Velvet Dogma About 3300 wds (22 page)

T
hey exited the underworld at the corner of Robertson and Pickford. Where once hundred-year old trees, graduated lawns and modest four bedroom homes had been, now the district had been laid bare, something left undone by the crews who'd cleaned up after the Tsunamis. There weren't even slappery-dashed apartments like she'd seen on Sunset. From the highway to Pico Boulevard, it was nothing more than a slum.

Not the slums of America, no sir. Here was a slum from India. Rebecca noticed immediately that theirs was the only white face in sight. The multi-octaved Hindi combined with the more guttural Marathi made for a sing-song barrage of unintelligible commands almost as painful and disorienting as the shriek of the Ack Ack Deacon.

Andy had managed to regain his senses and led Rebecca through the teaming masses that grasped and groped them as they passed. Finally, he was forced to stop. He brought her close then held up his hands. They'd gone a block, but wouldn't get any farther unless Andy could bridge the language gap and make himself understood.

Two Sikhs in purple turbans barred their way, their massive arms across barrel chests as threatening as holstered pistols. They wore trousers and boots beneath yellow tunics that reached mid-thigh. An Indian wearing a white turban stepped between them and approached Andy. He was dressed similarly to the bigger men, but boasted a maroon tunic instead. The crowd shushed enough to hear what was said.

"What would you be doing in our slum? This is our place and not for your kind."

"We'd be happy to leave," said Andy, as if he'd just found the one sane person. "Just show us the exit and we'll be gone."

"But we cannot do that, sir. You've shared our hospitality and must make payment before you go."

"Shared in your hospitality?"

"We have very good hospitality. That you must admit. We are known for it. You are happy now. Happy is not free."

"I guess not."
 
Andy shook his head and glanced to Rebecca. "And what if we don't have the money to pay for this hospitality that you have most righteously shared?"

"Ah, you are in the understanding of our ways, I see. If you cannot pay, you must remain a guest with us until you can pay. Our hospitality is famous. Some have liked it so much they have never left."

"Let me talk to my friend a moment, Mister..."

"You may call me Darshan Pringle."

"Give us a moment, Darshan Pringle."

The man stepped back and held up his hands.

Andy walked to Rebecca and leaned into her as he whispered. "I wish something normal would happen to us. All this excitement is getting to me."

"What are we going to do?"
 
She glanced at Pringle who waved at her beaming a lascivious grin.

"We need to pay them some money, but I don't have any paper and the ID is being watched."

"So what. Give him my money. Or at least tell them how to get it."

He looked at her quizzically.

"Look at this place. It'll take the police hours to track him down, by then he'll be gone and so will we. What do we care? It's not like I'm ever going to spend that tainted money anyway."

Andy grinned. "You're becoming quite the desperado, you know?"

"You and me like Butch and Sundance in Bolivia."
 
She remembered the scene in the Paul Newman-Robert Redford movie like it was yesterday. She'd loved that movie right up until the end.

"Yeah," he said smiling.

Clearly he hadn't seen the film, so Rebecca reminded him. "There was no happy ending. They were surrounded by the Bolivian Army and ran out shooting. They died in a blaze of glory."

"Oh."
 
His smile fell. "Blazes of glory are bad."

"Very bad."

"So we're gonna give them your account number and access code?"

"Yep."
 
He turned to leave, but she grabbed him by the shoulder before he could take two steps. "See if you can get a little more out of it than their
imaginary
hospitality. I'd love a change of clothes and a shower. I feel like I've been dragged through the bowels of hell."

He nodded and strolled back to the Indian. They conversed for several moments, then the Indian bowed and pointed towards the big men, who obliquely moved out of the way. Andy beckoned for Rebecca to follow. After a half-hour circuitous route through the one-story slum, they found themselves in front of a ten foot by ten foot cardboard and veneer box with only a ragged piece of cloth covering the entrance.
 

The Sikh made a grand sweeping gesture with his arms and bent at the waist as if he were showing a palatial estate, then turned and bounded away, the two large Sikhs struggling to keep up with him.

Andy held the curtain aside and Rebecca stepped inside. He followed and let the cloth fall shut behind them. Sunlight struggled through the fabric, resulting in a dim glow that barely allowed them to see. Along the far wall was a slim mattress meant for one person. On the right hand wall were several pots and a single chair. On a table along the left hand wall was a single gas burner, a five gallon can of water and a tea service. Rebecca checked and was pleased to find it complete with sugar and oolong tea.

She turned and fell into Andy's outstretched arms. "Did you ever think all this would happen?"

"Never," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

"I wish it would stop, Andy," she said. "I'm tired of running."

"It'll stop soon. We're almost there."

She felt him harden as he pulled her tighter, pressing against her abdomen. Heat crept into her.

Then suddenly they were not alone. Three women had entered and stood just inside the curtain. One was as old as the universe, her wrinkles like original Sanskrit. The other two were younger than Rebecca. One carried a bucket of steaming water, while the other one held a pile of clothes. The scents of violets, roses and vanilla filled the small space. Rebecca's needs changed in a heartbeat as the aroma filled her with promises of clean hair and smooth skin.

As soon as Andy had been ushered outside, they descended upon her, removing her clothes with effortless skill. Soon they had her sitting on a towel as they sponge-bathed her. She couldn't help but smile and loll her head back, enjoying the human touch as much as the cleansing. She moaned occasionally, her scandalous outburst causing giggles to erupt form the younger girls followed by stern flurry of whispered Marathi by the older.

When they finished washing her, one of the young women left with the dirty water, then returned with another bucket of steaming water. To Rebecca's surprise, they washed her again, taking as much time as they had before, almost languid in their ministrations. This time when she moaned and they giggled, she joined in.

They cleansed her twice more. The fourth time, they washed her hair, applying coconut oil as it dried. The result was a shimmering cap of hair. For not the first time she wished she had long hair like other women. She admired the hair of the young women, Shira and Corla, and the way it draped down their backs like dark Abyssinian waterfalls.

Then they massaged her bare skin with oils. They first covered her with the earthy smells of balsam and moss, then layered this with honeysuckle and violet. Her skin hummed when they'd finished. She could feel the hairs standing on her arms.

Her clothes had been removed with the bath water. Under the soft-spoken yet stern directions of the older women, the young ones first slipped Rebecca into a pair of silken pajama bottoms the color of summer wheat. Rebecca had seen others wearing this, but didn't know what it was. She was shown how to tighten it at the waist and at the ankles.

"Salwar," said the old woman indicating she was talking about the pants.

"Salwar."
 
Rebecca repeated this several times, until finally Shira turned to Corla and chittered something in Marathi. Both the girls erupted with laughter. The old woman merely shook her head.

Next they pulled a burgundy spun cotton dress over her head. Loose-fitting, it tapered in at the waist, then flared out to where it ended just above the knee.

"Kameej," the old woman told Rebecca.

Just as Rebecca began to repeat the word, the younger girls joined in. Soon, they were all laughing as Rebecca repeated word after word, not sorry to play the child to their games. She enjoyed the fun, and for a little while she forgot about all the death and destruction that had surrounded her every move.

The evening ended with a meal of sensuous food—vegetable pakora, orange chutney, basmati rice, nan and sambhar. Never in her most wonderful dreams had Rebecca imagined that her mouth could even taste some of the spices she'd experienced. For a short moment during the meal she cursed the prison and the government for denying her this luxury. She was probably the only woman in L.A. who'd never eaten Indian food before. If it was up to her, she'd eat it every meal.

As the night drew later, the girls and the old woman, who she'd learned to call Josh, departed with many bows and hugs. She slipped out of her new garments and into the silken sheets of the low mattress. She didn't have long to wait until Andy returned.

"Crazy Darshan. He wasn't kidding when he said hospitality. Had I known this place was like this I would have come here on the weekend."

She could tell he'd been drinking. His eyes were too wide and he kept leaning towards her, puffs of his whiskey-coated breath mixing with her violet and honeysuckle lotion.

"Where'd you go?" she asked.

"I ended up at his place. He has about a dozen of these interlocked like a slum lord estate. He threw a feast of curry. I don't know what I ate but it all tasted spectacular."
 
He sobered a moment. "You did eat, didn't you, Bec? He said you'd been fed."
 

When she nodded, he continued.

"Turns out he was able to get your creds easier than all of us thought. Darshan almost cried when he told me. He wanted the extra money, but the rules of his own hospitality precluded him from taking advantage of us that way. Do you believe it? A slum lord with ethics."

"Were there women there?"

"Oh sure," Andy began, but seeing the pitfall, quickly added "but I wasn't paying attention to them. Darshan provided them for his guests."

"Aren't you a guest?"
"No. I mean yes I'm a guest, but it wasn't like that."
 
He scooted over to her on the edge of the mattress. "You aren't jealous, are you?"

Sure she was and she hated herself for it. More than jealous, she was sorry she'd missed the party. She'd enjoyed the girls' ministrations, but she'd come to enjoy Andy's company more. "No, I'm not jealous," she lied. Tell me what else happened."

He stared at her for a long moment, then grinned as he struggled out of one boot, then the other. Once he'd pulled off his pants and shirt and tossed them atop his boots, he snuggled beneath the sheet next to her, his arms enveloping her naked waist.

"Turns out he knew we were wanted," he said into her ear.

She started.

"I know. I was worried too, especially with his two bodyguards, but I don't think we have to worry about it. I mean, why would a man be so upset at taking too much of our money and at the same time turn us over to the police? It just doesn't make sense."

"This whole thing doesn't make sense."

"I think he can help us."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yeah."

"Do you trust him?"

"As much as I can trust anyone who isn't you."
 
He nuzzled her ear, tickling to the point that she pushed him away. "I missed you, Bec."

"I missed you too."

Rebecca pulled him close, kissing first his neck, then his chest. She could taste him with each roll of her tongue. He gently pushed her to her back and straddled her. He kissed first her chin, then the crux of her neck. When he breathed hotly on her nipples, she arched, the electricity stunning her body. He descended further until he found her core. His tongue moved madly, caressing and embracing her until her whole body shivered. Finally she'd had too much and pulled him up to stare into his eyes. At that moment he entered her and everything else ceased to exist for a long, long moment.

R
ebecca awoke just as the dawn light seeped through the space beneath the curtain. Andy was still awash in his dreams, his eyes rolling inside his lids. She slid from beneath his arm and stood on the bare earth floor. She looked for her old clothes, but they were nowhere to be found. She slipped on the
salwar
and the
kameej
, then her ankle boots. She didn't have a mirror, but she felt exotic as she stepped through the curtain.

A pump above a metal bowl sat outside their hut. She filled the bowl with water and washed. Soon she was joined by others of the slum as they did their own morning ablutions, sharing in her water and her smiles. Within minutes, as if a great anthill had been disturbed, the sleeping slum was teeming with activity. Men called to other men. Women whistled for their children. The latter thundered about, miniature dust storms left in their wakes.