Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [90]
“For the black magic,” he intones mystically.
“Aaaagh! Get that away from me. Get it away!”
… followed by today's special offer: a live chameleon, which sits on Haj's sleeve for the longest while, staring up at him, its eyes swiveling independently of each other, blinking.
“It has seven colors of change,” the store owner insists.
But though we indulge it for several minutes, the creature refuses to turn blue to match Haj's anorak. Faulty, obviously.
“No, we want something,” Haj explains to the man, handing it back, “that will stop the gas in the stomach.” In ways that, say, swallowing a live chameleon wouldn't.
“Gas?” the storekeeper says.
“In my stomach. I'm feeling sick.”
To clarify—BLEEEEEECCCCHHHHH—I belch obligingly.
“Ah.” Leaping to the shelves, he returns with a jar of brown powder. “This will be of help.”
It's cumin. The stuff they put in curries. Considered the best natural cure for food poisoning, apparently. Haj buys four spoonfuls, which the shopkeeper measures out into a plastic bag. I'm then pulled into a back alley outside and made to swallow half of the powder, washing it down with bottled water. It's disgusting.
“Okay.” I wipe my mouth across my shirtsleeve. “Now what?”
“We wait.” And he smiles cryptically.
Old Dead Eyes is back. Willy joins us from his trip to the airport.
“So how did it go? Any luck?” Mike asks.
He shakes his head, saggy jowls wobbling. “I tried. But there are no direct flights,” he says. “And other flights are full. I couldn't get you anything better.”
“Upgrades?”
“Sorry.”
Or maybe he just hung out in a bar all morning with his pals. I certainly wouldn't put it past him. It's definitely not the news we were hoping for anyway. This being Christmastime, we always knew it was going to be a long shot, so our expectations were never that high. All the same, it's a low blow and only depresses everyone further.
“So can we have our tickets back, then?” I ask as an afterthought.
For some reason I'm detecting hesitancy.
Without explaining further, because that would only complicate matters, Willy dismisses my request with a brusque “later,” and walks over to speak to one of his thug henchmen.
For once I don't care. I'm shaking badly. Sweating. I have shooting pains across my abdomen, which feels like it's close to exploding. I could throw up at any minute.
At my side, Haj hovers nervously with the plastic bag, awaiting his cue.
“Not yet!” Jay shouts from across the street. “Not yet! Hold it.”
“I can't, Jay.”
“Hold it!!”
At the last second, Kevin appears, running, with Mike and Tasha behind him. They've been filming a monkey dancing on the end of a chain. Inhumane, but irresistible. In a great rush, he plants his tripod on the cobbles and adjusts the camera's focus.
“Okay—go.”
About time! Ordered to vomit, I rush behind an open gate, crouch close to the ground, and in ten or so bursts hurl the entire contents of my stomach, everything I've eaten and drunk since yesterday lunchtime, into the plastic bag.
“You alright?” Haj asks when it's over, taking the bag and tying a knot in it.
“Alright, yes.” I cough, wiping my mouth on my sleeve.
Concerned that I might not have grasped the finer technicalities of what just happened, he adds, “Cumin makes you throw up.”
“Yes, I get that,” I say, and thank him again.
Then, before he can give me the bag of vomit back, which he's welcome to keep as a souvenir of our fruitful and exciting time together, I shake his hand and leave in some haste.
Returning from a difficult day, we step into a scene straight from an Arabian harem, and feel instantly uplifted. While we were out, our hotel has gone through a 180-degree transformation. Dozens of lanterns have been placed around the indoor pools, scented candles shimmer dimly on tables, harassed by a light breeze from the patio, and the outdoor pool too is illuminated underwater, its barely moving surface reflecting the stars. With a few well-orchestrated touches, what was merely exotic and