The PuppetMaster (45 page)

Uli started giggling. I thought Jitka was going to swear, but smiled sweetly and replied, “We have just set it out, Most Honorable Knucklehead.”

They carried our drinks to our seats while I set off to locate our names on the manifest posted outside the sleeper cars on the next track. Fortunately, Mr. Martin Scott’s party was typed correctly with three berth assignments. Ten, eleven, and twelve weren’t in the center of the car, but far enough away from the toilets to afford us quiet during the night.

Dinners always tasted delicious to me on trains; the hours of rocking seemed to make the spices come to life. That evening’s meal was no exception. We dipped into rich sauces and sweet pastes and revisited the pastoral sights of the afternoon. As we neared our last bites, I explained the next stage of the itinerary, and signaled through the window for a redcap. Our bags were shifted to the southern end of the terminal, across the Y where sidetracks split from the main line. Two yellow and green sleepers, idle, were linked to two freight cars.

“We won’t go very far if they’re not connected to engines.” Jitka stated the obvious.

“Give it ten minutes,” I said. “The second class cars will be backed down and coupled to these four. Then the two locomotives will be attached to the front of the baggage cars. We’ll be on our merry way right after that.”

The air-conditioned compartment was already full. Passengers were stretched out on bunks and bedding provided by the rail company. Curtains were drawn across three of the alcoves. In others, wealthy-looking men sat cross-legged in pajamas, playing cards or reading. Unfortunately, bunk ten, mine, had nice bedding with a snoring body curled face-inward in it. I showed Jitka to number twelve across the aisle and shook the shoulder of the man appropriating my upper berth. I received a sharp, “Go away!” in Urdu.

I shook him again and shot back, “You are in the wrong sleeping place, Bai.” I wasn’t in the mood for grumpy attitudes or travel glitches. He rolled over and came more fully awake when he saw Uli and me with tickets and bags in our hand. Fortyish, with puffy jowls and too much oil in his hair, some of which had already splotched my mattress I noticed. His scowl was beginning to irritate me.

“This is my bunk, Sir. Number ten,” he snapped, head wagging like a tent flap.

“May I see your ticket please, Bai,” My eyes narrowed. I was doing a fairly poor job of attempting politeness. Uli smiled, pushed our bags under the bottom tier, and started unrolling her mattress onto the lower bunk.

“Here, here it is. You see, this is my ticket, Man. Number ten. My bunk.” His voice was dripping with arrogance. I examined the stub thrust at my face.

“You are right, My Friend. This is a ticket for bunk ten.” I held it next to my head for him to see. “But it happens to be for bunk ten in Sleeper B, the next car.” I pointed with a forced smile to the letter on the stub and then the letter A at the rear of our car. “And as repayment for your error, I would like you to exchange the bedding you have slept in with a fresh one.” I was not sleeping on his oil spot.

Horror filled his expression as he leapt up to make the exchange. Where the mattress had been, I found a newspaper folded in the corner-- his evening read before he fell asleep in number ten. When he returned--with no less than eight apologies--I asked him if I might keep the paper. It was the evening edition of The India Daily.

“By all means, by all means, My Good Man. And as a favor, please allow me the honor of purchasing breakfast for you and your beautiful wives tomorrow in Bareilly Junction.”

From across the aisle Jitka grumbled, “As Knucklehead’s head wife, I accept, now go away.”

The man backed down the compartment with little bows and a promise to see us bright and early. I unfolded the paper.

The headline was large enough for a billboard. Illegal Uranium Seized Near Gardens of Buddha.

****

I sat on the lower berth nest to Uli and read aloud. Sealed containers had been discovered beneath loads of bauxite in four cargo lorries. The drivers, sixteen mine employees, and two guards were being held for questioning. Agents of the Indian Intelligence Bureau had also detained three local police and a vice commissioner of agricultural affairs. “Four trucks at nine tons each.” I did some calculating. “That’s almost fifty million dollars on the black market, not including future shipments.”

Uli, who had been reading next to me, replied, “It depends on where it was going and who was paying for it.” I hadn’t thought much about who the purchasers might be. I did know one thing. The people named in the article were going to prison for a long time. I smiled at the thought of Madru Ralki meeting his cellmate for the first time.

The true operators might never be known, but they had been stung, and fifty million was a lot of money no matter how much you had.

The only disappointment was not seeing Yakoob Qereshy’s name anywhere in print.

****

Despite the fitful nap of the afternoon, my night was peaceful. The long line of cars swayed like conga dancers as we clicked along the tracks, and with each roll of the wheels we felt the frost of fear melting away.

The track through the darkness was straight, with few curves, interspersed only by subtle changes of velocity, odors, and sounds. We slid in and out of sleepy stations—Sitapur, Shahjahanpur, Madadiri. A light at each end of the compartment gave off just enough glow for passengers to find the toilets. Outside, the pitch felt like tunnel of ink. Occasionally, a far-off flicker of a hut illuminated, by a fire or solitary bulb, would slide by.

When it felt as if the entire car was asleep and snoring, I felt Uli climb silently into my bunk. The curtain was drawn across our bay and when she slipped below the sheet and nudged me over to the window, I felt nakedness from toes to lips. I whispered, “We’ll wake the car.”

“Umm. Und that would be bad?” Mild disappointment.

“I think the penalty is that they tear up your ticket and leave you sitting on your bags at the next station.”

“Ohhh...” More disappointment. “Okay, maybe you should just hold me then.” Without a sound I lifted her and settled her in delicious nakedness on top of me. I drew my hands from her thighs and buttocks to her shoulders and down again--the undulating train, my metronome—softly and slowly. Just like that we fell asleep.

Sometime later I felt her lips on mine, a sweet touch of tongue, and she left.

Perhaps it was that kiss. Perhaps it was the silky moistness of her skin on mine or the scent of her hair, but I slept without the turbulence of nightmares. There were no visions of fire, screams, or floods to haunt my night.

Seventy-Two

The cry of a drawn-out whistle woke me, and the slow clacking of the wheels told me we were coming into the station at Bareilly. I turned to the window and opened my eyes. The lights inside the sleeper were off. Outside, a faint glow of indigo announced the arrival of dawn. I rolled onto my back and listened. Gentle rain was falling, and for a short time I lay without moving, just feeling and hearing and smelling it all. The sweetness of Uli’s body stretched naked on top of me returned, every blissful follicle. A cool breeze from the foothills touched my face. The world was alive and rich with love, and in that moment I wanted to thank someone, or some thing, for that gift--for bringing so much back into my life. God? Fate? Sahr’s constellations? The Good People? I wanted to shout thank you. But I didn’t know how, to whom, or to what, my thanks should be given. But it was okay. At least the belief was there again.

The cries of vendors floated along the tracks. My eyes closed and I felt that belief glowing brighter. Uli had helped me find it. And Adam. And Sahr, and Kangri, and Devi and all the good people that had helped me. Love is our gift. It is the blessing we are given--each and every one of us--love, as limitless as the stars. With that thought I whispered a thank you for everything I had.

I peeked over the edge of my bed, wanting to watch her sleep, but the bunk was empty. I presumed she had made her way to the toilet and wash-basin before other passengers made the same decision. I wanted the train to reach the station before she returned so I could have coffee and treats waiting, but as I swung my legs over the edge, I saw her coming down the aisle. I knew nothing of Danish royalty, but I was certain some of their blood flowed in my Uliana. She had washed and changed into the pale green kurta she had worn on our first date, and the blue skirt with printed green sea-horses and eel grass.

I swung my legs out and dropped to the floor, then yanked one of my duffles from below the bunk for a fresh kurta and pants. With clothes and travel kit, I stood in front of my bunk. “You look ravishing,” I said.

The impish smile. “A shower with my lover, und sweet soap und shampoo would make me ravishinger. But I have gotten quite good at . . . how do you call them? Kitten baths?”

“Cat baths. Good skill to have when traveling in this part of the world. Listen. We’re coming into Bareilly.” The concrete platform slid under the right side of the train, inches from the frame, compressing the air below and flushing it through the bars of our windows. Instantly, a potpourri of odors filled in—fragrant spices, cooked rice, breads, and the ever-present aroma of human existence.

“What time is breakfast,” Jitka snarled from behind her curtain.

“And good morning to you too,” I answered mirthfully. “Trays should be coming around in a few minutes, Dear. Just enough time to wash your beautiful face and brush your teeth.” She bolted past me with a low growl and a bundle of clothes. I turned to Uli. “The railway tries, rather successfully, to keep to schedule, especially the dining stops. Once we have our food, the train can go on and we can eat as leisurely as we like . . . which reminds me; we need coffee and a newspaper.” She stared hard at me. “And a kiss, a kiss.” I added quickly.

I felt the scratchiness of my beard and a film of detritus from the previous day, but Uli kissed me as if it didn’t exist. Then she gave me a gentle push toward the washroom. “Cat bath for you, Lover.”

“Right,” I said and moved into the line of yawning, scratching bodies at the end of the aisle.

It took some time to scrub the residue, to shave and brush and dab cologne on my cheeks, but once done, I felt presentable. Fresh clothes and some muscle stretches and I was ready for the day.

Exiting the washroom, I saw the cantankerous Urdu-speaking fellow who had usurped my bunk. He stood in a white dhoti and shirt with a black vest, conversing animatedly with Jitka. From their body language I could tell that the subject was food. Nearing, I saw two trays of pakoras, idly, and other delights on Uli’s bunk. Another rested patiently in Jitka’s lap. The Muslim gentleman--I had to assume he was Muslim--had been good to his word and purchased all our breakfasts. Fortunately it appeared he wasn’t intending to eat with us.

Seeing me approach, he waved enthusiastically. “Ah, my friend, as you see I have taken the liberty of ordering the breakfasts I promised last evening. An unfortunate and ignorant mistake upon my part to be sleeping in your berth.”

I waved it off with, “A simple mistake, Friend, and well repaid. Thank you for your kindness.”

His head bobbed and wagged. “Yes, yes, quite, and I am told by the railway personnel that your meals will be tops, number one fare. First class.” He pumped my hand a dozen times, as if that action sealed our agreement and freed him of an eternity of obligations to me. With mutual wishes for comfortable travel to New Delhi, I sat and he departed for the forward car.

I kissed Uli with fresh zeal.

She grinned. “Und cologne, too? Must be a special day, Mein Schatzki?”

“Most special.” I tossed a few pakoras onto a napkin, while they took bites of the the idly cakes. “And when I return with the best coffee in Bareilly, I’m going to tell you why. I had the most amazing dream last night. A goddess visited me right here in my bunk.” I popped a pakora in mouth and smiled at Jitka. “And damned if she wasn’t totally naked. Not a stitch on.” With a wave of my fingers I left.

The sun had just cleared the horizon and the platform was bustling. Women in saris were hand-feeding toddlers or nursing babies against the back wall. Men in loongis and dhotis squatted, broad leaves of rice and dal on the ground before them. Dogs nosed in, only to scurry away from kicks or raised hands. Handcarts rolled by and merchants called out their wares to any and all. Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Parsis, and Sikhs--people of every faith--bustled about or squatted on the concrete. And they all shared a common interest. Breakfast.

Beyond the eastern boundary of the station, a field of stalks pushed through the earth, seedlings of a plant I didn’t recognize, and beyond the pasture, the land sloped sharply into a wide riverbed that rose to a plateau a quarter mile beyond. Then, a sight I hadn’t seen for a few years, foothills and noble trees.

The spidery bridge of Bareilly spanned the ravine of the Ramganga River. It was long and narrow, supported by spindly columns of steel and concrete. A series of bolted-pocked arches leap-frogged across the top. I could only see the far side, but it was obvious the recent rains had swelled the river. Swirling eddies of brown silt chewed into the bank on the far side, pulling off chunks of grass and loam to send them tumbling like barrels downstream.

I searched the station. Near the end of the platform, at the edge of the field, I saw what I wanted, a pleasant looking coffee-walla with a cart. His sign said it all. “The Best Blends of the Northeastern Mountains.” I trotted over.