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The Book with Twelve Tales Page 3
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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),