Wizard of the Crow (8 page)

The earlier debate in his mind between the voice in defense of picking up garbage and a voice defending begging from strangers now resumed with fury. Which was less contemptible? The latter eventually overpowered the former by numerous references to the scriptures. Prayer after all is a form of begging and it was the cornerstone of all religions. Ask and it shall be given. Everyday followers of the different faiths, whether named after Jesus or Muhammad or Buddha, get on their knees and beg God for this or that. They pray that their Lord and Master will hear their cry. Yes, prayers are blessed. Begging is blessed. Among the followers of Buddha, the holiest are known by their vows of poverty, and they are sustained in the path of holiness by begging. Didn’t Buddha himself renounce the trappings of wealth for a life of begging and purity? At the center of the Sangha, the monastic community he founded after his Nirvana that followed forty-nine days of struggle with the Tempting Mara, was Bhikkhus, the order of the begging monks. Alms, give me alms. Surely what

Kamltl had experienced earlier at the city dumpsite, almost being buried alive in rot, was a clear signal that it is better to beg. He thought of entering the very next shop with hands outstretched, and then he quickly realized that the gray suit he was wearing on his job hunt was not the proper attire for seeking alms. He felt like laughing but held himself back when it occurred to him that even asking for a job is a form of begging. Begging, like everything else in this world, had its time, place, and clothes. The evening begging was some time away; there were still a few hours left for job hunting. Who knows— maybe things would start turning his way and he would not have to act like a Buddhist monk.

And then he could not believe his eyes. Bight across the street was a signboard,
ELDARES MODERN CONSTRUCTION AND REAL ESTATE,
and beside it a billboard. A job! The word blotted out all the others around it. Bising from the dead, he was now delirious with hope.

It was about five, and fearing that the office might close for the day before he had taken advantage of this godsend, Kamltl dispensed with knocking at the door and barged right in.

The secretary, who was reading a book as she waited for the close of business, did not see him enter but, sensing his presence, raised her head. Their eyes met. Kamltl felt something he had never experienced in all the offices he had visited. The stench that had oppressed him in the streets of Eldares had suddenly been replaced by a more powerful smell, a fresh one, like the scent of flowers, but there were no flowers in the room.

“What do you want?” the secretary asked, keeping her place in the book.

“I would like to see the boss. The employer.”

‘Tajirika? Titus Tajirika?”

“Whatever the name.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Then you cannot see him.”

“But I must, please!”

“Young man, do you want me to lose my job?” she chortled. “I was hired only a few months ago,” she added as she closed the book and placed it on the table.

The eye goes wherever it wants, so the saying goes, and Kamltl’s eyes wandered to the title of the book:
Shetani Msalabani.
What kind of secretary was this who was not busy trimming her nails or immersing herself in cheap romantic novels? Her voice was gentle to boot.

For years Kamltl had searched for work up and down the streets of Eldares. He had met with company bosses, African, Asian, and European, who all tended to regard black Aburlrians as potential thieves. He had frequently been insulted. Once security guards had even set dogs on him. He had also met all kinds of secretaries; a few had spoken kindly to him but many had barked at him as if asking for a job were a crime. The secretary he now faced seemed to carry herself altogether differently, but he could not pin down the difference.

“Madam, if I told you my story you would know why I have to see your boss. Right now I don’t mind even cleaning toilets.”

“Are there any toilets left in Eldares?” she asked, a little bemused.

“Well, there are pails.”

“Emptying them of shit? Then washing them clean?” she shot back.

“Any job will do.”

The secretary glanced at Kamltl with a curious eye. He was dark, tall, and slim, and in his hand he held a bag. His gray suit must have been nice when it was new, probably quite expensive, but now it was worn, the elbows patched.

“I see. In that case, I suggest that you come back tomorrow. It is now five. My boss is about to leave. I would have left already but he asked me to stick around for a while. So you are in luck. Let me check his schedule of appointments tomorrow.”

“Let me see him now, please—he will understand when I tell him my story.”

“You know …” She paused, leaned forward slightly, and lowered her voice as if imparting a secret. “My boss is a very important member of Marching to Heaven, and he is attending a dinner reception in honor of the mission from the GB.”

“GB? Great Britain?” Kamltl asked, a little puzzled. What was
she talking about and what did it have to do with her setting up an appointment?

“Not Great Britain! Global Bank!”

At that very moment Tajirika emerged from an adjoining room, ostentatiously putting a handgun into the inside pocket of his jacket, making it clear to this argumentative intruder that he was armed.

Kamltl was overcome by a stench blast to his nose and for a few seconds found it difficult to breathe. But he held himself upright, trying hard not to react to the foul smell as he sized up the boss. Tajirika’s belly was a bit too impressive and his dark suit a bit too tight. His snugly gloved right hand matched his skin and held a small staff, an imitation of the Buler’s, which he pounded in his left for emphasis while he spoke.

Tajirika looked from KamTtT to the secretary as if to ask, From what dunghill did you pick this one out?

“He wants to see you,” the secretary said in response.

Tajirika gave KamTtT another look. KamTtT tried to speak but Tajirika interrupted him.

“Didn’t you hear what my secretary said? I am about to go welcome the delegation from the GB. Do you get it? The Global Bank, the bank for the whole world. I have
a personal invitation
from the minister himself, a great friend of mine, and …”

“A job. All I am looking for is a job,” KamTtT sputtered.

“At this hour?” Tajirika said, slightly irritated that KamTtT had interrupted him when he was just beginning to warm up about himself.

“I have been to several other offices,” KamTtT explained.

“So you assumed that the owner of these premises has all the time in the world?”

“What I am trying to say is that I have been on my feet all day” KamTtT said, trying to mollify him.

“So on other days you rode from office to office in a Mercedes?”

KamTtT let the insult pass, hoping helplessly that the boss would show pity and give him an interview.

“An interview. I just want an interview.”

An idea suddenly struck Tajirika. His cheeks puffed up a little as if he were stifling laughter, but he did not laugh. He sat on the edge of the table, his right foot grounded, his left hanging a few inches above the floor. He now held the staff with both hands.

The secretary was captivated by what was unfolding before her eyes. This man, whoever he is, must possess some secret power, she thought. How else could one explain his softening of the boss’s heart so quickly?

“What type of job are you looking for?”

“Whatever is available,” Kamltl hastily answered, clutching his bag more tightly. Maybe a bird of good omen had greeted him this morning. That was one of the most rewarding things about spending nights in the open. Birds were bound to wake you up, and whether they carried good or bad luck, at least they woke you up with music.

“What is your educational background?”

“BA, economics. Master of business management, MBA.” He stuck his hand into his coat pocket as if dipping for something. “Sorry I have no visiting cards.”

Tajirika and the secretary looked up at Kamltl with enlivened interest and curiosity. But their trains of thoughts diverged. The secretary thought she could see herself reflected in the man’s pain and problems and anxiety to please. Tajirika thought that the man was lying about university degrees and business cards. Sensing this skepticism, Kamltl hastened to pull out his certificate, handing it over before the boss could change his mind. Tajirika held his staff under his left armpit to receive the paper with his gloved right hand. He scanned it and nodded as if satisfied.

“India?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, today India is producing some of the world’s top computer scientists. The Silicon Valleys of northern California in America are full of whiz kids from India and Pakistan.”

“How did you cope with their masala curry and hot pepper?”

“It’s the same with food everywhere,” said Kamltl. “It is a matter of getting used to it. Our cooking here in Aburiria is influenced by Indian cuisine.”

“Oh, I almost forgot, of course—we have Indians here and some of our streets smell of nothing but garlic and curry” said Tajirika as if to himself.

At the thought of food, Kamltl became a tad dizzy. He could have done with a morsel of anything right now, even of the hottest pepper. But he stilled himself and added, “Let’s not forget that India is not all curry and garlic. Or that India and Pakistan are nuclear powers. They
have both successfully tested nuclear bombs to the surprise of the West. Many computer chips are produced in India. And there are not many universities in the world without professors from India—that is, originally educated in Indian schools and colleges. An Indian is not all dukawallah and nothing else, just as an African is not all shoeshine and nothing else.”

“But did you learn how to make good curry?” Tajirika asked, unaware of how he was torturing Kamltl with this talk about food. “Here they don’t let us into their houses.”

“Well, survival skills,” Kamltl said vaguely, trying to veer away from the subject.

“Mhh! So you are highly educated?” Tajirika muttered, scrutinizing the certificate.

“Just trying to give myself a chance,” Kamltl replied with a hint of modesty, but not displeased with hearing an appreciation of his achievements.

“You must have read the Karma Sutra cover to cover?”

“What is that?” Kamltl asked, genuinely puzzled, because he had never read this ancient manual of lovemaking.

“And gave yourself a chance to put it into practice?” Tajirika said, taking his eyes off the papers.

He glanced at his secretary in an unconvincing attempt at an apology, as if he had just realized that he had said something he should not have said in front of her; but the glance also seemed to say that he had much more he would have liked to ask had she not been present.

Tajirika glanced at the secretary again and laughed rather uneasily. He had not yet figured her out, and he felt her judgment even in her silence. He dropped the subject of the Karma Sutra and went back to the certificates.

“India? Madras?” Tajirika continued as if genuinely interested in the man’s educational achievements. “Tamil Nadu! And what is this? Another Indian curry?”

“No,” Kamltl answered, not knowing whether or not he should laugh, and began to patiently explain. “India is divided into many regions just like Aburlria is divided into several provinces. Tamil Nadu is the name of a state in southeastern India. Kerala is another southern state, but on the western side. So both have a common border. Tamil Nadu also neighbors two other states on its northern side: Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh.
Pradesh
means the same thing
as
province.
But really, Indian provinces are like countries. Madras— but I think they now call it something else … Chennai, yes, something like that—Madras was …”

“I asked you to tell me about your education, young man, and you give me a whole lecture on Indian geography?”

“I am sorry,” Kamltl said. “India is rich in geography and history.”

“Like that of the Black Hole of Calcutta?” Tajirika remarked with a self-satisfied grin. “That is the only history of India that I know, and I don’t really want to know more. If my advice were sought as to what should be done with the Indians of Aburiria, I would say that they should all be cast into the Modern Black Hole of Calcutta. Whenever a black man in Aburiria tries to raise himself up, there is an Indian in his way. And when he deals with a black man, it is nothing but insults. They have no respect for the people on whose soil they have prospered. And where do they take their money? To India, Pakistan, and now Bangladesh. No loyalty to Aburiria. Some have even refused to take up our citizenship. They prefer to remain British, actually English. And the others, with dual citizenship, are always ready to take flight should things ever go wrong in Aburiria. The Indian should
count his blessings one by one
that we have a ruler like the Buler.”

“But don’t some black Aburlrians also spirit their money to Swiss bank accounts?” Kamltl asked. “What is the difference?”

“Why are you defending the Indian?”

“I am only saying that
obviously
in India, as in Aburiria and throughout Africa, there are greedy people. But there are also others who care and who struggle against whatever harms human life. My opinion is that there are many things we could learn from India and other Asian countries, just as they have much to learn from us. We in Aburiria, more than others, should strengthen our ties with India because some of our citizens are of Indian origin …”

“You dare call Indians here citizens? Aburlrian citizens?”

“Why not?” Kamltl thought his prospective boss was trying to see if he could stand his ground with customers. He added, as if revealing a secret to the boss, while appealing to his Pan-Africanist sentiments, “You know, it is thought by some that some Indians are of African descent—the Siddis, for instance. The Dravidians, who speak Tel-ugu, they look like they came from Ethiopia or Egypt. Historians talk of an African general named Malik Ambar, who …”

“Buled India?” Tajirika completed the sentence mockingly.