to
croak. “I work for the government and my contract
comes to an end today.” “Does dad know?” asked the
bewildered James. “He’s not your father. Don’t be cross
with us, we’re only doing our job.” James felt like a gold
tooth sent flying through the air in a fist fight. “What
about my brother, Peter, and all the family?” “Actors,”
she said, very matter-of-factly. “I don’t believe you. Not
auntie Madge.” “Especially her. She went to drama
school. She was always a tad Shakespearian for my taste
but some people like that approach.” The small tear in
James’s eye, like a baby snail, finally emerged from its
shell. “Will you leave me?” he asked. She said, “There’s
a taxi coming in half an hour. I’ve left a chilli con carne
in the fridge and there’s a stack of pizzas in the freezer.
Pepperoni—the ones you like. We’re opening a bed and
breakfast place on the east coast. Actually it’s a safe-
house for political prisoners—I can tell you that because
I know you won’t repeat it.” Suddenly she looked like the
meanest woman who ever lived, though of course he
loved her very being.
James went outside. His best friend, Snoobie, and Carla,
his girlfriend, were leaning on the wall with suitcases in
their hands. Carla was wearing sunglasses and passing a
piece of chewing gum from one side of her mouth to the
other. “Not you two as well?” said James, despairingly.
“ ’Fraid so,” said Snoobie. “Anyway, take care. I’ve been
offered a small part in a play at the Palace Theatre in
Watford and there’s a read through tomorrow morning.
She’s off to Los Angeles, aren’t you, Carla?” “Hollywood,”
she said, still chewing the gum. James said, “Didn’t it mean
anything, Carla? Not even that time behind the taxi rank
after the Microdisney concert?” “Dunno,” she shrugged. “I’d
have to check the file.” James could have punched a hole in
her chest and ripped out the poisonous blowfish of her heart.
He walked heavily up to the paddock. If he’d been a smoker
who’d quit, now would have been the time to start again. If
he’d been carrying a loaded firearm in his pocket he might
have put that to his lips as well. Then a bird fell out of the
sky and landed just a yard or so from his feet. A cuckoo.
It flapped a few times and died. However tormented or
shabby you’re feeling, however low your spirits, thought
James, there’s always someone worse off. His mother had
taught him that. It was then he noticed the tiny electric
motor inside the bird’s belly, and the wires under its wings,
and the broken spring sticking out of its mouth.
Back in the Early Days of the Twenty-First Century
Back in the early days of the twenty-first century I was
working as a balloon seller on the baked and crumbling
streets of downtown Mumbai. It was lowly work for a
man like me with a sensitive nature and visionary dreams,
but at least I wasn’t moping around like a zombie,
tapping the windows of taxis and limousines with a
broken fingernail, begging for biscuits and change.
Besides which, these were no ordinary inflatables, but
gargantuan things, like gentle, alien beings. To drum up
business I’d fill one with air and slap the flat of my hand
on the quivering skin, the sound booming out among
passing tourists, reverberating through body and soul.
It was a sticky and slow Thursday in March when he
crossed the road towards me, that man in his seersucker
suit, and chose a purple balloon from the bag, lifted it
with his little finger like evidence found at the scene of
some filthy crime, and said, “How much for this?” We
haggled and he bargained hard, drove me down to my
lowest price, which was two rupees, then he said, “OK,
but I want it blowing up.” “No, sir,” I said, “that price
is without air.” “Blowing up, buddy, right to the top, or
I’m walking away,” said the man in the seersucker
croak. “I work for the government and my contract
comes to an end today.” “Does dad know?” asked the
bewildered James. “He’s not your father. Don’t be cross
with us, we’re only doing our job.” James felt like a gold
tooth sent flying through the air in a fist fight. “What
about my brother, Peter, and all the family?” “Actors,”
she said, very matter-of-factly. “I don’t believe you. Not
auntie Madge.” “Especially her. She went to drama
school. She was always a tad Shakespearian for my taste
but some people like that approach.” The small tear in
James’s eye, like a baby snail, finally emerged from its
shell. “Will you leave me?” he asked. She said, “There’s
a taxi coming in half an hour. I’ve left a chilli con carne
in the fridge and there’s a stack of pizzas in the freezer.
Pepperoni—the ones you like. We’re opening a bed and
breakfast place on the east coast. Actually it’s a safe-
house for political prisoners—I can tell you that because
I know you won’t repeat it.” Suddenly she looked like the
meanest woman who ever lived, though of course he
loved her very being.
James went outside. His best friend, Snoobie, and Carla,
his girlfriend, were leaning on the wall with suitcases in
their hands. Carla was wearing sunglasses and passing a
piece of chewing gum from one side of her mouth to the
other. “Not you two as well?” said James, despairingly.
“ ’Fraid so,” said Snoobie. “Anyway, take care. I’ve been
offered a small part in a play at the Palace Theatre in
Watford and there’s a read through tomorrow morning.
She’s off to Los Angeles, aren’t you, Carla?” “Hollywood,”
she said, still chewing the gum. James said, “Didn’t it mean
anything, Carla? Not even that time behind the taxi rank
after the Microdisney concert?” “Dunno,” she shrugged. “I’d
have to check the file.” James could have punched a hole in
her chest and ripped out the poisonous blowfish of her heart.
He walked heavily up to the paddock. If he’d been a smoker
who’d quit, now would have been the time to start again. If
he’d been carrying a loaded firearm in his pocket he might
have put that to his lips as well. Then a bird fell out of the
sky and landed just a yard or so from his feet. A cuckoo.
It flapped a few times and died. However tormented or
shabby you’re feeling, however low your spirits, thought
James, there’s always someone worse off. His mother had
taught him that. It was then he noticed the tiny electric
motor inside the bird’s belly, and the wires under its wings,
and the broken spring sticking out of its mouth.
Back in the Early Days of the Twenty-First Century
Back in the early days of the twenty-first century I was
working as a balloon seller on the baked and crumbling
streets of downtown Mumbai. It was lowly work for a
man like me with a sensitive nature and visionary dreams,
but at least I wasn’t moping around like a zombie,
tapping the windows of taxis and limousines with a
broken fingernail, begging for biscuits and change.
Besides which, these were no ordinary inflatables, but
gargantuan things, like gentle, alien beings. To drum up
business I’d fill one with air and slap the flat of my hand
on the quivering skin, the sound booming out among
passing tourists, reverberating through body and soul.
It was a sticky and slow Thursday in March when he
crossed the road towards me, that man in his seersucker
suit, and chose a purple balloon from the bag, lifted it
with his little finger like evidence found at the scene of
some filthy crime, and said, “How much for this?” We
haggled and he bargained hard, drove me down to my
lowest price, which was two rupees, then he said, “OK,
but I want it blowing up.” “No, sir,” I said, “that price
is without air.” “Blowing up, buddy, right to the top, or
I’m walking away,” said the man in the seersucker
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