MADE IN NIRVANA
Chapter 20
Allons enfants de la patrie
One of Ugo's affairs had been with a girl who was addicted to heroin; her boyfriend was a junkie too, but Ugo liked her and decided to 'save' her. Unfortunately, after weeks of effort from him and other friends, she and her boyfriend robbed the hospital's pharmacy, were caught and ended up in prison. Maria knew that heroin addiction was strong and annihilated the user's will. From observing those who began to use it, she had learned that it meant the death of the person, as she knew them. No more conversations or exchanges between friends, no more laughter or making plans together. Heroin was tantamount to cheating, lies, death. Looking at Franca in that state she realized that, from here on, she was travelling alone. Seeing Raffa approach she hurried in her direction, telling her what had happened before she even reached her.
As always, her friend was philosophical: "Maybe she'll only use it this once," she said.
"Have you ever used it?" asked Maria, bewildered.
"No, but I know people who did. For the first few minutes they felt awful, then they felt great; this feeling great, however, only happens the first time. Some of them continue to use it, trying to match the experience, but it's never the same again."
"And how come you've never taken it?" Maria asked, still confused.
"Because I know how it works and I'm not stupid. You have to carry on using it simply to feel normal, otherwise you feel awful; it is absurd, nonsense; it's a scam. When they offered it to me I said no; I had decided beforehand, seeing what was happening to others." After a short pause she added: "I was tempted, but not much, and I had made up my mind."
"But you know what Franca is like. She won't use it only this time." Maria vented. She told her what Franca had shouted at her; would they split up? What could she do? Her friend told her she shouldn't feel responsible for Franca's decisions. Maybe she could help her by keeping close, as she had already done, ignoring her jealousy. When they reached the tree, the boy was gone while Franca was sitting on the wall, staring into space. Raffa told her to go back to the guesthouse and go to bed, or sit under the wooden shelter.
"Do you want us to take you there?" she offered. No, said Franca, without looking at them. Well, then they would go to the lake. Addressing Maria she said: "Franca won't do anything else today. We can go for a swim and to sunbathe. I can't go home without a tan!"
"Are you sure she'll know how to get back to the guesthouse?"
"Yes, but it might take her half the morning. Relax! She'll manage very well on her own."
Maria tried to break free from the sense of responsibility she felt, but she couldn't, despite Franca's angry outburst toward her. If she had shouted those things, it meant she was suffering, didn't it? "I can't leave her on her own. I'll go with her to the guesthouse and then I'll catch up with you at the lake."
With patience, she encouraged her to walk and linked arms with her. Franca walked in silence, looking like a marionette, while an infinite sadness pervaded Maria's heart. What would happen now? She left her at the guesthouse, lying on her bed, glassy-eyed, far away, lost in a world where Maria didn't belong. She closed the door and walked toward the lake, confused and worried.
She sat down on the pebble beach next to Raffa and they talked about her upcoming return to Italy; she had only one week left. Her friend showed her the stones and two bracelets with turquoise and coral she had just bought. "I'm sure they'll be snapped up as soon as I show them around," she said, moving the stones on the palm of her hand. "And what fun to buy all these beautiful things! This way I'll get back some of the money I spent for the trip. I only regret not having brought more cash with me. Are you going to take home many things to resell?"
"Not many, only a few, but I should be able to make some money. My problem is that I like buying but not selling."
"I'll help you sell your stuff, don't worry," Raffa reassured her. "I know a lot of people who want to buy and I'm a born seller!" Maria could well believe that.
The last few days flew by, with the lake, the mountains, the sun and tanning. Franca didn't smoke any more heroin, but she was always irritable and tired. They had become accustomed to waking up to the view of Mount Annapurna and of the mountain next to it, which they discovered was called Macchapuchhare, and to watching the sunset, always beautiful and dramatic. Being so close to such high mountains made her feel miraculously alive, but delicate and transient, as if her life was borrowed, and one day she would have to give it back.
The day came to go back to Kathmandu and say goodbye to Raffa. They embraced in Durbar Square, where their friend took a rickshaw to the airport, reluctant to leave but in good spirits, as always. She was going to be greatly missed, but they too had only a couple of weeks before leaving. Only a few minutes after Raffa's departure Franca began to feel ill; she was weak, sick and looked terrible. Maria remembered about Doctor Mannah and advised her to go and see him; she would accompany her right away. Franca didn't object which, in itself, indicated how bad she felt. Like everyone else, the rickshaw man knew where the doctor lived and led them to his house, pedalling slowly in the warm afternoon.
The waiting room was outdoors, in a courtyard shaded by the branches of the trees that surrounded it, crowded with westerners and local people. After a long wait, their turn came.
Dr. Mannah was a distinguished man, short in stature, a little plump, with thick white hair and gold rimmed glasses; with his friendly manners he made them feel at ease. He checked Franca from head to toe, asked her a lot of questions, taking notes with clear and neat handwriting; he looked at her eyes several times, put pressure on her nails, made her roll her tongue and studied it carefully. When he sat down behind his desk he was serious. "Maybe you have amoebiasis, it's a gastrointestinal infection, but you definitely have all the symptoms of hepatitis," he said, as gently as possible. "Some call it jaundice. Your eyes are already turning yellow. They will become much more yellow than that; your skin will turn yellow, too."
Franca slumped in her chair and looked at the doctor without saying a word. Maria asked if he could treat these illnesses.
"Certainly," he replied. "I often see these conditions, especially in young people like you. I'll give her some herbal medicines that my assistant will prepare immediately; I will also give her a diet to follow." Looking at Franca, he added: "If you follow the diet, take the medicines and rest, you will get better and everything will be fine."
"How long will it take? In a week's time we'll have to go to Delhi," Maria said. She didn't expect the doctor's answer: It would take about four weeks.
"Four weeks? But we have flights to Italy long before that!" She looked at Franca, who wasn't saying a word; she sat there, limp, heavy, beaten by the illness.
"She can't go anywhere, if she wants to get better. Your friend needs to rest; she is very sick, but it could become much more serious. If she doesn't look after herself properly, she will end up in hospital... or worse!" He was polite but very grave. He told her that she could always come back to him for anything. They paid fifteen Nepalese rupees for the visit and the medicines and sat in the courtyard, waiting for the assistant to prepare the pills, one by one.
They had a lot of decisions to make: Franca couldn't return to Italy as planned, which meant that Maria would go back alone. But what would Franca do? Her answer was ready: she was going to stay at the Italians' house; they had already told her she could go.
"But when had you decided to go there?" Maria asked, startled. "And for how long? We only had a few days to stay in Kathmandu before leaving!"
"I had already decided not to return to Italy with you," said Franca, drawling. "The visa is valid for six more weeks… and I decided to stay."
"To stop here in Kathmandu?" Maria was shocked.
"For a while, yes, I wanted to… but now I have no choice... I'll go there tomorrow." She struggled to find the energy to talk.
Maria was too surprised to reply and, in any case, whatever she said wouldn't make the slightest difference. As of tomorrow she was going to be alone, and she didn't like the idea. The medicines were ready but Franca had no strength to walk. They took another rickshaw back to the centre of Kathmandu. As the minutes went by, the yellowing of her eyes and skin became more and more apparent; she noticed Franca's skinny wrists. Both of them had lost weight, but Franca had lost more, she was almost bony. That night, Maria started to come to terms with the idea of travelling alone and began to make plans. Perhaps she would go back to India a little earlier, or maybe not, all the possibilities were open. Maybe she would have time to visit Agra and the Taj Mahal; she would go back to the Tourist Camp in Delhi, where she'd see again people she felt were friends. A little bit at a time the worry she felt was turning into enthusiasm.
When Franca woke up she was even more yellow and weaker than the day before. Maria prepared her backpack while Franca watched her from her bed. How was she going to get through this alone? Maria thought she would go and see her every day and help her to follow Dr. Mannah's diet. This decision made her feel better; she wasn't going to abandon her now when she needed her help. She went to Durbar Square to get a rickshaw which took her back to the guesthouse. She carried her rucksack, while Franca came down the stairs slowly, holding on to the handrail, trembling. Maria pushed from below to help her get on the rickshaw and then, in silence, they let themselves be taken to the outskirts of Kathmandu. The man was riding slowly, the breeze was blowing and lifted their long hair. Maria looked with affection at the temples' roofs, the hills, the blue sky.
The Italians' house was a good distance from Kathmandu's main square, along a straight dirt road, which the rickshaw covered in ten minutes. Maria went through the open gate and took Franca's rucksack up to the door; then she went back to the rickshaw to help her get down and into the house. They were greeted by two Italians who had no idea she was going to move in; fortunately they didn't care and Maria placed Franca's things in the corner of one of the numerous rooms. The boys were a little distant but reasonably friendly, and explained that a lot of people came and went in that house, apart from Valerio, the only Italian who lived there regularly. Valerio, shortened to Vale, appeared a few minutes later, his hair and beard long and black and a holy-man look, his face sullen and unfriendly because he hadn't drunk his coffee yet. He prepared it with the coffee machine brought from Italy and Lavazza coffee powder, also from Italy. While the aroma of coffee wafted through the house, Maria sat with Franca on a rug, waiting to speak to him. Unfortunately, even after his coffee, Vale's mood didn't seem much better, but the boys offered to make a tea and Maria gratefully accepted, while explaining that Franca had hepatitis and perhaps even amoeba, and would need to be quiet and rest for a few weeks. They all seemed unperturbed; the boys looked at her yellow skin and eyes and laughed. With a sort of dismissive superiority Vale said: "I had it, too," as if that would make it a thing of minor importance. Then, with a little more understanding, he added: "It takes time!" When Maria explained that they had gone to see Dr. Mannah he nodded approvingly, without smiling, cuddling his cup of coffee in his hands.
It was time for her to leave; Maria wanted to go and buy the things that Franca needed for her diet and bring them that afternoon. They told her there was no need, she could wait until the next day, they had the right things in the house and Franca would eat very little, anyway. Maria knelt down and looked at her friend, noticing how she was more yellow than the day before. "I'll see you tomorrow then," she said, kissing her cheeks. Franca looked at her and smiled weakly, looking sad. Maria felt sad too, as she walked back to Kathmandu, reflecting, alone. Now she was on her own with the rest of the world but, instead of the fear she expected to feel, she experienced a sense of freedom. Now it was up to her to decide, judge, perceive. After all, she was no stranger to loneliness, she had felt alone for years during her relationship with Ugo; the only major difference was that, this time, she was on the other side of the world.
But the sun was shining, the sky was clear and, from a distance, just as she approached Durbar Square, she saw a procession coming toward her. On a canopy, carried on four men's shoulders, there was the 'defta', a statue of the local god. It was followed by dozens of people and accompanied by that strange kind of music that to her ears seemed out of tune. It reminded her of Sarsai village, in the mountains near Manali. They also carried the statue of their 'defta' in that way, playing that music without harmony, having a sacred ceremony and a big party for any special occasion. She wondered whether Pushpa had already had her baby; she would return there one day. Nothing was impossible, she just had to want to and take a decision.
As always, her friend was philosophical: "Maybe she'll only use it this once," she said.
"Have you ever used it?" asked Maria, bewildered.
"No, but I know people who did. For the first few minutes they felt awful, then they felt great; this feeling great, however, only happens the first time. Some of them continue to use it, trying to match the experience, but it's never the same again."
"And how come you've never taken it?" Maria asked, still confused.
"Because I know how it works and I'm not stupid. You have to carry on using it simply to feel normal, otherwise you feel awful; it is absurd, nonsense; it's a scam. When they offered it to me I said no; I had decided beforehand, seeing what was happening to others." After a short pause she added: "I was tempted, but not much, and I had made up my mind."
"But you know what Franca is like. She won't use it only this time." Maria vented. She told her what Franca had shouted at her; would they split up? What could she do? Her friend told her she shouldn't feel responsible for Franca's decisions. Maybe she could help her by keeping close, as she had already done, ignoring her jealousy. When they reached the tree, the boy was gone while Franca was sitting on the wall, staring into space. Raffa told her to go back to the guesthouse and go to bed, or sit under the wooden shelter.
"Do you want us to take you there?" she offered. No, said Franca, without looking at them. Well, then they would go to the lake. Addressing Maria she said: "Franca won't do anything else today. We can go for a swim and to sunbathe. I can't go home without a tan!"
"Are you sure she'll know how to get back to the guesthouse?"
"Yes, but it might take her half the morning. Relax! She'll manage very well on her own."
Maria tried to break free from the sense of responsibility she felt, but she couldn't, despite Franca's angry outburst toward her. If she had shouted those things, it meant she was suffering, didn't it? "I can't leave her on her own. I'll go with her to the guesthouse and then I'll catch up with you at the lake."
With patience, she encouraged her to walk and linked arms with her. Franca walked in silence, looking like a marionette, while an infinite sadness pervaded Maria's heart. What would happen now? She left her at the guesthouse, lying on her bed, glassy-eyed, far away, lost in a world where Maria didn't belong. She closed the door and walked toward the lake, confused and worried.
She sat down on the pebble beach next to Raffa and they talked about her upcoming return to Italy; she had only one week left. Her friend showed her the stones and two bracelets with turquoise and coral she had just bought. "I'm sure they'll be snapped up as soon as I show them around," she said, moving the stones on the palm of her hand. "And what fun to buy all these beautiful things! This way I'll get back some of the money I spent for the trip. I only regret not having brought more cash with me. Are you going to take home many things to resell?"
"Not many, only a few, but I should be able to make some money. My problem is that I like buying but not selling."
"I'll help you sell your stuff, don't worry," Raffa reassured her. "I know a lot of people who want to buy and I'm a born seller!" Maria could well believe that.
The last few days flew by, with the lake, the mountains, the sun and tanning. Franca didn't smoke any more heroin, but she was always irritable and tired. They had become accustomed to waking up to the view of Mount Annapurna and of the mountain next to it, which they discovered was called Macchapuchhare, and to watching the sunset, always beautiful and dramatic. Being so close to such high mountains made her feel miraculously alive, but delicate and transient, as if her life was borrowed, and one day she would have to give it back.
The day came to go back to Kathmandu and say goodbye to Raffa. They embraced in Durbar Square, where their friend took a rickshaw to the airport, reluctant to leave but in good spirits, as always. She was going to be greatly missed, but they too had only a couple of weeks before leaving. Only a few minutes after Raffa's departure Franca began to feel ill; she was weak, sick and looked terrible. Maria remembered about Doctor Mannah and advised her to go and see him; she would accompany her right away. Franca didn't object which, in itself, indicated how bad she felt. Like everyone else, the rickshaw man knew where the doctor lived and led them to his house, pedalling slowly in the warm afternoon.
The waiting room was outdoors, in a courtyard shaded by the branches of the trees that surrounded it, crowded with westerners and local people. After a long wait, their turn came.
Dr. Mannah was a distinguished man, short in stature, a little plump, with thick white hair and gold rimmed glasses; with his friendly manners he made them feel at ease. He checked Franca from head to toe, asked her a lot of questions, taking notes with clear and neat handwriting; he looked at her eyes several times, put pressure on her nails, made her roll her tongue and studied it carefully. When he sat down behind his desk he was serious. "Maybe you have amoebiasis, it's a gastrointestinal infection, but you definitely have all the symptoms of hepatitis," he said, as gently as possible. "Some call it jaundice. Your eyes are already turning yellow. They will become much more yellow than that; your skin will turn yellow, too."
Franca slumped in her chair and looked at the doctor without saying a word. Maria asked if he could treat these illnesses.
"Certainly," he replied. "I often see these conditions, especially in young people like you. I'll give her some herbal medicines that my assistant will prepare immediately; I will also give her a diet to follow." Looking at Franca, he added: "If you follow the diet, take the medicines and rest, you will get better and everything will be fine."
"How long will it take? In a week's time we'll have to go to Delhi," Maria said. She didn't expect the doctor's answer: It would take about four weeks.
"Four weeks? But we have flights to Italy long before that!" She looked at Franca, who wasn't saying a word; she sat there, limp, heavy, beaten by the illness.
"She can't go anywhere, if she wants to get better. Your friend needs to rest; she is very sick, but it could become much more serious. If she doesn't look after herself properly, she will end up in hospital... or worse!" He was polite but very grave. He told her that she could always come back to him for anything. They paid fifteen Nepalese rupees for the visit and the medicines and sat in the courtyard, waiting for the assistant to prepare the pills, one by one.
They had a lot of decisions to make: Franca couldn't return to Italy as planned, which meant that Maria would go back alone. But what would Franca do? Her answer was ready: she was going to stay at the Italians' house; they had already told her she could go.
"But when had you decided to go there?" Maria asked, startled. "And for how long? We only had a few days to stay in Kathmandu before leaving!"
"I had already decided not to return to Italy with you," said Franca, drawling. "The visa is valid for six more weeks… and I decided to stay."
"To stop here in Kathmandu?" Maria was shocked.
"For a while, yes, I wanted to… but now I have no choice... I'll go there tomorrow." She struggled to find the energy to talk.
Maria was too surprised to reply and, in any case, whatever she said wouldn't make the slightest difference. As of tomorrow she was going to be alone, and she didn't like the idea. The medicines were ready but Franca had no strength to walk. They took another rickshaw back to the centre of Kathmandu. As the minutes went by, the yellowing of her eyes and skin became more and more apparent; she noticed Franca's skinny wrists. Both of them had lost weight, but Franca had lost more, she was almost bony. That night, Maria started to come to terms with the idea of travelling alone and began to make plans. Perhaps she would go back to India a little earlier, or maybe not, all the possibilities were open. Maybe she would have time to visit Agra and the Taj Mahal; she would go back to the Tourist Camp in Delhi, where she'd see again people she felt were friends. A little bit at a time the worry she felt was turning into enthusiasm.
When Franca woke up she was even more yellow and weaker than the day before. Maria prepared her backpack while Franca watched her from her bed. How was she going to get through this alone? Maria thought she would go and see her every day and help her to follow Dr. Mannah's diet. This decision made her feel better; she wasn't going to abandon her now when she needed her help. She went to Durbar Square to get a rickshaw which took her back to the guesthouse. She carried her rucksack, while Franca came down the stairs slowly, holding on to the handrail, trembling. Maria pushed from below to help her get on the rickshaw and then, in silence, they let themselves be taken to the outskirts of Kathmandu. The man was riding slowly, the breeze was blowing and lifted their long hair. Maria looked with affection at the temples' roofs, the hills, the blue sky.
The Italians' house was a good distance from Kathmandu's main square, along a straight dirt road, which the rickshaw covered in ten minutes. Maria went through the open gate and took Franca's rucksack up to the door; then she went back to the rickshaw to help her get down and into the house. They were greeted by two Italians who had no idea she was going to move in; fortunately they didn't care and Maria placed Franca's things in the corner of one of the numerous rooms. The boys were a little distant but reasonably friendly, and explained that a lot of people came and went in that house, apart from Valerio, the only Italian who lived there regularly. Valerio, shortened to Vale, appeared a few minutes later, his hair and beard long and black and a holy-man look, his face sullen and unfriendly because he hadn't drunk his coffee yet. He prepared it with the coffee machine brought from Italy and Lavazza coffee powder, also from Italy. While the aroma of coffee wafted through the house, Maria sat with Franca on a rug, waiting to speak to him. Unfortunately, even after his coffee, Vale's mood didn't seem much better, but the boys offered to make a tea and Maria gratefully accepted, while explaining that Franca had hepatitis and perhaps even amoeba, and would need to be quiet and rest for a few weeks. They all seemed unperturbed; the boys looked at her yellow skin and eyes and laughed. With a sort of dismissive superiority Vale said: "I had it, too," as if that would make it a thing of minor importance. Then, with a little more understanding, he added: "It takes time!" When Maria explained that they had gone to see Dr. Mannah he nodded approvingly, without smiling, cuddling his cup of coffee in his hands.
It was time for her to leave; Maria wanted to go and buy the things that Franca needed for her diet and bring them that afternoon. They told her there was no need, she could wait until the next day, they had the right things in the house and Franca would eat very little, anyway. Maria knelt down and looked at her friend, noticing how she was more yellow than the day before. "I'll see you tomorrow then," she said, kissing her cheeks. Franca looked at her and smiled weakly, looking sad. Maria felt sad too, as she walked back to Kathmandu, reflecting, alone. Now she was on her own with the rest of the world but, instead of the fear she expected to feel, she experienced a sense of freedom. Now it was up to her to decide, judge, perceive. After all, she was no stranger to loneliness, she had felt alone for years during her relationship with Ugo; the only major difference was that, this time, she was on the other side of the world.
But the sun was shining, the sky was clear and, from a distance, just as she approached Durbar Square, she saw a procession coming toward her. On a canopy, carried on four men's shoulders, there was the 'defta', a statue of the local god. It was followed by dozens of people and accompanied by that strange kind of music that to her ears seemed out of tune. It reminded her of Sarsai village, in the mountains near Manali. They also carried the statue of their 'defta' in that way, playing that music without harmony, having a sacred ceremony and a big party for any special occasion. She wondered whether Pushpa had already had her baby; she would return there one day. Nothing was impossible, she just had to want to and take a decision.
From that moment Maria began to look more carefully, noticing details that until then had escaped her attention, she listened to and watched people with keener interest. Now that she was alone she didn't need to compromise on anything. She remembered she had her camera and that would become her travelling companion. She no longer had to experiment with drugs, which with Franca were a daily occurrence and had always made her feel uncomfortable. She didn't regret the experiences she'd had, but she remembered the fear, the anxiety, the time wasted with the opium, the lack of control over her life. She still had a little piece of the charas made with Paul, which she kept inside the silver box that Jean-Claude had bought for her, along with another small piece that Franca had given her. She reached Durbar Square and found the familiar relaxed atmosphere.
There was a tolerance of people's diversity, indeed it was a pleasure to see the variety of all those boys and girls, men and women, who had come there from all over the world. She noticed two boys and a girl whom she had seen before; they were looking at her and smiled. Maria approached them: they were French, Sylvan, Eve and Pierrot. They spent the whole afternoon together, visiting some of the temples she had already seen and others new to her. She photographed the architecture, the children, the women washing clothes in the river, the wild pigs running around, all over the place. Only the dogs were hostile; while they didn't seem to mind the locals, they stopped in their tracks whenever they saw a European approach and began to growl fiercely, crazy with hatred. In the evening they had dinner together at a restaurant and then they smoked a bit of Maria's charas. She returned to the Top View Hotel ready for a good sleep. While she lay in bed she realized that she had spent only a few minutes alone that day.
The next day was the same. As soon as she walked into a store someone would address her and if she sat down to drink a chai, someone would come and sit at her table. Shopkeepers, hippies or climbers, there was always someone who wanted to talk to her and she always found something interesting in them. She went to the grocery store to buy the things for Franca: rice, oil, fruits and vegetables for a light, low protein diet and, with a bag full, she walked to the Italians' house.
Franca was even more yellow than the day before, but the more disconcerting thing was the whites of her eyes that had turned a sickly yellow-brown with shades of green. She was sitting on a mat, her back against the wall, her arms limp and heavy.
"How are you today?" Maria asked, crouching down to kiss her, a knot in her stomach.
"Very weak," Franca replied, with a faint, yellow smile.
"Do they help you? Does someone look after you?"
"Every now and then they make me a cup of tea. I have no appetite," she said, speaking with difficulty. She had to pause to regain the strength to talk; she continued: "Two of them have had hepatitis... and they know what to do."
Maria tried to feel less concerned. "I've been shopping. Dr. Mannah said that if you follow the diet and take the medicines, you will recover in four weeks. Take care; make sure you follow his advice."
Franca smiled weakly and looked at her with a mixture of affection and gratitude. "I will. Hepatitis is like this," she said. Then she surprised her with an unexpected request: "Can I borrow your red rucksack?"
"Mine? The one you like so much? Why?"
"Vale has to take a lot of things to Pokhara... he needs a big rucksack. Yours is perfect."
Maria felt uncomfortable, the idea of lending it to Vale didn't appeal to her at all. "But I leave on Monday. I need my rucksack. And it's packed full of things."
"He only needs it for three days... he'll be back on Sunday… and you... don't need it while you are in Kathmandu..., do you?" she insisted, struggling to get the words out.
Maria didn't want to lend her rucksack, but she couldn't find an excuse to wriggle out of their request. After all Franca was a guest in Vale's house. But she knew how these things went: her backpack would come back dirty, ruined, perhaps even broken, while she had always treated it with the best possible care: "When do you want it?"
"Bring it tomorrow... so you come and see me again."
The following day Maria arrived in the late afternoon with her backpack, empty and light. Reluctantly, she laid it at Franca's feet.
Vale appeared almost immediately. "I need a big rucksack and Franca said that yours is perfect. It's true," he said, turning it over and over, studying it well. He thanked Maria, smiling for the first time and showing his teeth stained with tobacco, many were missing. As he walked away, Maria glimpsed him digging his black nails under the white plastic plug at the end of the frame. She was left with an unhappy feeling, but Franca asked her what she had been doing that morning, what she was going to do later, and Maria talked to her about this and that, passing the time together. From the kitchen wafted the strong, pleasant aroma of cardamom and cinnamon and soon Vale reappeared with two chai and even two biscuits on a saucer, for Maria. Perhaps she had judged him too soon; this kindness didn't seem to be his style, but maybe she was prejudiced against him, she thought while she thanked him with a tight smile.
"If you come on Sunday evening I'll give it back to you. I only need it for three days," Vale reassured her. "If you want, I'll bring it to your hotel."
"No, no, I'll come over, so I can take the opportunity to say goodbye to Franca before I go," said Maria, hiding the discomfort that stubbornly refused to leave her.
"You're a real friend," said Vale, with a quick smile. Maria saw him glance at Franca and wink. Franca returned him a weak yellowish smile; the contrast between the yellow of the eyes and her pale blue pupils gave her a sinister look, Maria mused unhappily.
She left the house before dusk. It was a long walk to reach Kathmandu and she didn't want to be alone in the dark. She felt disappointed in herself; why couldn't she just say no? If Franca didn't want to do something, she'd refuse to do it, without any scruples, while she didn't have the courage. What a fool! This was something in her character that she would have to change.
She stayed at the Top View Hotel and spent those days exploring the town, accompanied by her three French friends and, when they left, by someone else she had met in the square. With a German boy, she climbed once more the endless steps leading to Swayambhunath temple, with its Buddha's eyes, populated by hundreds of monkeys. With an American girl, she wandered aimlessly through the poor neighbourhoods outside the city centre. With two French girls, she went to sit in the quiet part of the river where they could put their feet in the cool water and observe the stones on the bottom; women washing their clothes; bicycles gliding without haste. She took photographs and soaked in the reality of those moments, absorbing them completely. She spent the evenings eating in the restaurants around the square, meeting new people, exchanging a word here and there with other young travellers, or sitting on the stone steps of the square, talking Italian, French, sometimes English. Short conversations, small exchanges, but she felt lonely. It was a peculiar sensation, sometimes pleasant, at other times not so; on the one hand she had all the freedom to decide what to do and where to go, on the other she missed Franca's endless stream of words that had become so familiar. Maria imagined it in her head and so, although she wasn't physically present, it was as if she were: an imaginary friend! She went to see her every day. Things didn't seem to change much, the yellowish colour persisted and Franca was always sitting on a rug, her arms limp and heavy; she didn't do anything and could only find a small amount of energy to make a few comments about what Maria was telling her, what she had done, whom she had met.
It was her last day in Kathmandu and Maria, who had never ceased to think about her backpack, could finally go and pick it up. In Durbar Square she bumped into one of the Italians and they walked together to the house in the suburbs; it was already six o'clock in the afternoon. Maria would pick up her backpack and take her leave from Franca, then straight back to her hotel. "I don't want to be outside in the dark," she said. "So, I'll be quick! Tonight I'll have to prepare my luggage and the same things that were in it before never fit when you pack again, I've never understood why."
"I'll come back with you, don't worry!" promised the boy. "I want to return to the square for a couple of hours." They chatted away and the boy told her that Vale had been living in Nepal for almost three years; he went to India only when his visa expired and came back as soon as he could. Did he know why he lived there? Maria asked. Probably because he liked it, he replied, it was cheap and he did what he wanted. Or perhaps he wished to avoid doing military service, he had never asked him, he didn't feel at ease with him; Vale wasn't someone you'd make friends with, because he was superior and everyone else was inferior, he said with sarcasm. The world of Anger, Maria thought, surprising herself with this sudden association of ideas; it was the world in which people used others as a means to a goal, if she remembered well. She could imagine him in that role, bossing others around, with that heavy sense of superiority that he wore, like an old worn out suit. As soon as Maria arrived she immediately went to Franca.
"Is my rucksack back?" she asked, even before enquiring how she was.
"Yes… now Vale will bring it to you... He came back last night," she said, looking perhaps more yellow than the day before.
He arrived a few minutes later and, with another smile that showed his black and missing teeth, he handed Maria her backpack; his nails were rimmed in black, as if he had been working with soil. Maria was relieved to see that it wasn't in worse shape than when she had lent it to him. "It has been very useful, thank you," said Vale. "It's a good backpack, big, and I managed to fit in it all that I wanted. I put in a little present for you, to thank you for the favour."
Maria was surprised; she simply wasn't expecting a gift from Vale. She looked inside the backpack and pulled out a pair of traditional Nepalese hand-knitted socks, made of heavy, thick wool: "Thank you, Vale. How kind! You didn't need to, but..."
"Not at all! Your backpack has been very useful, perfect, really. Franca said that she wants to buy it off you once you're back in Italy, don't you?" he said, turning to Franca.
Maria was surprised: "How come? You've always hated it! You've never stopped pulling my leg about it. Don't tell me that you'd travel with this rucksack!"
Franca smiled weakly; it seemed as if her teeth had become yellow, too: "No, I want to keep it as a souvenir... and make sure you can't use it again."
Maria laughed, glad to have it back in her hands. Now she could go and prepare her luggage. But where was the boy who was going to walk back to Kathmandu with her? He had to wait another ten minutes, he said; he was waiting for a friend. Vale offered to prepare a cup of tea. Maria sat next to Franca to spend the last few minutes with her. She didn't feel good about leaving her alone, she was still so ill. "What can I do for you?" she asked. She had become really close to her in those two months. Despite all their differences and emotional problems, despite Franca's rebellious nature, or perhaps because of it, she had become fond of her.
"Don't worry Maria... there are a lot of people here. I'll be fine... Take care of yourself... write to me when you get to Italy... as soon as you get back."
"Sure! I'll come and pick you up at Rome airport, when you return." Time was passing, the ten minutes had turned into twenty, thirty, and it was beginning to get dark outside: "I can't wait any longer; it's almost night out there and the idea of walking in the dark worries me."
The boy showed no sign of leaving; unless his friend arrived, he said, he couldn't go. Maria was annoyed. If she had known from the start she wouldn't have waited so long. She stood up, put her backpack on her shoulders and decided to go it alone, the very thing she hadn't wanted to do. She crouched down to kiss Franca. "See you soon; take care of yourself!" she said with affection.
"You too," said Franca, feebly, unable to hold her gaze for long before looking at the floor.
When Maria reached the door, Franca said: "And remember… that rucksack is mine!"
Maria smiled: "If you insist!" she said, and blew her a kiss.
Before going out, she pressed the switch by the door to open the gate and closed the door behind her. She covered the few feet of the driveway; it was already dark. She went out and heard the click of the gate as it closed behind her.
There was a tolerance of people's diversity, indeed it was a pleasure to see the variety of all those boys and girls, men and women, who had come there from all over the world. She noticed two boys and a girl whom she had seen before; they were looking at her and smiled. Maria approached them: they were French, Sylvan, Eve and Pierrot. They spent the whole afternoon together, visiting some of the temples she had already seen and others new to her. She photographed the architecture, the children, the women washing clothes in the river, the wild pigs running around, all over the place. Only the dogs were hostile; while they didn't seem to mind the locals, they stopped in their tracks whenever they saw a European approach and began to growl fiercely, crazy with hatred. In the evening they had dinner together at a restaurant and then they smoked a bit of Maria's charas. She returned to the Top View Hotel ready for a good sleep. While she lay in bed she realized that she had spent only a few minutes alone that day.
The next day was the same. As soon as she walked into a store someone would address her and if she sat down to drink a chai, someone would come and sit at her table. Shopkeepers, hippies or climbers, there was always someone who wanted to talk to her and she always found something interesting in them. She went to the grocery store to buy the things for Franca: rice, oil, fruits and vegetables for a light, low protein diet and, with a bag full, she walked to the Italians' house.
Franca was even more yellow than the day before, but the more disconcerting thing was the whites of her eyes that had turned a sickly yellow-brown with shades of green. She was sitting on a mat, her back against the wall, her arms limp and heavy.
"How are you today?" Maria asked, crouching down to kiss her, a knot in her stomach.
"Very weak," Franca replied, with a faint, yellow smile.
"Do they help you? Does someone look after you?"
"Every now and then they make me a cup of tea. I have no appetite," she said, speaking with difficulty. She had to pause to regain the strength to talk; she continued: "Two of them have had hepatitis... and they know what to do."
Maria tried to feel less concerned. "I've been shopping. Dr. Mannah said that if you follow the diet and take the medicines, you will recover in four weeks. Take care; make sure you follow his advice."
Franca smiled weakly and looked at her with a mixture of affection and gratitude. "I will. Hepatitis is like this," she said. Then she surprised her with an unexpected request: "Can I borrow your red rucksack?"
"Mine? The one you like so much? Why?"
"Vale has to take a lot of things to Pokhara... he needs a big rucksack. Yours is perfect."
Maria felt uncomfortable, the idea of lending it to Vale didn't appeal to her at all. "But I leave on Monday. I need my rucksack. And it's packed full of things."
"He only needs it for three days... he'll be back on Sunday… and you... don't need it while you are in Kathmandu..., do you?" she insisted, struggling to get the words out.
Maria didn't want to lend her rucksack, but she couldn't find an excuse to wriggle out of their request. After all Franca was a guest in Vale's house. But she knew how these things went: her backpack would come back dirty, ruined, perhaps even broken, while she had always treated it with the best possible care: "When do you want it?"
"Bring it tomorrow... so you come and see me again."
The following day Maria arrived in the late afternoon with her backpack, empty and light. Reluctantly, she laid it at Franca's feet.
Vale appeared almost immediately. "I need a big rucksack and Franca said that yours is perfect. It's true," he said, turning it over and over, studying it well. He thanked Maria, smiling for the first time and showing his teeth stained with tobacco, many were missing. As he walked away, Maria glimpsed him digging his black nails under the white plastic plug at the end of the frame. She was left with an unhappy feeling, but Franca asked her what she had been doing that morning, what she was going to do later, and Maria talked to her about this and that, passing the time together. From the kitchen wafted the strong, pleasant aroma of cardamom and cinnamon and soon Vale reappeared with two chai and even two biscuits on a saucer, for Maria. Perhaps she had judged him too soon; this kindness didn't seem to be his style, but maybe she was prejudiced against him, she thought while she thanked him with a tight smile.
"If you come on Sunday evening I'll give it back to you. I only need it for three days," Vale reassured her. "If you want, I'll bring it to your hotel."
"No, no, I'll come over, so I can take the opportunity to say goodbye to Franca before I go," said Maria, hiding the discomfort that stubbornly refused to leave her.
"You're a real friend," said Vale, with a quick smile. Maria saw him glance at Franca and wink. Franca returned him a weak yellowish smile; the contrast between the yellow of the eyes and her pale blue pupils gave her a sinister look, Maria mused unhappily.
She left the house before dusk. It was a long walk to reach Kathmandu and she didn't want to be alone in the dark. She felt disappointed in herself; why couldn't she just say no? If Franca didn't want to do something, she'd refuse to do it, without any scruples, while she didn't have the courage. What a fool! This was something in her character that she would have to change.
She stayed at the Top View Hotel and spent those days exploring the town, accompanied by her three French friends and, when they left, by someone else she had met in the square. With a German boy, she climbed once more the endless steps leading to Swayambhunath temple, with its Buddha's eyes, populated by hundreds of monkeys. With an American girl, she wandered aimlessly through the poor neighbourhoods outside the city centre. With two French girls, she went to sit in the quiet part of the river where they could put their feet in the cool water and observe the stones on the bottom; women washing their clothes; bicycles gliding without haste. She took photographs and soaked in the reality of those moments, absorbing them completely. She spent the evenings eating in the restaurants around the square, meeting new people, exchanging a word here and there with other young travellers, or sitting on the stone steps of the square, talking Italian, French, sometimes English. Short conversations, small exchanges, but she felt lonely. It was a peculiar sensation, sometimes pleasant, at other times not so; on the one hand she had all the freedom to decide what to do and where to go, on the other she missed Franca's endless stream of words that had become so familiar. Maria imagined it in her head and so, although she wasn't physically present, it was as if she were: an imaginary friend! She went to see her every day. Things didn't seem to change much, the yellowish colour persisted and Franca was always sitting on a rug, her arms limp and heavy; she didn't do anything and could only find a small amount of energy to make a few comments about what Maria was telling her, what she had done, whom she had met.
It was her last day in Kathmandu and Maria, who had never ceased to think about her backpack, could finally go and pick it up. In Durbar Square she bumped into one of the Italians and they walked together to the house in the suburbs; it was already six o'clock in the afternoon. Maria would pick up her backpack and take her leave from Franca, then straight back to her hotel. "I don't want to be outside in the dark," she said. "So, I'll be quick! Tonight I'll have to prepare my luggage and the same things that were in it before never fit when you pack again, I've never understood why."
"I'll come back with you, don't worry!" promised the boy. "I want to return to the square for a couple of hours." They chatted away and the boy told her that Vale had been living in Nepal for almost three years; he went to India only when his visa expired and came back as soon as he could. Did he know why he lived there? Maria asked. Probably because he liked it, he replied, it was cheap and he did what he wanted. Or perhaps he wished to avoid doing military service, he had never asked him, he didn't feel at ease with him; Vale wasn't someone you'd make friends with, because he was superior and everyone else was inferior, he said with sarcasm. The world of Anger, Maria thought, surprising herself with this sudden association of ideas; it was the world in which people used others as a means to a goal, if she remembered well. She could imagine him in that role, bossing others around, with that heavy sense of superiority that he wore, like an old worn out suit. As soon as Maria arrived she immediately went to Franca.
"Is my rucksack back?" she asked, even before enquiring how she was.
"Yes… now Vale will bring it to you... He came back last night," she said, looking perhaps more yellow than the day before.
He arrived a few minutes later and, with another smile that showed his black and missing teeth, he handed Maria her backpack; his nails were rimmed in black, as if he had been working with soil. Maria was relieved to see that it wasn't in worse shape than when she had lent it to him. "It has been very useful, thank you," said Vale. "It's a good backpack, big, and I managed to fit in it all that I wanted. I put in a little present for you, to thank you for the favour."
Maria was surprised; she simply wasn't expecting a gift from Vale. She looked inside the backpack and pulled out a pair of traditional Nepalese hand-knitted socks, made of heavy, thick wool: "Thank you, Vale. How kind! You didn't need to, but..."
"Not at all! Your backpack has been very useful, perfect, really. Franca said that she wants to buy it off you once you're back in Italy, don't you?" he said, turning to Franca.
Maria was surprised: "How come? You've always hated it! You've never stopped pulling my leg about it. Don't tell me that you'd travel with this rucksack!"
Franca smiled weakly; it seemed as if her teeth had become yellow, too: "No, I want to keep it as a souvenir... and make sure you can't use it again."
Maria laughed, glad to have it back in her hands. Now she could go and prepare her luggage. But where was the boy who was going to walk back to Kathmandu with her? He had to wait another ten minutes, he said; he was waiting for a friend. Vale offered to prepare a cup of tea. Maria sat next to Franca to spend the last few minutes with her. She didn't feel good about leaving her alone, she was still so ill. "What can I do for you?" she asked. She had become really close to her in those two months. Despite all their differences and emotional problems, despite Franca's rebellious nature, or perhaps because of it, she had become fond of her.
"Don't worry Maria... there are a lot of people here. I'll be fine... Take care of yourself... write to me when you get to Italy... as soon as you get back."
"Sure! I'll come and pick you up at Rome airport, when you return." Time was passing, the ten minutes had turned into twenty, thirty, and it was beginning to get dark outside: "I can't wait any longer; it's almost night out there and the idea of walking in the dark worries me."
The boy showed no sign of leaving; unless his friend arrived, he said, he couldn't go. Maria was annoyed. If she had known from the start she wouldn't have waited so long. She stood up, put her backpack on her shoulders and decided to go it alone, the very thing she hadn't wanted to do. She crouched down to kiss Franca. "See you soon; take care of yourself!" she said with affection.
"You too," said Franca, feebly, unable to hold her gaze for long before looking at the floor.
When Maria reached the door, Franca said: "And remember… that rucksack is mine!"
Maria smiled: "If you insist!" she said, and blew her a kiss.
Before going out, she pressed the switch by the door to open the gate and closed the door behind her. She covered the few feet of the driveway; it was already dark. She went out and heard the click of the gate as it closed behind her.
The first dogs surrounded her within seconds, staring at her with red eyes. She tried to open the gate to go back inside, shook it a couple of times, but it was firmly closed and there was no bell. What was she to do now? She was stuck outside and surrounded by four, five, six dogs that began to make guttural sounds. Some showed their sharp teeth while others pushed each other to bark louder. Even if she screamed no one would have heard her; she was outside, alone, with no choice but to start walking. She looked around to see if there were any stones, but the dogs were too close to her legs for her to bend down. Meanwhile, the noises from deep in their throats became more audible, gradually turning into a growl and then into sharp barking. Attracted by the noise, other dogs approached running; they appeared out of the darkness and joined the pack, with their sharp teeth, their bloodshot eyes, growling and barking louder and louder.
Maria began to walk, her legs trembling violently, she was struggling to put one foot in front of the other and feared she would stumble. But she couldn't, they would tear her to pieces. One step after another, she remembered that Michel had told her not to be afraid because the dogs would smell her fear; but she was petrified. What had he said? You are in command, not them. Make sure they know you are the boss! That sort of thing. The dogs barked louder and louder and were getting closer. They jostled against each other, competing to see who got closest to her calves, on which she felt their warm breath.
Her heart was pounding so hard, she was sure they could see it through her clothes. I have to stop being afraid, she said to herself, but how can I? She thought of her mother, her father, her friends, Jean-Claude, Paul, Franca. Transform fear into courage. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she started to chant in her mind. In the distance she could see the light of a street lamp. 'I have to get out of this in one piece,' she told herself. Focusing on the light she quickened her pace; the dogs barked more and more hysterically, angrier and angrier, but none took the initiative to attack her.
With a trembling voice she began to sing the first thing that came to mind: "Allons enfants de la patrie-iii…" The French national anthem? Fancy that! she thought, surprised. At the sound of her voice, the dogs went crazy. Nope, singing was not a good idea. But now the song's marching rhythm had crept into her mind and made her march: "Le jour de gloire est arrivé..." she continued softly. She didn't remember the remaining words, but she kept marching, singing to herself: "Ta ta ta ta tatta tatta ta, ta tatta ta ta tatta tatta ta, na nanna na nanna na nanna na, la lalla la lalla la la! Pa pa… pa pa... pa pappa pa, pa pa pa pa... pa pa! Marchons, Marchons, la lalla la la tatta ta... ta ta ta ta! And then she started again: Allons enfants de la patrie-ii le jour de gloire est arrivé."
The courage was growing and her determination was becoming a powerful weapon. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she continued. She quickened her pace and, while she felt more confident and resolute, she thought she could notice some hesitation in the pack of dogs, which imperceptibly began to let go of their siege. She took the opportunity to bend quickly and pick up a couple of stones. Immediately they slowed down, leaving a little space between them and her. Maria aimed at one of the dogs' heads and threw the first stone. Clonk! One down more to go, she thought, and laughed with a sense of victory. She reached down, picked up more rocks and continued to throw them, always aiming at the dogs' heads. There were at least fifteen of them, coming from in front, from the sides and from behind, still furious, but also a little bit uncertain.
She walked on, her pace more and more secure, stronger and stronger, until she finally reached the next lamppost. Once past it, she immediately fell back into another sea of darkness, but she knew that Kathmandu was not far away. Her panic was almost completely gone, replaced by a strong sense of defiance and courage born out of the knowledge that she had already won, because she had conquered her fear. "Get away from me, you bastards!" she shouted. And then she laughed, thinking that those dogs really were bastards, mongrels, as no one knew who had conceived them.
Finally, she saw the city lights and felt safe, even if the dogs were still surrounding her; she was too strong for them. She began to sing in a loud voice, shouting, marching forward and swinging her arms vigorously: "Allons enfants de la patrie-ii le jour de gloire est arrivé. Ta ta ta ta tatta tatta ta, ta tatta ta tatta tatta ta, na nanna na nanna na nanna na, la lalla la lalla la la! Pa pa… pa pa... pa pappa pa, pa pa pa pa... pa pa! Marchons, Marchons, la lalla la la tatta ta... ta ta ta ta!
Jean-Claude and Michel, Sylvan, Eve and Pierrot, and all the French people she knew, would have been proud of her. At the end of the dirt road the darkness faded away blending into the lights of the city and the dogs stopped. They were still barking and growling, but they weren't moving forward any longer, the cowards who took advantage of the dark. She had won, she was safe!
The people spending the evening hours in Durbar Square had never seemed so warm and the relaxed atmosphere had never been so pleasant. She sat down on the steps, still shaken by the experience, and paused, absorbing the peace of the evening, giving time to her heartbeat to gradually slow down, watching the square as if she was seeing it for the first time. She smiled and congratulated herself, thinking that, perhaps, she was a brave woman after all. While walking back to the Top View Hotel she resolved to be much more careful from then on; if anything happened to her, there was no one to defend or help her: she was alone. At reception she paid for her stay and went up to her room where she began to pack. She set the alarm clock for half past seven and finally closed her eyes, exhausted. She had to be at the airport at nine.
She opened her eyes and looked at the time; it was a quarter to nine. How was that possible? The alarm hadn't gone off! She jumped out of bed, trembling with anxiety; was it a nightmare? No, it was reality, but it seemed a nightmare. She moved as quickly as possible and, without washing her face or brushing her hair, she ran downstairs with her heavy backpack and camera bag, looking around in search of a rickshaw. She shouted to call one and, as soon as it approached she jumped on, breathless, saying 'to the airport, jaldi jaldi,' quickly, quickly! The man understood and began to pedal fast. She prepared the extra rupees for him and, as soon as they reached the airport doors, she jumped off and ran with her bulky and heavy luggage, entering the terminal forty minutes late, distressed and panicking. She ran to the first policeman. "What do I do with my rucksack?" she shouted.
"Where do you go, Madam?" he questioned her, incredibly slow.
"To Patna, in India, where else? How many flights are there that leave at eleven?" she asked provocatively.
The policeman studied her. "The luggage goes here," he said, pointing to the moving belt, with a serious expression. "Then go through passport control," he ordered.
She knew she had to calm down, or at least control her temper. As soon as she arrived at passport control, she realized she was going to be searched.
A female police officer was waiting for her, while the policeman was watching from the entrance. She made her go behind a screen and frisked her everywhere, even under her hair. "Do you have knives?" she asked.
"No! No knives."
The police woman stared at her: "Are you sure you don't have knives?"
"I have no knives, I told you! If I tell you that I have no knives, it means that I don't have any. Is that clear?" Maria blurted out, unable to check her anguish. She shouldn't have spoken like that, she knew, but why did they make her even more late than she already was? Suddenly she remembered the silver box that Jean-Claude had given her, with charas inside, and her blood froze in her veins.
"I want to search your bag," said the police woman, feeling the content of the cloth bag hanging from Maria's shoulder, starting from the outside and then pushing her arm inside. She had to think quickly; she was trembling with shock and fear. At the same time, she was angry with the woman who pushed her, fondled, touched her. She wanted to scream.
Abruptly, she removed the bag from her shoulder, saying: "Let's do this, look!" and emptied the entire contents on the counter. Immediately she saw the silver box. She had to do something! Taking advantage of a moment's hesitation from the police woman, she began to throw the things back inside her bag, starting with the box. "See? No knives. I told you so!" she said. The cop let her continue without interfering.
Then, speaking more gently, Maria said: "I'm very late for my plane, can I go please?" She looked into her eyes, asking for understanding. The police officer pointed her chin forward, as if to say she could go. She walked quickly toward the plane, shaking even more than before. She was the last person to board, they were waiting only for her. She thanked the hostess and sat down. It seemed an eternity before they closed the plane doors, but her watch told her it had only been ten minutes. She tried to think calmly; she thought there were no problems about carrying a bit of charas with her, but she realized that it was not true, at least in Nepal it was officially illegal. While in India it was legal... But was it, really? She wasn't at all sure. She remembered what Mr. Singh had told her, it depended on the state, it was legal in some states, but not in others, and she had a lot of misconceptions about India.
This time she had got away with it, but she had to be much more careful, especially now that she was alone. Instead of feeling relieved, she felt sick at the thought of what could have happened. Although the authorities might have turned a blind eye for one gram of charas, her aggressive and provocative attitude would have caused her problems. She had behaved beyond the acceptable limits of respect and she knew it. As the plane climbed over the clouds she felt ill at ease with herself. The hostess went around offering boiled sweets while Maria was reflecting. It was a very short flight in an old airplane. After half an hour they had already started their descent. Her ears began to hurt and the discomfort continued, getting worse and worse as they got lower. She pressed her hands on her ears, hoping they'd land soon. It seemed as if her head would burst.
Maria began to walk, her legs trembling violently, she was struggling to put one foot in front of the other and feared she would stumble. But she couldn't, they would tear her to pieces. One step after another, she remembered that Michel had told her not to be afraid because the dogs would smell her fear; but she was petrified. What had he said? You are in command, not them. Make sure they know you are the boss! That sort of thing. The dogs barked louder and louder and were getting closer. They jostled against each other, competing to see who got closest to her calves, on which she felt their warm breath.
Her heart was pounding so hard, she was sure they could see it through her clothes. I have to stop being afraid, she said to herself, but how can I? She thought of her mother, her father, her friends, Jean-Claude, Paul, Franca. Transform fear into courage. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she started to chant in her mind. In the distance she could see the light of a street lamp. 'I have to get out of this in one piece,' she told herself. Focusing on the light she quickened her pace; the dogs barked more and more hysterically, angrier and angrier, but none took the initiative to attack her.
With a trembling voice she began to sing the first thing that came to mind: "Allons enfants de la patrie-iii…" The French national anthem? Fancy that! she thought, surprised. At the sound of her voice, the dogs went crazy. Nope, singing was not a good idea. But now the song's marching rhythm had crept into her mind and made her march: "Le jour de gloire est arrivé..." she continued softly. She didn't remember the remaining words, but she kept marching, singing to herself: "Ta ta ta ta tatta tatta ta, ta tatta ta ta tatta tatta ta, na nanna na nanna na nanna na, la lalla la lalla la la! Pa pa… pa pa... pa pappa pa, pa pa pa pa... pa pa! Marchons, Marchons, la lalla la la tatta ta... ta ta ta ta! And then she started again: Allons enfants de la patrie-ii le jour de gloire est arrivé."
The courage was growing and her determination was becoming a powerful weapon. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she continued. She quickened her pace and, while she felt more confident and resolute, she thought she could notice some hesitation in the pack of dogs, which imperceptibly began to let go of their siege. She took the opportunity to bend quickly and pick up a couple of stones. Immediately they slowed down, leaving a little space between them and her. Maria aimed at one of the dogs' heads and threw the first stone. Clonk! One down more to go, she thought, and laughed with a sense of victory. She reached down, picked up more rocks and continued to throw them, always aiming at the dogs' heads. There were at least fifteen of them, coming from in front, from the sides and from behind, still furious, but also a little bit uncertain.
She walked on, her pace more and more secure, stronger and stronger, until she finally reached the next lamppost. Once past it, she immediately fell back into another sea of darkness, but she knew that Kathmandu was not far away. Her panic was almost completely gone, replaced by a strong sense of defiance and courage born out of the knowledge that she had already won, because she had conquered her fear. "Get away from me, you bastards!" she shouted. And then she laughed, thinking that those dogs really were bastards, mongrels, as no one knew who had conceived them.
Finally, she saw the city lights and felt safe, even if the dogs were still surrounding her; she was too strong for them. She began to sing in a loud voice, shouting, marching forward and swinging her arms vigorously: "Allons enfants de la patrie-ii le jour de gloire est arrivé. Ta ta ta ta tatta tatta ta, ta tatta ta tatta tatta ta, na nanna na nanna na nanna na, la lalla la lalla la la! Pa pa… pa pa... pa pappa pa, pa pa pa pa... pa pa! Marchons, Marchons, la lalla la la tatta ta... ta ta ta ta!
Jean-Claude and Michel, Sylvan, Eve and Pierrot, and all the French people she knew, would have been proud of her. At the end of the dirt road the darkness faded away blending into the lights of the city and the dogs stopped. They were still barking and growling, but they weren't moving forward any longer, the cowards who took advantage of the dark. She had won, she was safe!
The people spending the evening hours in Durbar Square had never seemed so warm and the relaxed atmosphere had never been so pleasant. She sat down on the steps, still shaken by the experience, and paused, absorbing the peace of the evening, giving time to her heartbeat to gradually slow down, watching the square as if she was seeing it for the first time. She smiled and congratulated herself, thinking that, perhaps, she was a brave woman after all. While walking back to the Top View Hotel she resolved to be much more careful from then on; if anything happened to her, there was no one to defend or help her: she was alone. At reception she paid for her stay and went up to her room where she began to pack. She set the alarm clock for half past seven and finally closed her eyes, exhausted. She had to be at the airport at nine.
She opened her eyes and looked at the time; it was a quarter to nine. How was that possible? The alarm hadn't gone off! She jumped out of bed, trembling with anxiety; was it a nightmare? No, it was reality, but it seemed a nightmare. She moved as quickly as possible and, without washing her face or brushing her hair, she ran downstairs with her heavy backpack and camera bag, looking around in search of a rickshaw. She shouted to call one and, as soon as it approached she jumped on, breathless, saying 'to the airport, jaldi jaldi,' quickly, quickly! The man understood and began to pedal fast. She prepared the extra rupees for him and, as soon as they reached the airport doors, she jumped off and ran with her bulky and heavy luggage, entering the terminal forty minutes late, distressed and panicking. She ran to the first policeman. "What do I do with my rucksack?" she shouted.
"Where do you go, Madam?" he questioned her, incredibly slow.
"To Patna, in India, where else? How many flights are there that leave at eleven?" she asked provocatively.
The policeman studied her. "The luggage goes here," he said, pointing to the moving belt, with a serious expression. "Then go through passport control," he ordered.
She knew she had to calm down, or at least control her temper. As soon as she arrived at passport control, she realized she was going to be searched.
A female police officer was waiting for her, while the policeman was watching from the entrance. She made her go behind a screen and frisked her everywhere, even under her hair. "Do you have knives?" she asked.
"No! No knives."
The police woman stared at her: "Are you sure you don't have knives?"
"I have no knives, I told you! If I tell you that I have no knives, it means that I don't have any. Is that clear?" Maria blurted out, unable to check her anguish. She shouldn't have spoken like that, she knew, but why did they make her even more late than she already was? Suddenly she remembered the silver box that Jean-Claude had given her, with charas inside, and her blood froze in her veins.
"I want to search your bag," said the police woman, feeling the content of the cloth bag hanging from Maria's shoulder, starting from the outside and then pushing her arm inside. She had to think quickly; she was trembling with shock and fear. At the same time, she was angry with the woman who pushed her, fondled, touched her. She wanted to scream.
Abruptly, she removed the bag from her shoulder, saying: "Let's do this, look!" and emptied the entire contents on the counter. Immediately she saw the silver box. She had to do something! Taking advantage of a moment's hesitation from the police woman, she began to throw the things back inside her bag, starting with the box. "See? No knives. I told you so!" she said. The cop let her continue without interfering.
Then, speaking more gently, Maria said: "I'm very late for my plane, can I go please?" She looked into her eyes, asking for understanding. The police officer pointed her chin forward, as if to say she could go. She walked quickly toward the plane, shaking even more than before. She was the last person to board, they were waiting only for her. She thanked the hostess and sat down. It seemed an eternity before they closed the plane doors, but her watch told her it had only been ten minutes. She tried to think calmly; she thought there were no problems about carrying a bit of charas with her, but she realized that it was not true, at least in Nepal it was officially illegal. While in India it was legal... But was it, really? She wasn't at all sure. She remembered what Mr. Singh had told her, it depended on the state, it was legal in some states, but not in others, and she had a lot of misconceptions about India.
This time she had got away with it, but she had to be much more careful, especially now that she was alone. Instead of feeling relieved, she felt sick at the thought of what could have happened. Although the authorities might have turned a blind eye for one gram of charas, her aggressive and provocative attitude would have caused her problems. She had behaved beyond the acceptable limits of respect and she knew it. As the plane climbed over the clouds she felt ill at ease with herself. The hostess went around offering boiled sweets while Maria was reflecting. It was a very short flight in an old airplane. After half an hour they had already started their descent. Her ears began to hurt and the discomfort continued, getting worse and worse as they got lower. She pressed her hands on her ears, hoping they'd land soon. It seemed as if her head would burst.
To go to chapter 21 click here: Chapter 21
If you want to buy the hard copy or the kindle version of Made in Nirvana, please go to ´link to buy´on the top menu for the correct link for your country.
