Read Online The Bell-Boy by James Hamilton-Paterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Hamilton-Paterson
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Malomba water very bad.’ Laki jumped off the table. ‘I get you cold drink, anything you want. Coca Cola-Bolly-Pepsi-Mops-Fanta-Seven-Up.’
‘Mops?’
‘Local drink only. Moslems making. Too much sweet, too many gas.’ He went to the window and tossed out the netted tuft of roots and rot he had pulled from the wound in the ceiling. Through Jason’s mind came and went a terrifying image of his mother’s forthcoming operation. He fixed his eyes on Laki’s hands.
‘Where’s your catapult?’ He mimed pulling back elastic.
‘Ah, kancha.’ Laki drew the weapon half out of his pocket. Its pouch lolled. ‘Always here,’ he said. ‘I go now to fetching soft drinks, then I show my house upstairs. We make kancha. ’
For the ten minutes he was away Jason fell into a deep, imageless sleep. From beyond the window came faint sounds of the world through which he had just passed. It was so full of violent toxins and pungencies, so inescapable in its heat that one might almost have supposed the city had plans for him, for all his family, that a process of softening-up had already begun. Why else should belfry palms toll out their scent, the parakeets swarm in the cloud-tree in the Redemptorist Fathers’ garden? For what else the massed fairyland of temples, churches, mosques and synagogues? While somewhere behind it all were the healers, thetherapists, the psychic surgeons maybe sharpening their thumbnails, maybe hiding slivers of razor-blade beneath them, maybe just honing their powers. The only certain thing was that they were waiting.
Jason opened his eyes. Laki was softly bouncing the catapult’s dangling pouch on his chest. In his other hand the bell-boy held a pair of bottles by their necks. ‘Come,’ he said and Jason obeyed. He glided without feeling the floor, following Laki to the dark end of the corridor where they went through a door. This gave on to back stairs ascending from spicy gloom. A further flight led upwards, something of an afterthought maybe, since the treads were of hastily-laid soft brown bricks between which bulged unpointed mortar.
They emerged from a hatchway into the blows of the sun. Jason stood stupefied by the encircling panorama, by the radiance of the Glass Minaret, by the thirty-nine temples and four cinemas with canopies of trees boiling up between them as if their veins were stuffed with pure hydrogen. Laki was unlocking the door of a tumbledown mud-brick shed and motioning him inside in a proprietorial way. It was a limewashed cell, surprisingly cool and lit mainly from a hole in the roof through which a dense vine was thrusting. This knotty plant came from low down one wall, filled half the room, went out through the ceiling and curved over again to hang a tangling freight of gourds and leaves over the edge of the hotel roof and form a shady pergola outside.
‘It’s really a good room,’ said Jason admiringly. He accepted a cold bottle and drank. From the dimness beyond the vine came the sound of pigeons; curved flakes of white down drifted through the sunbeams. But more than anything else he noticed the smell, that same smell he had thought characterised the town. But here it was concentrated, almost glandular. Surely this very room was the heart of Malomba? Like a tomato plant the vine bore fruit and flowers at the same time. It was as if it were simultaneouslymature and immature. Its gourds were pale and warty, the flowers most brilliant cadmium yellow, each with a central dot of indigo. Jason went to it and held its branches and the scent of the flowers poured over him so that for an instant he was on the point of blissful anaesthesia.
Laki stood watching his visitor with a look of pride. ‘Good house?’ he asked at length.
‘I’ve never seen a room with a tree in it before.’ He was reluctant or unable to let go of the branches.
‘National Plant: karesh. Karesh in English is “vine”.’
‘It’s not like any vine I’ve ever seen,’ said Jason
‘Mops?’
‘Local drink only. Moslems making. Too much sweet, too many gas.’ He went to the window and tossed out the netted tuft of roots and rot he had pulled from the wound in the ceiling. Through Jason’s mind came and went a terrifying image of his mother’s forthcoming operation. He fixed his eyes on Laki’s hands.
‘Where’s your catapult?’ He mimed pulling back elastic.
‘Ah, kancha.’ Laki drew the weapon half out of his pocket. Its pouch lolled. ‘Always here,’ he said. ‘I go now to fetching soft drinks, then I show my house upstairs. We make kancha. ’
For the ten minutes he was away Jason fell into a deep, imageless sleep. From beyond the window came faint sounds of the world through which he had just passed. It was so full of violent toxins and pungencies, so inescapable in its heat that one might almost have supposed the city had plans for him, for all his family, that a process of softening-up had already begun. Why else should belfry palms toll out their scent, the parakeets swarm in the cloud-tree in the Redemptorist Fathers’ garden? For what else the massed fairyland of temples, churches, mosques and synagogues? While somewhere behind it all were the healers, thetherapists, the psychic surgeons maybe sharpening their thumbnails, maybe hiding slivers of razor-blade beneath them, maybe just honing their powers. The only certain thing was that they were waiting.
Jason opened his eyes. Laki was softly bouncing the catapult’s dangling pouch on his chest. In his other hand the bell-boy held a pair of bottles by their necks. ‘Come,’ he said and Jason obeyed. He glided without feeling the floor, following Laki to the dark end of the corridor where they went through a door. This gave on to back stairs ascending from spicy gloom. A further flight led upwards, something of an afterthought maybe, since the treads were of hastily-laid soft brown bricks between which bulged unpointed mortar.
They emerged from a hatchway into the blows of the sun. Jason stood stupefied by the encircling panorama, by the radiance of the Glass Minaret, by the thirty-nine temples and four cinemas with canopies of trees boiling up between them as if their veins were stuffed with pure hydrogen. Laki was unlocking the door of a tumbledown mud-brick shed and motioning him inside in a proprietorial way. It was a limewashed cell, surprisingly cool and lit mainly from a hole in the roof through which a dense vine was thrusting. This knotty plant came from low down one wall, filled half the room, went out through the ceiling and curved over again to hang a tangling freight of gourds and leaves over the edge of the hotel roof and form a shady pergola outside.
‘It’s really a good room,’ said Jason admiringly. He accepted a cold bottle and drank. From the dimness beyond the vine came the sound of pigeons; curved flakes of white down drifted through the sunbeams. But more than anything else he noticed the smell, that same smell he had thought characterised the town. But here it was concentrated, almost glandular. Surely this very room was the heart of Malomba? Like a tomato plant the vine bore fruit and flowers at the same time. It was as if it were simultaneouslymature and immature. Its gourds were pale and warty, the flowers most brilliant cadmium yellow, each with a central dot of indigo. Jason went to it and held its branches and the scent of the flowers poured over him so that for an instant he was on the point of blissful anaesthesia.
Laki stood watching his visitor with a look of pride. ‘Good house?’ he asked at length.
‘I’ve never seen a room with a tree in it before.’ He was reluctant or unable to let go of the branches.
‘National Plant: karesh. Karesh in English is “vine”.’
‘It’s not like any vine I’ve ever seen,’ said Jason
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