Ахмед Рушди - Quichotte - A Novel

And now rising-sinking toward sleepy euphoria in her floating bed, she imagined him, Quichotte, beside her as the cosmos dissolved and they moved together into the beyond, the Timeless, where past and present and future all existed simultaneously, the time in which God lived, perhaps, seeing all things, as now they too would see all things, like gods, immortal, free. She looked toward him and saw her grandfather’s face. She felt neither fear nor anger, neither bitterness nor disgust. She saw only an old man melting into dust, into light. In this moment, engulfed in chemical happiness, she found it easy, even natural, to forgive.

Was that what Quichotte, purifying himself, was coming toward her to give her? Was he the one who would heal the wounds?

These questions were too big to be considered under the influence of the China White. Pleasure overwhelmed her. She slipped into the spiraling, dizzy light.

WHEN SHE HAD MADE her way up the lollipop ladder and the night came to open the gift-wrapped box containing SPI’s pride and joy, Miss Salma R discovered that InSmile™ was like graduating to a Rolls-Royce after years spent behind the wheel of a Nissan Qashqai. It was color after a lifetime of black-and-white, Monroe after Mansfield, Margaux after HobNob, Cervantes after Avellaneda, Hammett after Spillane. It was like your first real kiss, or your first genuine orgasm after years of being Meg Ryan in Katz’s Delicatessen. One puff under the tongue was all it took. The speed of delivery, the power of the hit, the quality of the high. And yes, Anderson was right, it was dangerous. At one point she was out of her body, hovering above it, looking down at it, and she could choose whether to reenter or not. It was the ultimate thrill ride and you had to be an expert jockey to stay on this horse. Fortunately she was a great horsewoman and could stay in the saddle all night long. This was not her first rodeo, but it was the rodeo Olympics, and only the greatest athletes could compete in that stadium.

“I’m in,” she told Anderson Thayer. “What’s the most discreet way to do the face-to-face with the supplier before he arranges the regular courier?”

“That’s easy,” Anderson said. “We invite him and his wife to come and watch a taping of the show.”

DR. SMILE WAS HAPPY that he had made Happy happy. She did so much, she deserved a weekend in the big city. Fall in New York was an exciting time. And the chance to meet the star of Salma ? Happy loved that show. When he told her he was taking her up to New York for a little break, and revealed what they would be doing, he saw tears well up in her eyes, and she jumped up and shook with pleasure.

“You see what I told you?” she cried. “We’re on the A-list now!”

“What do you think,” Dr. Smile asked her, “you know our relative Ismail Smile is such a big big admirer of Miss Salma?”

“But you let him go, isn’t it.”

“Maybe I could find him. What do you think, take him along so he also can meet the lady? Good idea or no?”

“Bad idea,” she said, coming at him with her mouth in a loving pout. “This little trip must be for you and me only, and no pagal cousins along for the ride.”

Quichotte took one of the last turnings off the turnpike before the tunnel’s mouth. “We’ll spend the night here,” he told Sancho. “As I said, I don’t want to arrive at the great city weary from the journey and covered in the dust of the road. Don’t be disappointed. Destiny will still be waiting for us tomorrow.” As they drove down the exit road in the fading light, a sort of fog or cloud settled on the road and it was only by good fortune that they avoided an accident. The cloud cleared away as quickly as it had come and they found themselves passing a sign pointing toward the town of Berenger, New Jersey (pop. 12,554). “Thirty years ago in Jersey City there were gangs terrorizing brown-skinned persons,” Quichotte said. “Let us hope things have quieted down in this small town at least.”

They pulled in at the JONÉSCO Motor Inn on Elm Street, surprised to see how empty the town was both of pedestrians and of traffic. As they got out of the car they heard a loud trumpeting noise which seemed to be coming from a neighboring street.

“What was that?” Sancho asked.

Quichotte shrugged. “No doubt the locals are indulging in some form of amateur musical or theatrical entertainment,” said he. “Let’s attend to our own business. That’s always best.”

Inside the Motor Inn, they were greeted at the check-in desk by a distinguished-looking man, gray-haired, balding, with an intellectual’s sadly comic face and what sounded like a thick Eastern European accent. He seemed surprised to see them. “Excuse me, but did you get into town without any trouble?” he asked. It was an unusual opening gambit for a conversation.

“Yes, naturally,” Quichotte replied. “We turned off the turnpike and followed the signs and here we are. Why, should we have expected otherwise?”

“No, no,” said the man, who turned out to be the owner himself. He gave a little shake of the head and waved his hand airily. “Please, allow me to offer you what accommodation you need.” As Quichotte was filling out the required form for a two-bedded room, the bald man explained, “This is my place. I’m a little shorthanded today.” But Sancho also heard him muttering under his breath, “There were no barricades? Incredible.”

Upon hearing this he spoke up. “Mr. Jones?” he began.

The other shook his head. “I am Jonésco,” he corrected Sancho, accenting the é, and pointing to a sign on the wall identifying him as the proprietor.

Okay, Sancho thought, call yourself whatever you want. “Sir, I heard you saying something about barricades?”

The proprietor of the Jonésco Motel shook his head. “You misheard,” he said. “I was saying, the bar is closed . My barista Frank didn’t show up for work today.”

No, that’s not right, Sancho thought, but kept his counsel.

Then the man at the desk began to act even more bizarrely. “If you humor me,” he said, “before I give you gentlemen your keys, will you allow me to examine your ears?”

“Our ears?” Quichotte replied, in deep puzzlement. “Well, on the one hand, I don’t see why not, our ears being of the common or garden variety; but on the other hand, that is a highly intrusive request.”

“Indulge me,” said Mr. Jonésco. “I have become something of a student of human physiognomy of late. But it’s fine, it’s fine. Now that I look, I see that you both have splendid and completely human ears.”

“Did you say human ?” Sancho said.

“No,” replied the man at the desk, “I said normal. Perfectly normal ears. Your noses also seem entirely appropriate for your faces.”

“Now it’s our noses he draws attention to,” Sancho protested. “Maybe we should look for another motel?”

“You won’t find many motels open for business, I’m sorry to tell you,” said the proprietor. “Many people have fled the town. Left, ” he corrected himself. “ Left is what I meant to say, and what, in fact, I believe I did say. The population, regrettably, has declined. This used to be one of the stops of the Manhattan ferry service, but the port is now out of commission, and many people relocated after it shut down. There has been, in fact, a population decline of seven percent from the 13,501 counted in the 2000 census. May I finally, as a final check, ask you to open your mouths so that I can inspect your teeth?”