would be gratified one day to have a look at
Sons of Sindbad
, too, about which he’d only heard. Gilbert, unnerved, rather, but quite pleased, coughed, too, raised his eyebrows, and said,
“Yes. A valuable book, indeed.” He was going to suggest that Mr. Suleiman might one day also look over his pamphlets when
he realized that the visitor had finished talking about books. His gaze was now on Gilbert’s face. He’d come for something
else.

Lowering his voice, Mr. Suleiman said, “Mr. Turner. You will forgive me if you find my visit untoward.” Gilbert looked at
him, eyes wide. Since when was
he
in a position to find a visit
untoward?
It felt awfully nice, and he found himself saying, “Nevermind, my dear sir,” quite calmly, and urging his guest on.

Mr. Suleiman shifted in his seat, and Gilbert leaned towards him, hands just slightly shaking. Mr. Suleiman went on. Would
Mr. Gilbert Turner please forgive him, but he had heard it from a friend, a man who could be trusted. That he himself would
tell the news to no one. Times, as Gilbert knew, were difficult. Dangerous, for some. But they were neighbors, were they not?
To whom else should one turn? Was it true there were, perhaps, some
items
that a person could acquire to remedy… a certain sort of problem?

Gilbert felt that he was acting in a play, in the perfect role. He felt his eyes go round. He cleared his throat. Could Mr.
Suleiman please clarify his point? “What kind of problem might you mean?” Sarie, watching from her place on the piano bench,
fought an urge to laugh or maybe cry. She had the feeling she was watching something new and old, an important thing unfolding,
right there in her parlor. Gilbert’s airs both irked and fascinated her.
Who does he take himself for being?
Sarie thought. She tapped her thighs with outstretched fingers, bit down on her lip.

The smile on Mr. Suleiman’s face, small, discreet, made Sarie
think of cats. “Vehicular, in fact.” Mr. Suleiman leaned in. “Something for the engines?”

Gilbert, smiling a bit slyly, offered their guest coffee, which Sarie, sighing, rose to boil. Gilbert thought how pleasant
it was in the parlor, suddenly! How fine! While Sarie moved about, opening a can and searching for a pot, Gilbert, like a
schoolmaster himself, brought his hands together in his lap. He’d practiced for this, hadn’t he?

He asked Mr. Suleiman: Wasn’t it unorthodox, this visit, this coming to him so directly, yes, at home? And
how
exactly had he heard?