Journey to Nowhere

Deadline was approaching and all that could be heard in the vast
fluorescent-lit newsroom was the pounding of computer keyboards by the
army of journalists. It was the white sound of contained energy, like
that of high voltage in a power station.
One man was not plugged into that frenzy of activity. His work station
might well have been an island, so detached was he from all that was
going on about him. Sigurd Olivier, in his early fourties and wearing a
suit, moustache and trim beard, sat at his desk and stared despondently
into space. Open in front of him was a package containing the hundreds
of pages of a manuscript. His vacant gaze drifted down to the letter in
his hand, then he leaned forward and pinned it to a pin board, where it
joined a host of other, similar letters. He was still staring at the
board when Rick Struve, the news editor, brandished a sheet of copy in
front of his nose.
"We've got the makings of a good story here, but all you've given me is
bare bones. Where's the flesh!" he snapped. Lowering his voice, he went
on."This is what I expect from a cub reporter, not from someone of your
experience. Huh?" Sensing he wasn't making contact, he followed
Sigurd's gaze to the pin board.
"Another rejection?" he asked with hurried sympathy. "Well, you know
what they say? Perseverence pays. There are plenty of publishers out
there-"
Sigurd cut him short. "If I cant get the message after 39 rejections,
well, I must be as thick as two short planks." He pushed his chair back
with his feet and swivelled so he could look Rick in the eye. "The
truth is-The truth is they dont want my masterpiece."Then with a degree
of self-mockery:"And it was meant to be my ticket out of this
hell-hole-
"Youre working for one of the best newspapers in--"
"Sure.So was Paul. Before he put a bullet through his head. And Joep,
before he gassed himself last year. And Wagner, who cannot even
recognise his own wife and kid any more he cracked up so bad. I'm
scared, Rick, scared I might be next. Only bad news is news and you
cant keep digging around in all that shit without getting spattered."He
got up and crossed to the window, his back to Rick, and muttered, more
to himself than to be heard:"There must be another way. There must
be."
Rick laid a hand gently on his shoulder."Come on.I'll buy you
lunch."
Sigurd did not respond at first, but kept staring out the window which
offered a view of the famous Amsterdam square, Leidseplein. Down there,
a few storeys below, was bustle and noise, song and dance. As trams
clanged by, a large crowd watched enthusiastically the antics of a
unicyclist juggling fire-sticks. His ghetto blaster battled the
decibels as a distorted voice sang:
On Leidseplein we listened well
The juggler he did say
Paradise my friend youll find
At a place called Bingil Bay.
For his finale the artiste tossed his sticks higher than ever in the
air, up to the sky, over the moon, and down again, catching them
adroitly. Then, feigning imbalance, he teetered in the direction of the
prettiest damsel - he had spotted her at the outset - and clung
desperately to her neck.
An hour later Rick and Sigurd were sitting on a terrace in the same
square, their table littered with dirty plates, coffee cups, wine
bottle, one glass on Ricks side, several glasses of different shape and
size on Sigurds side. In the background the street performers were
still doing their thing. Sigurd, looking rather wild, was holding
forth.
"I am. And not only me. We're all in chains. Imprisoned by the dictates
of society.Only, I want a way out. I'm looking for a window in that
brick wall where I can climb through-
"Alice Through the Looking Glass?.. The Never-Ending Story?.. Youre not
the first person to fantasize about a Shangi-la-"
"But thats just it, dont you see? I dont want to fantasize about it. I
want to actually do it! Only-"He was close to tears now. "Only, I cant
find that window in the wall. Look, youve been under a lot of strain at
home. Is Viv still pressing for a divorce?"Sigurd rocked more than
nodded, enveloped in anguish. Rick called for the bill, paid, and they
made their way through the crowd. A clown was going through his
routine. Dressed in white bunny suit with large red dots, oversized
shoes, and painted face, he kept banging his large red nose to make
hooting sounds. A row of four girls, aged around ten, with school
satchels on their backs, their arms linked, were mischievously
mimicking his every move. At first he tried to proceed with his
routine, but then realised he could play in on this. His movements
became more and more convoluted, with him pausing regularly to allow
the girls - if they dared - to double his act. And game they certainly
were!
Sigurd slowed, then stopped, his face lighting up as he was drawn into
this spontaneous play. Rick stood fidgeting next to him. Sigurd began
to work his way through the crowd. He turned once to beckon to Rick to
join him, but Rick rolled his eyes to heaven and motioned impatiently
for Sigurd to come along now. But Sigurd was moving with the
overexcitement of one who has found that window in the wall. Highly
irritated, Rick turned on his heel and walked briskly off to the
newsroom. Sigurd pressed on till he was in the front row of the crowd,
right behind the four girls. He watched them briefly, then with
hesitant movements began to mimic them. Very quickly he got into the
full swing of things, boldly linked arms with the spectators on either
side of him, they linked with their neighbours, till the entire front
row was mimicking the clown in unison with the four girls. He kicked up
his left leg, the crowd kicked up their left legs. He threw back his
head, they threw back their heads. It ended with him falling over
backwards, the crowd doing likewise, landing in a heap of abandoned
laughter.
Standing in the window of the newsroom watching this, was Rick. At his
shoulder stood an older, white-haired man, the editor. Their looks were
decidedly sober.
The crowd dispersed as the clown packed up the tools of his trade and a
group of Peruvian musicians in colourful hand-woven capes moved in to
take up their positions. Sigurd, still excited, moved through the
thinning crowd and made for a bench. Just as he had settled himself at
one end, another figure plopped down beside him. It was the juggler. He
lit a joint, inhaled deeply and with immense satisfaction, then without
looking sideways he offered the joint to Sigurd, who hesitated, then
took it and puffed.
"Transmission of the light. Or is it lamp?" the juggler told the world
at large.
"This?" asked Sigurd, holding up the joint.
"No." He gestured towards the centre of the square. "What happened out
there."
"You were great. Thank you-"
The juggler turned dramatically towards Sigurd. "It is I who must thank
you. 'The raincloud was full, and was grateful to the earth for
receiving its water.'" With that he took the joint from Sigurd. It
passed back and forth, back and forth, in silence now. Yet in that
silence something was being transmitted.
Time had stopped, and when it started up again the juggler talked of
life on the street.
"?ome winter, and I fly off to the Canaries or go Down Under.
Australia."
"And you make good money there?"
"In Sydney, Melbourne, yes. They're more receptive than you might
think, though it's musicians who are best received. Music, you see, is
where the Aussies expose their souls. But there's another reason I go
to Australia for the winter. Our winter. And the reason is, Bingil Bay.
The rainforest comes right down to the high water mark. The Pacific is
terrific. Warm as soup. And just off the coast lies the Great Barrier
Reef. Man, when you go diving there you don't need this-" He holds up a
joint. "-to have a psychedelic trip. As someone once said: 'It's as if
you had died and found yourself in heaven, it's that beautiful.' That's
where I go to unwind."
"You certainly have a wonderful life."
The juggler looked long and hard at the naive white-collar worker and
considered whether or not to confront him with some of the harder facts
of street life, but decided to be kind.
"Swings and roundabouts. Swings and roundabouts. The main thing is to
follow your heart. Yup, that's the main thing."
A lone busker was singing:
-
"Some men climb the mountain
Some men swim the sea.
Some men fly above the sky
They're all what they must be?
The light was fading. Still the two men sat there, sometimes exchanging
a few words, but mostly just being the watchers. They watched people
scurrying in the dusk; they watched as trams clanged workers home in
the rush hour. They watched the lights come on; they watched the square
emptying.
The juggler finally got to his feet, swung a large hold-all bag over
one shoulder, and took the unicycle in the other hand.
"Be good, and if you can't be good, be careful." With that he was off.
Sigurd gave a little wave.
The square was filling up again with the night crowd, out looking for
excitement. Several groups and individuals were now busking in
different parts of the square. Still Sigurd sat there, almost a
fixture, until in the late night there remained only a group of Spanish
musicians and a flamenco dancer. They were doing a number "Till the
Singer is the Song".
-
Disappearing is a wonderful feeling
Sing out loud, sing out strong
Disappearing is a wonderful feeling
Sing till the singer is the song?And the same for the dance
Here again there is the chance
For the dancer to advance
And be the dance?
Sigurd rose, and with the sound of lusty castanets in his ears, he
sauntered off. It was turning out to be the longest day of his life.
And it was not over, yet.
He wandered aimlessly, passing a fair that had been set up on the Dam
Square. The stately old Dam Palace beyond stood in marked contrast to
the frenetically flashing lights on the fairground rides.
-
Hands thrust deep in his pockets, his brooding figure became bathed in
eery blue light as he passed the windows where prostitutes displayed
themselves in the red light district. He was oblivious to their
beckoning.
Like a horse drawn to water, he found himself at the docks. He stood,
precariously balanced, with the toes of his shoes extending beyond the
edge of the quay. In a trance, he began to sway. The lights of dockland
twinkled in the rippling water, gaiety blending seamlessly with
depression. His world was liquid and whoosy, the edges blurred. In his
head there was banging, as of heavy iron being beaten to summons
plantation workers. The tempo quickened. Now he was hurtling down a
huge blue-and-red coil. His head was close to bursting. The water below
started whirling, faster and faster. The metallic sound pierced his
brain. A vortex opened up and he was sucked in.
*****
One of the patients in the psychiatric ward stood stock-still,
listening with rapt attention to the radio resting on one shoulder, and
supported with one hand. At the sound of atmospheric crackle, he
pressed his ear to the speaker. Beside him was a row of beds, some with
patients. At the end of the row lay Sigurd in white hospital clothes,
teeth clenched tightly, sweat glistening on his face, and banging his
calves repeatedly on the iron foot-end of his bed. The radio listener,
excited now, moved along the row towards the corner.
"There! There! You hear that? That's them. Ha aha ahaa, they're coming
through loud and clear. Imagine that, all the way from the Pleiades."
Suddenly he screamed: "Take me with you! Take me with you-"
"Get away from me, you madman!" Sigurd barked at him. "Can't you see
I'm being eaten up? From the inside? They're in my veins! They're in my
veins!"
The radio listener was startled by this outburst. Behind him a few of
the other patients began shuffling forward, looking on
uncomprehendingly. Sigurd, too, looked startled, not quite able to take
it in that he had been the source of the commotion. Then his face
screwed up and the tears began to flow, ever more, ever more?
*****
Under an overcast sky the autumn wind sent flurries of dead leaves
across the almost deserted Leidseplein. Sigurd was sitting alone on the
same bench as before, but wrapped now in a warm overcoat and scarf.
Inside, he was empty, the very embodiment of loneliness. Where, how,
was he to pick up the threads of a normal life?
"Sing for my supper," he said softly, absently to himself. "Sing for my
supper. Supper. Supper." He repeated the word, sensing it could become
a thread. "Supper. Cook supper. Cook." A picture from his childhood
surfaced. There he was, taking a perfectly risen cake - a touch too
brown at the back, but never mind - from the oven, to the applause of
his mother. He rose, not so perfectly, from the bench, but with a
firmness of step that enervated him further?
*****
The usual pandemonium of a restaurant at peak time reigned. Chefs and
assistant chefs scurried about the kitchen-cum-sauna, avoiding
collision with the instinct of birds wheeling in formation. A great
cloud of steam rose in one corner, hissing, and like a ship emerging
from fog, there appeared Sigurd in blue-and-white scull cap, apron and
galoshes to extricate another load of dishes from the industrial-sized
dishwasher. He laid the stainless steel tray on a counter and drew his
sleeve across his face to mop the sweat.
He liked the pressure. It kept him from thinking too much, from mulling
things over endlessly and fruitlessly. The manual labour also gave him
the feeling he was earning his money honestly. Even the quiet times,
like the mornings, when he was employed cleaning or chopping
vegetables, were physical.
"Sweat. That's it. Then you know you're living rightly. Then you're in
balance," he said to no one in particular, and continued dicing
turnips.
One of the kitchen hands responded with: "Before enlightenment,
chopping vegetables. After enlightenment, chopping vegetables."
"Yeah. Right on," said another amiably as he stood at the back door,
blowing smoke into the alley.
One night after closing time, the workers spilled out into the lane as
usual and waved one another goodbye before going off in different
directions. Sigurd counted his money, slipped it into his wallet, which
he then pocketed. He turned the corner and entered the nearby
Leidseplein. Up ahead, in the shelter of an archway, stood a
collapsible table and two stools. Seated at one was a fortune-teller,
cocooned in warm cape with hood, holding the hand of what appeared a
rich society lady sitting on the other stool. Her hand was palm up, for
a reading. Sigurd did not appear to notice them at first, but when
almost past he turned his head to cast a peremptory glance in their
direction, then continued resolutely on.
The next day he was adding the final touches to a row of salad bowls
when the maitre d'hotel appeared to survey his handiwork.
"People eat with their eyes too!" he admonished imperiously. "Can you
not try and make it a trifle more aesthetically pleasing? Hmmm?"
With that he swept two bowls from the table and strode hautily with
them through the swing doors, into the restaurant, leaving Sigurd with
a stunned expression on his face. Showing solidarity, one of the
kitchen hands threw back his head in imitation of the maitre d'hotel,
and with the tip of one finger stroked the tip of his nose in little
upward movements. The others giggled, albeit a bit nervously.
That night, as they parted ways in the alley, one of the chaps called
good-naturedly after Sigurd: "And I wish you an aesthetically pleasing
night." They all laughed.
As he left the alley and turned the corner to enter Leidseplein he saw
the fortune-teller, her back to him, jumping up and down and blowing on
her hands in an effort to warm herself. He took in the scene at once,
and quickly retraced his footsteps. Once back in the kitchen he filled
a thermos flask with black coffee and sugar and was busy screwing on
the cap when he thought of something. Casting a wary glance at the one
cleaner still mopping up, he reached nonchalantly for the cooking
brandy and poured generously into the flask.
-
This time when he rounded the corner, the fortune-teller was sitting
alone but giving a cheerful impression. At the sound of his approaching
footsteps, she turned her head: a new customer, perhaps?
"I brought you something to warm yourself," Sigurd said, or rather,
blurted out. He cringed, realising that in his isolation of late he had
lost even the veneer of social polish. But he was in now and had to
save himself. "Ehmm," he tried, "I- ehm- I work at a restaurant around
the corner. I was on my way home-" Here he scoffed. "Home? Huh. I was
on my way home and saw you blowing on your hands. Oh god, this is
looking all wrong, isn't it?" He hurriedly plonked the flask on the
small table. "I'll just leave it here and be off." With which he
started moving off.
The fortune-teller shook back the hood of her cape, which brought
Sigurd pulling up short. He saw for the first time just how beautiful -
exotically beautiful - this woman in her early thirties was. He tried
to pin her origins. She had something of the gypsy, with Persian blood
perhaps, and something of the European aristocrat. Her large gold
earrings caught the light. Suddenly aware that he was gaping, he closed
his mouth. She smiled, a big, generous smile.
"And leave me to drink alone?"
Completely off his stroke, Sigurd bumbled. "There's only one mug- cup-
It's the cap. I mean, the cap is the mug. But there's only one-"
"And you have a fetish about not sharing mugs?
"No, no-"
"Then please," she motioned to the second stool, "be my guest, and I'll
be? she raised the flask, "your guest." Again she flashed that
devastating smile. "My name is Yatri. And yours?"
"Sigurd." He held out his hand. She received it in hers, taking the
time to look well at it.
"Beautiful hands. You should let me do a reading some time."
"I'm not earning much at the moment," he said, sitting down.
"And I'm not cheap. It would cost you, let's see?One flask of coffee. I
take it this is coffee?"
"Laced with cooking brandy. That's all I could lay my hands on. The
better stuff was locked away already."
"Wow! Then you get the de luxe version-"
"Well, look?Actually I don't believe in that sort of thing," he said,
then added hurriedly: "I mean, I don't believe in it for me. Oh damn,
now I'm goofing all over the place. I'm sorry."
"No offence taken. Honestly. These?oh, shall I say esoteric things?take
a little getting used to."
She poured from the flask, savoured the smell, drank, then handed the
mug to him.
"There's no hocus-pocus, like people think. Not with the genuine
article, anyway."
"Yours is the genuine article, then?"
"I never pretend to see things, feel things, that I don't," she said
thoughtfully. "It's a matter of opening yourself, being receptive to
the other person's vibrations. And then combining intuition with common
sense." Then lightly: "But I'm still learning! That is why I'm doing my
apprenticeship in foreign places."
"Where are you from?"
"Where am I from? Where am I from? Oh my goodness me! Can't I just be
an earthling?"
"Snap! Me too."
"Most recently, Heidelberg. If I can call any place home, now, then
it's Heidelberg."
"I've only seen pictures. Medieval castle on the hill, old university.
Beautiful, is it?"
"Beautiful. I'll be going back for Christmas and New Year."
"So fortune-telling is something you can learn?" he asked with a note
of scepticism.
She was not put off. "It's more a question of honing your skills, than
learning new ones. The same as with music, painting, anything in fact.
You're born with a feeling for it and then you practise, practise,
practise."
Sigurd sipped, then handed her the mug before asking: "And if you draw
a blank? If, on occasion, you cannot see anything in the cards? What
then?"
Yatri considered a moment, then said: "I should hope I would have the
courage to admit it."
It was after midnight when Sigurd walked Yatri home, she carrying the
flask, he the canvas bag with the collapsible table and stools. They
talked easily, sauntering, and came to a halt beside a picturesque,
four-storeyed, gabled house, a typical Amsterdam "grachtenhuis".
"Here we are. This is where I live."
"Very grand."
"Oh I only have one room. The house is divided into several
apartments."
"Well, I guess I'll be on my way-"
"You're- You're welcome-" and she burst into laughter. "I was going to
say, you're welcome to come up for coffee, but we've had that." Her
tone changed. "Is something wrong?"
He had become distressed, quite suddenly. "Something? No, not
something. Everything!"
"I'm sorry," said Yatri, shrinking back, "I've said something-"
"No no! I'm?I'm?I'm just going through a very bad patch and I'm not
ready for?Ready for? He sighed deeply. "It would not be fair to inflict
myself on you now. Another time. Another time. Thank you. Thank
you."
Old ghosts had been awakened and he teetered on the edge of
schizophrenia. He walked away, muttering, leaving Yatri nonplussed.
Suddenly remembering the thermos flask in her hands, she took one step
forward, holding it out to him, but she did not call after him. Deep in
thought, she bent to pick up the bag with her table and stools, and
entered the house.
The following evening when the restaurant closed, Sigurd followed
another route to the boarding house where he now had a room. His chat
with Yatri had left him with the feeling that he was not ready for any
meaningful social intercourse. Idle exchanges with fellow workers in
the kitchen was about his measure for now.
Yatri was back at her post the next day. And the next, and the next.
Conspicuous on her tiny table was the thermos flask - red too - like a
beacon beckoning the strange Samaritan. She tried to put him out of her
mind, but he remained, like a tiny wheat husk caught in one's
underwear. His behaviour had been so contradictory. Fortunately for
her, she had plenty of custom, and that took her mind off it.
In the second week of December it snowed heavily. With one benificent
stroke the slushy, dark grey, cantankerous city was transformed into a
hushed fairyland that lifted the spirits. Lifted the spirits, too, of
the overgrown Sigurd. His hair was longer, so was his beard. With hands
thrust deep into coat pockets, and head drawn into the shoulders
against the cold, he crunched and squeaked his way through the virgin
snow beside one of the smaller canals. He kept stopping to peer at the
houses. At last he entered the pathway of the house he thought he
recognised. His hand went out to the doorbell. Suddenly hesitant, he
withdrew it. Then with firm resolve he punched the button. Vapour rose
as he exhaled.
-
The door opened brightly, and a flighty young woman stood before him.
"Hello. Can I help you?"
"Does a- Yatri. I've come to see Yatri."
"Come for a reading?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
"She's up in the clouds! Seventh Heaven, I shouldn't wonder!" She
giggled. "That is to say, top floor. Attic, actually."
"Thank you," he said, and passed her as she stood aside.
He emerged from the stairwell, onto a small landing, and stood
listening to the sound of Middle Eastern music coming from behind the
one door. He screwed up his courage and knocked firmly. The door flew
open, and with it came a blast of music. And there stood Yatri, in Sufi
garments: wide crimson pantaloons, over which billowed a flowing gold
dress. The large gold earrings were in place.
"Come in!" she panted. "I can't stop! I'm in the middle of Nataraz.
Join me. Shoes off first."
Weeks had passed since their first meeting, yet if she was surprised to
see him, she did not show it. Perhaps being in the middle of this
Nataraz, whatever that might be, covered it. At any rate, he was
relieved that he was being made to feel welcome. He kicked off his
shoes, and allowed her to pull him by the hand - through a window,
through a doorway - into her world.
It truly was another world. The room was long, with a high, peaked
roof, ancient oak beams and broad wooden floorboards. Eastern silks
flowed all about so that little of the daylight coming through the one
dormer window and one skylight managed to penetrate the drapes. The
warm and intimate light of a hundred candles, or thereabouts,
prevailed. In a corner, on the floor, was a large foam rubber mattress
covered with hand-woven oriental cloth and a cascade of embroidered
cushions.
The music was whirling. Yatri danced around Sigurd, making the removal
of his coat and scarf an integral part of her dance. She did not have
to tell him what to do; her abandoned, free dance simply infected him.
He started slowly, awkwardly, but in the atmosphere that had been
created, by Yatri, the space, and the hypnotic music, he could not be
left untouched.
Yatri's dancing was spellbinding, her long, nimble arms weaving
patterns in the air, her skirts flairing. At times she rose like a
spinning, hopping top to reappear in another part of the long room. The
music reached a crescendo, then died. Yatri dropped to the floor and
lay stretched out on her back. Sigurd did the same.
For ten minutes they lay, eyes closed, in complete silence, then the
tailpiece - the epilogue - of the meditation music started playing
gently. Yatri got up and swayed to the soothing sounds. Sigurd
continued to lie there. When this piece came to an end he opened his
eyes slowly. Blinked.
"Am I on the other side of the brick wall?"
"No hocus-pocus, you see? But magic nevertheless. Real magic."
She glided across to a small, low table where a glass teapot with a
herbal melange was standing over a tea candle. She poured into two bone
china bowls, handed one to Sigurd. They sat cross-legged on the wooden
boards, sipping silently.
"Another?" asked Yatri when they had finished.
Sigurd cupped the bowl in his upturned hand and held it out to Yatri.
As she took it, she did a double take, then put the bowl down on the
floor and took his hand in hers.
"How extraordinary! Can I see your other hand?" He held it out. "Two of
them! You are indeed blessed."
"Blessed?" he queried, mystified. Then in a jocular tone: "Well, I
guess I am. There are people who don't have two healthy, strong,
well-functioning hands-"
"No. I mean two healthy, strong, well-functioning Simian hands."
"Simian? That means it's got something to do with apes, then?"
"Yes indeed. Apes have this same characteristic."
"Great!" He paused. "What characteristic?"
"Most people have two horizontal lines in the middle of their palms.
The head and heart lines. Here, give me your hand again." With her
finger she traced across his palm. "Do you see? Only one line. Head and
heart have merged. Now look at mine." She turned her hands palm up, and
there were the normal two horizontal lines.
In awe, and a little scared, he asked: "What does it?signify?"
"Well, in common parlance, it means you're either a genius or an
idiot."
Sigurd, genuinely unsure: "And how?how do you know which?"
Yatri gave him a reproachful look. "Now now, we're not fishing for
compliments, are we? Anyway, that is, as I said, in common parlance -
don't-we-just-love-duality-Aristotle-damn-your-eyes. Things are never
as black-and-white as that."
"The one day I feel I can move the earth, the next I can hardly move my
little finger. Maybe I'm both, a genius and an idiot."
"Oh by the way, Simian hands are fairly common among people with Down's
Syndrome." She looked at him enquiringly. "I haven't offended you, have
I?"
Several seconds passed before he answered. "No. No you haven't." Pause.
"I often think they're the ones who've got it right."
"Lest ye be as little children, ye shall not enter the Kingdom of
Heaven?"
"Exactly so."
Yatri sat down in front of him and took hold of his hands, resting them
in her lap. She looked hard at them, then looked deep in his
eyes.
"These are the most wonderfully creative hands I've ever had the
privilege of,of reading. You must do something truly wonderful with
them."
Sigurd held her gaze for an intense few moments, then his eyes moved
slowly down her face, her neck, the delicate collar bones. His
wonderfully creative hands disentangled themselves and moved smoothly
upwards, to do something truly wonderful. They cupped her
breasts.
*****
Sigurd and Yatri hurried along the platform of Amsterdam's Central
Station, checking coaches and compartments, till they found the right
one. They bundled the luggage on board and embraced like lovers on the
platform.
"One week. Only one week!" Sigurd was in emotional pain. "And now
you're going, gone. Back to the husband you're not in love with."
"No, not in love, but I told you, I do love him. He needs me, somewhere
in his life, and- and I need him, as a friend. A dear friend."
Helpless now, Sigurd blurted out: "You- empower me! What now?"
"My dearest! I kick-started your motor, that is all. But you have
immense power of your own. However low you once were, that's how high
you will soar now. When our paths cross again, I know, with absolute
certainty, you will have found your direction. Your voice."
The public address speakers crackled and a mechanical voice announced
that the international train was about to depart. Yatri stroked
Sigurd's cheek with the utmost tenderness.
"You will see." Then lightly: "I am not a fortune-teller for nothing.
And here-" She pulled a gift-wrapped parcel from her bag. "Something to
cast light on your path."
He took the parcel, suddenly mortified. "Oh oh oh. And I have nothing
for you."
Yatri kissed him one last time and said: "Oh yes! I'll show you."
She boarded the train. As the conductor's whistle sounded to blow her
away, she appeared at the window of her compartment. She dug in a bag
and as the train started moving she held up the thermos flask, the
bright red thermos flask, for him to see. And smiled so
beautifully.
Sigurd waved, the train gathered speed, and was gone. He stood there
like a statue while the platform emptied, then, coming out of his
trance, he remembered the parcel in his hands. He opened it, to reveal
material. As he unfolded this, a CD box fell to the ground. He left it
there for the moment, absorbed as he was in what was revealed: a pair
of royal red pantaloon trousers and an Eastern-style embroidered
waistcoat inlaid with shiny little discs. When he had taken all this
in, he bent to retrieve the CD box and read the title: "Nataraz
Meditation."
The maitre d'hotel's theatrical rolling of his eyes continued and was
irritating beyond measure, so Sigurd considered his options: he could
resign and find work at another restaurant; he could ask him to get off
his back, or better still, ram a cream tart in the man's face; or...he
could use his "wonderfully creative hands" to good effect. He took to
staying on an extra half hour or hour after closing time to practise
"carving" vegetables into interesting shapes, or making intricate
patterns on them. He did this with the aid of a book he had bought
entitled (he winced when he saw it): "Eating With Your Eyes". With a
razor-sharp little knife he learnt how to make roses out of radishes,
totem poles out of turnips, crocodile jaws out of carrots,
hippopotamuses out of peppers, Catherine wheels out of kiwis.
He was delighted at seeing what he was capable of making, but what
surprised him most pleasantly was that he liked doing it. While
carving, the mad merry-go-round in his head would slow down and though
it did not disappear, it certainly took a back seat.
When he was confident enough, he decided to apply his new-found skill
to the salad platters. He was just adding the final touches when the
foreboding presence of the maitre d'hotel made itself felt. He glared
at Sigurd, swooped like a marauding bird of prey, was about to scoop up
a platter or two- and froze. Before him was a veritable feast for the
eyes, a fairground of carousels and tableaux. The man bent his knees so
his face was level with the table, and gaped at a potato boatman
propelling his red pepper punt with a spaghetti pole across a sea of
avocado dip. There was a deafening, pregnant silence. The kitchen staff
edged closer, holding its collective breath?