The Elastic-Sided Boots
In moments of tenderness or lust Jill croons, ‘Davood, my little toy boy.’ He likes her cool touch on his cheek, smoothing the soft down. He shaves, but so far the desired bristles refuse to sprout.
Jill helps Davood to the grilled fish set before them on the platter. He’s trying to look like a man, but is afraid his face is a give-away.
The Papillon restaurant is a tourist-only joint, owned by an Indian from Pondi who brought his skills to this more northerly town. Mineral water is always brought to the table as soon as patrons sit down, and newspapers and games are provided. It’s a refuge from the poverty and heat of the streets.
Jill is all decision—beer, food—she orders for both of them. The fish skeleton lies on the plate. They play chess, and when she leans across the table to whisper in his ear, her hand over his, he’s happy to leave before the end of the game. She picks up the bill. Later in the afternoon when they reappear, Jill orders beer, and they play chess again. Davood concentrates on the board.
Davood is asleep when he hears his mother’s voice. ‘You’re late for work Davood, it’s eight o’clock.’ He thinks he can remember the lullaby his mother sang to help him sleep when he was a baby. But later it was, ‘Wake up Davood, school time.’ Each evening after he finished playing with his top out in the dusty street, or cricket with other boys in front of the church, he begged to have the television turned on. Most nights he watched television until his parents’ bedtime.
‘He needs his sleep, get him to bed,’ from his father.
‘Leave him, he’s a good boy,’ said his mother. At school he sat at the back of the class, closed his eyes, and slept.
When he brought his reports home, his mother said he was a good boy but not cut out for schoolwork. After his father died, Davood denied the school’s complaints of truancy.
His mother apprenticed him to his uncle Salman to learn cobbling.
‘I can’t teach him anything if he’s not here,’ said Salman. ‘I can’t even rely on him to look after the shop.’
Davood, bored, hung around the little town. He needed some money of his own. His mother never gave him enough. He got friendly with the porter at the Tourist Delight Hotel.
He liked the backpacks and the suitcases of the guests—passports to another world. He liked the women’s bare arms and the curve of their breasts at the neckline of their dresses as they bent forward.
He started unsalaried work at the hotel, running messages for guests.
He noted when guests came back at the end of the day, and knocked at their doors. ‘Any mineral water, beer, snack? Any washing for dhobi wallah?’ He ran to the hardware shop for water, further along to the grog shop for beer—in those days, as a Muslim, he didn’t drink. He went to the street stall for snacks, and waited contentedly while the bhajas and alloo bondas sizzled in the deep smoky oil, breathing in the comfort of the frying spices and feeling part of the man’s world of work. He handed an assortment of coins back in change that assured good tips. Davood negotiated a percentage on his custom from the shops and the dhobi wallah. Through his contact with tourists, his English improved.
At first he was content with the evening trade, but when guests asked, ‘Can you bring breakfast to the room?’ he started arriving at work at seven am and slept in a corner of the hotel lobby in the afternoon. He borrowed his mother’s alarm clock for these early mornings, then bought his own.
His mother smiled her approval when he handed over some of his earnings to her.
Davood kept his eye on the movement of guests returning from sight seeing. He noticed her arrival.
‘Help with your parcels Madam?’ He entered into a game with her, his eyes teasing, hands together with a slight bow from the waist.
‘OK then, I’m so hot. Take these would you?’ She handed him parcels wrapped in newspaper, the string already loosening and slipping off. She unlocked the door and Davood waited respectfully to be invited in.
‘On the bed here will do.’ She rummaged in her bag for his tip.
‘Any mineral water, beer, snack for Madam?’
‘Cold mineral water, really cold?’
‘Of course Madam. How many bottle?’
Again Davood gave her the laughing look above the little bow with his hands joined. He had never been so bold with other guests, but her red hair with dark roots showing through, the sweat on her upper lip and the stains under her arms, made her approachable.
It’s 10pm. Davood climbs the stairs of the hotel to Jill’s room where they agreed to meet. He knocks on her door but there’s no answer so he uses the key he picked up from reception. It’s his first time in her room by himself. He turns on the ceiling light. Jill always has just the two bedside lights on when they are together. Davood lies on the bed. He sits up. He looks in the drawers of the bedside table. In one are packets of condoms—he already knows about these. He takes one of the condoms, blows into it to form a balloon, and ties a knot. He taps it into the air and watches it fall to the floor like a big moon.
Then he unzips the flap of Jill’s backpack. Her spicy sweet perfume greets him. Inside nestle neat bags, some plastic, some embroidered bags he has seen before, bought while they were out shopping. She paused over the fabric, feeling its quality between her fingers, admiring the embroidery, pretending to see her face in the little mirrors. ‘Which one will I take, Davood?’ Davood tried to second-guess her choice. ‘Davood, do you think 200 rupees is too dear for this one?’ He knew the embroidered bag was overpriced. On the other hand, these articles were for tourists only. In his family luxury items like jewellery were bought to mark an event like marriage, through the intermediary of uncles and aunts who could recommend an honest merchant. This kind of casual shopping was new to Davood. So he humoured Jill or not, depending on whether he was enjoying himself or bored.
Davood takes one of the embroidered bags he and Jill had chosen and looks inside. A few pairs of white socks rolled up, neatly folded knickers and lacy bras, and a wrapped cake of soap. The plastic bags hold neatly ironed jeans and shirts. Davood is familiar with these garments as he has personally delivered them to the dhobi wallah for washing. A bulky cotton draw string bag holds a pair of elastic-sided boots he hasn’t seen before. He takes the boots and a pair of Jill’s socks and sits on the bed. He slips his feet out of his leather chappals, like everything he’s wearing, a present from Jill, and with one sock on, he tries the right boot. The smooth fit gives him a little shock of pleasure. He tries the other boot and stands, flexing his toes and walking to test the size as he would in a shoe shop. The mirror above the shelf only shows the upper half of his body, but he looks taller. The boots have slightly high heels. He looks down at them protruding from his jeans and sticks his foot out to look at the heel.
In the backpack he finds a double-sided brush and a tin of Nugget inside another drawstring bag. The boots are already shiny and clean but he sets to, dulling the boot leather with paste. He likes the sharpness of the shoe polish in his nostrils. Davood notes only slight wear at the back of the heel, and no sign of a thinning sole under his thumb.
He’s still got Jill’s socks on when she comes in. He’s giving the boots a final polish.
He pulls them on. ‘Very good fit, your boots.’
‘So my toy boy wants his little boots? And how is he going to pay for them?’
He moves towards her, puts one arm around her waist and takes her hand and puts it firmly over his crotch. ‘You’re a quick learner,’ Jill says, and leans into him.
‘There’s never enough light in streets.