The Alejandra Variations
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Authors: Paul Cook
The Alejandra Variations
Paul Cook
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No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 1984 by Paul Cook
First e-reads publication 1999
www.e-reads.com
ISBN 0-7592-0057-2
Author Biography
Paul Cook worked at the Arizona State University as an acquisitions librarian for five years, much of his time was spent doing research in the Noble Science Library. He currently works in the English Department as a Senior Lecturer. He has written several novels, including TINTAGEL, THE ALEJANDRA VARIATIONS, and FORTRESS ON THE SUN.
Other work by Paul Cook
also available in e-reads editions
Tintagel
—Para ella que tiene
su corazón
en la casa de luz,
Cecily Dallas.
Why does the eye see a thing
more clearly in dreams
than the imagination when awake?
—Leonardo da Vinci
Table of Contents
The Alejandra Variations
The First Variation
Chapter One
I
DENTIFY THE CITY!
It wasn't so much a command as an impulse which he couldn't ignore. It rang out like the brass of a clarion, echoing down the deepest corridors of his mind, thundering through to the stanchions of his muscles and bones.
Identify the city! Find a street sign, an imposing and familiar building or a landmark—even a bridge to be recognized by its spidery limbs or vast construction.
Anything!
But try as he might, he couldn't. At least, not in his present state of mind.
How he had gotten to the picturesque sidewalk café that seemed to jut rudely from the sidewalk out into the crowded street was beyond him. The liqueur he'd been quaffing these past few hours had dulled his mind.
What Nicholas Tejada did know was that this did not look like any American or European city.
Languishing in his alcoholic stupor, he stared blearily around him, fingering the small glass in his hand, swirling the liquid around in lazy, hypnotic spirals.
"Sir, may I recommend the
bhel puri?
"
The voice came out of nowhere. Nicholas was watching an assembly of finely robed women walk down the center of the bustling street, chanting and clacking finger-cymbals. The women seemed uncommonly graceful in their veiled beauty.
The word
Pakistan
came into his mind suddenly. Then came
Bangladesh.
Both words were followed by the mental equivalent of question marks.
There were no automobiles moving along the avenue. An occasional car of foreign manufacture could be seen parked alongside the curbs, apparently abandoned and useless. The buildings themselves, though tall and relatively modern, spoke mostly of poverty and profound despair. Clothing, hung out to dry, waved in the slightest of breezes high above like the flags of a long-lost cause.
Nicholas could not comprehend why there were so many people on the street.
Why?
the voice inside his mind asked.
Why?
"Sir?"
Nicholas turned and glanced up at the waiter—a young man of walnut skin and sharp, intelligent brown eyes. Over one wrist he held a clean white towel—just the thing to waylay the prim consciousness of an American tourist possibly ill-at-ease in a foreign land.
"Sorry," he said and smiled up at the young waiter, a boy whose English was remarkably good. "What did you say?"
"The
bhel puri.
I would like to perhaps recommend it with your liqueur, if you are hungry. It is very tasty, sir."
Nicholas blinked, trying to assimilate the world through his drunkenness.
With a slight bow, the smiling waiter continued. "It is a flavorful dish of rice, onions, and potatoes, sir. We spice it with just a touch of chutney sauce. We find it very delicious."
A carnival air surrounded the café. Over his shoulder Nicholas could hear many voices singing, although what was being sung was utterly incomprehensible.
"That would be fine," he murmured, absorbed by the delightful music from the street. "Yes, please."
As he spoke he began fishing in his trouser pockets for money. It had occurred to him that if he could identify the currency he could identify the country. The city would come later.
He brought forth a fistful of brown and yellow bills, but he couldn't decipher the script. Scrawls and curious scribbles—the glyphs of a strange and faraway land—embossed an emblem of some dignitary, or deity, whom he couldn't recognize.
He was drunker than he had originally thought—if in fact he was drunk. He blinked twice and tried to focus his eyes on the bills. Yen? Afghanis? Rupees? They rustled like leaves in his hand.
He found among the bills a few traveler's checks—American Express—and American dollars, all twenties.
But the other currency—exotic to the eye, peculiar to the touch—he couldn't identify.
He could ask the waiter for help. It would seem a stupid question:
Where am I, young man?
And there would be a half-dozen questions to follow it, such as:
How did I get here?
and,
What the hell am I supposed to be doing here?
He stuffed the wad of money back into his pocket, and glanced again into the busy street. There were literally hundreds of men, women, and children, all dressed in
saris
of one kind or another. Many of the men were turbaned. Everyone was caught up in laughter and song. The young ones ran barefoot and shrieked like kids do everywhere when they are turned loose in a joyous crowd. Nicholas noticed that a strong smell of incense wafted invisibly around him like the caress of a genie.
India? Bhutan?
The need to identify the city rose like a sickness inside of him.
Then he saw in the distance a form he could definitely recognize. A fire-engine-red double-decker bus flowed through the crowd of people on the street honking noisily above the tumult. The bus listed as if injured. As it drew near the café, Nicholas could see dozens of individuals clinging to the far left side of the vehicle. The bus stopped and people mingled in a chaotic exchange of humanity, some getting on, others getting off. The bus still did not quite straighten up, and Nicholas could see what years of wretched, toiling service had done to it. He also realized that, whatever country this was, he was surrounded by very poor people: The Third World.
The young waiter returned with the
bhel puri.
Nicholas pondered the delicacy before him. On a fresh green leaf, which itself rested upon a plate of princely white china, sat a mound of steaming mush. All of a sudden he was famished. The
bhel puri,
whatever it was, smelled simply wonderful.
"Thank you," Nicholas said. He took up his fork and knife and began eating, but the waiter seemed in no hurry to leave his side. Nicholas didn't mind, feeling in fact oddly secure in the young man's presence. He pointed with his fork at the crowd parading in the street.
"What's going on?" he asked. "Where are they all headed?"
He didn't want to seem the awkward tourist, asking obvious, ingratiating questions of the natives. But he figured the waiter would be used to the most obnoxious behavior from foreign visitors.
"It is the sacred celebration of Ganesh Chaturthi," the waiter said with a certain amount of pride. His teeth, when he smiled at Nicholas, were pearl white. "The women take carved statues of our Hindu gods down to the sea. The sea is a holy place for us, sir.
"It is one of Bombay's largest festivals," the young man continued. "We close off the streets, except for the buses, even though it is very bad for business."
Bombay! He had gotten country and city in one neat package. Inwardly, Nicholas could feel something taut relax, like a fist slowly unclenching. His mission was accomplished.
Then he sat up. Mission accomplished?
The young waiter stood nearby, eyeing the parade of people in the street. Another bus, coughing diesel smoke in great gouts, came by—heading for the seashore and carrying more enthusiasts of Ganesh Chaturthi.
Nicholas was confused and made somewhat uneasy by all this. Why had the recognition of the city been so urgent?
"How many of these things have I had?"
"Sir?" The waiter turned to him.
Nicholas indicated the small glass of liqueur. Everything about him drifted in a haze.
"These drinks. How many have I ordered?"
The waiter smiled understandingly. "Only three, sir." He consulted a bar tab in the side pocket of his elegant coat. "Yes, just three. Would you like something else with the
bhel puri?
I can bring you a light chablis in a chilled carafe if you would prefer."
The feeling of relief which had followed his initial recognition of the city was now replaced with one of rapt suspicion.
Three
drinks? Normally it took more than three drinks to get him drunk. He must be slipping.
He stared down at his
bhel puri,
suddenly not hungry at all. Quite clearly something was amiss.
"Is there anything wrong, sir?" The waiter appeared to be genuinely concerned. "I understand, if it is the food. There are times when it does not agree with our visitors from the States."
Find the Prime Minister.
"What did you say?"
"Pardon me, sir?"
"What you said just now."
"I was talking about the food. If it is not to your liking, I can return with something a little more suited to your palate."
Nicholas turned in his seat. "No, not that. You said, 'Find the Prime Minister.' I heard you. I'm sure of it."
An expression of sincere confusion passed across the waiter's brow. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. I said nothing like that."
Nicholas wiped his mouth lightly with his folded napkin and stood up, fighting the effects of the liqueur.
"I apologize," Nicholas said, rather embarrassed. "I thought you'd said something." He smiled thinly.
"I understand, sir." The waiter was very courteous. "The heat and the crowd at this time of the year can be disturbing to strangers. This is not a good time to visit India, I'm afraid."
Nicholas drew out his money, knowing now that the bills were rupees, and gave them to the waiter, who beamed at the American's generosity.
He decided that someone must have passed close to the sidewalk restaurant and shouted out the words he had heard. In his clouded state of mind, he had assumed that it was the waiter speaking.
The command came again.
Find the Prime Minister. It's got to be the Prime Minister.
Nicholas jerked about suddenly. This time the words were more than clear. It was definitely not a voice from the crowded, cacophonous Bombay street, not remote and impersonal, or meant for someone else's ears. It was clearly meant for him. He was the only person who could have heard it, for…
It had come from
within.
The Prime Minister!
A wave of fear gripped him. In the multitude of bright colors, confusing sounds, and earthy smells, he felt a familiar anxiety tugging at him. He began to sweat. He loosened his tie and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, to concentrate.
A group of barely clad, shoeless priests, brown as the bark of trees, approached in an air of righteous solitude. Nicholas stepped aside respectfully and watched them pass. They had to be headed for the shore. An impulse told him to follow.