The Book with Twelve Tales Read online

Page 3


  Alberto waves his tongue at some flies

  and scratches his stomach.

  He yawns and smiles.

  When he is asleep,

  his officer’s hat falls off.

  Brrrrm brrrrm.

  Alberto wakes up.

  A small cloud of dust rolls down the hillside.

  Soon he can hear the tyres crackle

  on the gravel near the bridge.

  He gets up and buttons his jacket.

  He recovers his hat from the geraniums.

  An open-topped Lotus pulls up.

  The driver is a very fetching llama.

  She is wearing dark glasses

  and an expensive beret.

  Her ears are beautiful.

  The Lotus shines in the sun.

  Alberto walks a little nearer.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he says shyly,

  his tongue flickering at the door handle.

  ‘Brazil,’ says the llama.

  She takes off her glasses and smiles.

  ‘Am I on the right road?’

  Alberto blushes at his silly question,

  and the kindness of her answer.

  ‘As you see,’ he says, pointing his tongue

  at the small C road ahead,

  sliding over the plain.

  They smile together at their

  little conspiracy of politeness.

  Alberto’s watery eyes are bright.

  He waddles to the bucket

  and moves it out of the way.

  The geraniums wobble beautifully.

  Alberto waves the Lotus past

  and it purrs expensively into Brazil.

  The next week the Lotus reappears,

  rolling down the hillside in a cloud of dust.

  It crackles across the bridge

  and pulls up at the shed

  where Alberto is watering the geraniums.

  He smiles at the beautiful llama.

  She is wearing black plastic earrings

  and a lemon pashmina.

  He puts down the watering can

  and walks up to the Lotus,

  his tongue curling at the wipers.

  ‘Hello,’ he says lamely, and blushes.

  ‘My name is Alberto.’

  The llama smiles. Her ears shine.

  She smells of Eau de Lima.

  There is a crocodile-skin suitcase

  on the back seat.

  She stretches out a glove to shake his hand.

  The next week the Lotus reappears

  again. There are two suitcases

  on the back seat. The llama smiles.

  She is wearing a mohair headscarf

  and a necklace that glitters.

  Alberto swallows his tongue and says,

  ‘May I look in your suitcases?’

  He blushes and waddles towards the car door.

  The llama gets out elegantly.

  ‘Of course,’ she says.

  His tongue curls at the crocodile-skin suitcases.

  The llama smokes a Crème de Menthol

  while Alberto looks. Nothing.

  He moves the bucket out of the way

  and waves the Lotus past.

  The next week the Lotus is back.

  And the week after.

  And the week after that.

  The llama smokes

  while Alfredo searches

  an ever-increasing number of suitcases.

  Nothing. The llama smiles.

  Alfredo waddles away

  and moves the bucket

  and waves the Lotus past.

  The llama waves her glove at him

  as she purrs expensively into Brazil.

  One week the car comes down the hillside

  in a cloud of dust and stops

  beside Alfredo’s chair.

  The llama gets out and lights

  a cigarette with a gold lighter.

  She looks especially beautiful.

  She has a mock-fur coat

  and red plastic boots,

  a Chanel baseball cap

  and diamond earrings.

  Alfredo blushes and waddles

  towards the car, his tongue

  questing at the eleven suitcases

  packed on the back seat.

  Alfredo searches them all.

  The llama wanders about on the small lawn

  and smokes with a smile.

  Nothing. Some clothes, toiletries,

  books, shoes, a camera, a passport,

  all in order.

  The llama puts up her sunglasses

  and kisses Alfredo on the cheek.

  ‘This is my last trip,’ she says.

  Alfredo blushes and waddles away.

  He moves the bucket

  and waves the Lotus past.

  The small Z road

  and the small C road

  are empty. The dust settles.

  Alfredo sucks his tongue

  and sighs. He sits on his chair.

  The geraniums wobble beautifully.

  Ten years later, Alfredo

  waddles into ‘The Llama Bar’

  in Porto Triunfo.

  He has retired. He is tanned.

  His pink shirt with lace frontage

  is open at the chest.

  He is wearing a medallion

  of the Angel of Relaxation

  and a pair of tight jeans.

  His cowboy boots go snap-snap

  on the wooden floor.

  He orders a bottle of Bonachon Beer.

  He sits in the disco light.

  He smiles and siphons his tongue

  in the beer. An alpaca

  in a small leather skirt

  crosses her thighs on a bar stool.

  Alfredo blushes and looks away.

  There, at a private table,

  drinking champagne with an armadillo

  whose moustache is curled

  and whose suit shimmers,

  is the beautiful suspicious llama.

  Alfredo stands up. He moves

  into a darker corner, and watches.

  She looks the same.

  She laughs and smokes.

  The armadillo puts his hand over hers.

  She smiles and drains her champagne.

  Alfredo watches.

  Lines of light loop on her dark glasses.

  She laughs softly contralto.

  He waddles up to her table.

  The armadillo pulls his moustache

  and says, ‘More champagne!’

  Alfredo blushes and takes a deep breath.

  ‘I am not a waiter,’ he says.

  ‘I am a Passport/Visa

  and Customs House Officer.

  Retired. I have the honour

  of knowing this lady.

  My name is Alfredo.’

  He bows slightly.

  The armadillo crushes his cigarillo

  in a heavy glass ashtray.

  The beautiful suspicious llama

  smiles at him.

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘I remember.’

  Alfredo takes another deep breath.

  ‘What were you smuggling,

  all those years ago?’

  The disco light revolves its colours.

  The armadillo fondles his cufflinks.

  The llama leans forward with a tinkle

  and whispers champagnely in Alberto’s ear.

  ‘Cars.’

  The Tale of Tales

  1

  follow me please we have reached

  the River Skut which you can see here

  scooting along

  rolling its shoulders like a skier

  look please at the sun drilling

  its yellow hole in the bluegrey sky

  and over there a man

  with 4 medium fish in a plastic bag

  who is walking home with a red beard

  just in front of the end

  of the row of poplars

 
flitterfluttering in the breeze

  and please especially at his shoes

  socks and trousers

  which are sopping wet

  blackberries explode drupel by drupel

  now follow me please a little way

  down the riverbank here

  and mind the slippery bit

  and look over there by that bush thing

  I don’t know what it is

  where you can see another man

  with a medium fishing rod

  but no fish

  in the sunshine on the bank

  and please especially at his nice dry

  trousers socks and shoes

  the poplars creak

  and you can see the river scooting along

  follow me please

  the blackberries shoot purple blobs into the air

  2

  She pricked her arm

  on the prickly palm.

  Next

  she got a text

  from Li Tzu

  that said cnt c u.

  He didn’t say why.

  Birds of sadness crossed the sky.

  She sat in the park

  in the dark

  wearing her coolie hat

  so that

  despair

  wouldn’t nest in her hair.

  3

  Rakish was an interesting man.

  He had no troubles

  and he had no god.

  So he bought a goat.

  4

  Suva was fast asleep.

  The dark sea lapped at the concrete waterfront.

  Rusty ships rolled sleepily in the bay.

  Victoria Parade was dead.

  The dark sky rolled in bits and pieces

  across the sleepy shopfront windows.

  The Reverend Sonny Nupenai

  in his dark sulu and dogcollar

  padded past the ghostly windows of the Wing Ho Café.

  Across the still dark glass

  his beautiful Chamberlain umbrella

  swam like a grouper in nightwater.

  He watched himself pad out of one

  and into the next sleepy shopfront window

  until he reached the beach.

  The air was empty and dark.

  He stood on the concrete slipway

  and put up the harvest of a dead aunt.

  It fluttered on its struts in the night.

  The rusty ships rolled sleepily in the bay.

  He walked along the beach, protected from the moon.

  Suva was fast asleep.

  Under the dark little canopy of his pride

  The Reverend Sonny Nupenai walked towards the sun.

  5

  Passing through

  Oru

  on my scooter

  I robbed a banjo

  off a bench.

  When I got

  home

  dad asked me

  if I’d stolen it

  and I said No.

  6

  I got an interview for a job as a baker’s assistant in Calcutta.

  They said it might not work because my head was made of butter.

  7

  She sat in the Turkey Café,

  wearing a yellow sarong.

  Her high smile gave her away.

  You can’t hide love for long.

  She sat on the Senator’s yacht

  and smiled at the lights of Hong Kong.

  She burst in a trumpet of snot.

  You can’t hide a cold for long.

  She sat with the family cat,

  while the family played mahjong.

  The sprinklers flooded the flat.

  You can’t hide smoke for long.

  She sat in the Turkey Café,

  wearing a red sarong.

  Somebody sent a bouquet.

  You can’t hide money for long.

  8

  for Tamara Romanyk

  Apukhtin was having a picnic

  amongst the silver birches.

  The evening light made stripes

  across the mossy grass.

  An earwig landed on his arm.

  He brushed it away.

  It landed on a sausage, dead.

  Oh dear, thought Apukhtin

  in a wave of tenderness.

  Immediately, a swarm of wasps

  landed on his crudités.

  I shall be kinder this time,

  he thought.

  9

  I call my dog Fried Chicken

  Chips and Coke

  in case I have to eat him

  when I’m broke.

  10

  ah come dahn outta them mountains

  an the snow was flahin an ah wuz kinda cold

  an this feller he says

  he can rahd mah saddle

  fahv tahms in a row

  an ah says ahm fifteen

  an hes ahl done in baht ten minutes

  an ahm near thirty

  an he took mah wallet

  an ah took his horse

  an ah rode on out through the snow

  twahds Washingtons Elbow

  an ah reckon we come out abaht even

  and I reckon well both get on

  raht enuf in this world

  11

  Dr Eckhart is famous

  for curing sick men

  who do not die.

  12

  Ali went to the dyer.

  He wanted his coat dyed blue.

  The dyer sold it to Nasir

  and bought a large cockatoo.

  Ali went back a week later.

  I’ve come for my coat, he said.

  The dyer said, blue is unlucky:

  I think we should dye it red.

  Ali went back a week later.

  The dyer said, Ali, I think

  red is a little bit bloody:

  I think we should dye it pink.

  Ali went back a week later.

  Pink is a pain to keep clean.

  The dyer shrugged his shoulders.

  I think we should dye it green.

  Ali went back a week later.

  Green is a little passé,

  the dyer said. Ali said, and?

  I think we should dye it grey.

  Ali went back a week later.

  Oh grey is a little bit cold.

  The cockatoo chuckled and bobbed.

  I think we should dye it gold.

  Ali went back a week later.

  Gold will take far too much time.

  The dyer and Ali had coffee.

  I think we should dye it lime.

  Ali went back a week later.

  The dyer had gone to Al-Zed.

  The cockatoo looked at him sideways.

  Where’s my coat, he said.

  It is dipped in the vat of oblivion.

  The cockatoo bobbled its head.

  It has taken the colour of Nothing.

  The one I like least, Ali said.

  The Monkey’s Dilemma

  Chuu, a thoughtful, red macaque,

  was loping down Shikoku Beach

  along the frothy hide-tide-mark

  when something caught his eye. He stopped.

  He poked his finger carefully

  amongst the flotsam. Hm. He hopped

  around it once, and scratched his head.

  A starfish, wrinkled, flat and pale,

  lay on the sand, its limp legs spread

  like something two-times crucified,

  and half nailed-up again. Sadness

  overcame him, and he cried,

  O little starfish san – and then,

  like something torn, its little mouth

  went tsup. Chuu frowned. It tsupped again.

  Chuu hopped round it backwards, sniffed

  its gluey air and slapped his nose.

  He grabbed a shell and tried to lift

  the dry, light, yellowed, o-ing thing

  and turn it over. Plop. He jumped.

 
The turning tide began to bring

  its next collection up the sand.

  Chuu scratched his ear and frowned. The waves

  went ssss. He didn’t understand –

  and thoughtful monkeys like to know

  what causes and effects pertain

  to things that … well, that happen. So

  he asked the sea if it would drown

  or save his friend the starfish. Answer

  came there none. So Chuu sat down

  and rolled his eyes. The sky went grey.

  He felt the spray fizz round his ears.

  He bounced around to ask which way

  his friend was heading. Hoogh, he said:

  starfish san, I’d like to help.

  He hunkered closer. Are you dead?

  The mouth went tsup. The sky went black.

  Good, he smiled. Now tell me, shall I

  Leave you here or put you back?

  The sea went whoosh. Chuu cupped his ear.

  But answer came there none. So shall I

  put you back or leave you here?

  No tsup. No sign. No nothing. Hm.

  Chuu poked it, put his ear against

  its flesh and whispered, Can you swim?

  But nothing happened. Chuu could see

  that shortly, when the tide came in,

  his own potential charity

  would all be swamped by blind events

  like sunset, moonrise, winds and tides,

  and lose its moral credit, sense

  and, therefore, notability,

  because its object (starfish san)

  could not say thank you, wave, or see

  its rescuer, or know he knew,

  or register the favour done,

  or have a conscientious view,

  or actually express one, on

  the acts of others (unadvised),