Desolation Road dru-1 Page 4

  In the Mandella household the Babooshka found a contemporary in Grandfather Haran, who entertained her with peapod wine and honeytongued flatteries and asked his son to build an extra room onto the already rambling Mandella home especially for the Babooshka. Every night they would sip wine, reminisce on the days when both they and the world were young, and play the word games the Babooshka loved so much. On one such night, in early autumn, as Grandfather Haran was putting the word “bauxite” down on a double-word triple-letter, the Babooshka noticed for the first time his distinguished grey hair and fine upright body, chipped by time like a china god, but strong and uneroded. She let her eyes rest upon the ironstiff beard and the lovely little shiny button-eyes, and she let out a quiet sigh and fell in love with him.

  “Haran Mandella, as we say in Old New Cosmobad, you are much much gentleman,” she said.

  “Anastasia Tyurischeva Margolis, as we say in Desolation Road, you are much much lady,” said Grandfather Haran.

  The wedding was set for the following spring.

  Mikal Margolis dreamed in his cave of the mineral springs of Paradise Valley. He would never find his fortune lying around in the rocks of Desola tion Road, but he did find crystals of sulphate of dilemma. With time it refined into a pure form: to find his fortune he must leave Desolation Road and his mother; to leave her would mean leaving on his own and he did not have the courage for that. Such was the essence of Mikal Margolis’s purified dilemma. The resolution of it into useful compounds, and his quest for personal anti-maternal courage was to lead him through adultery, murder and exile to the destruction of Desolation Road. But not yet.

  6

  One afternoon, shortly after the official end of the siesta, while people were still unofficially blinking, stretching and yawning out of sweaty sleep, a noise was heard in Desolation Road like none that had ever been heard before.

  “Sounds like a big bee,” said the Babooshka.

  “Or a swarm of bees,” said Grandfather Haran.

  “Or a big swarm of big bees,” said Rajandra Das.

  “Killer bees?” asked Eva Mandella.

  “No such things,” said Rael Mandella.

  The twins made gurgling sounds. They were toddling now, at the age of perpetually falling forwards. No door in town could be closed to them, they were intrepid, fearless adventurers. Killer bees would not have fazed them.

  “More like an aircraft engine,” said Mikal Margolis.

  “Single engine?” ventured Dr. Alimantando. “Single engine, one seater crop-sprayer?” Such things had been a familiar sight in Deuteronomy.

  “More like twin engine,” said Mr. Jericho, straining his tuned hearing.

  “Twin-engined, two seats, but not a crop-sprayer, a stunter, Yamaguchi and Jones, with two Maybach/Wurtel engines in pull-push configuration, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Whatever its source, the noise grew louder and louder. Then Mr. Jericho spied a fleck of black on the face of the sun.

  “There it is, look!”

  With a howl like a big swarm of killer bees, the airplane dived out of the sun and thundered, over Desolation Road. Everybody ducked save Limaal and Taasmin, who followed it with their heads and fell over, unbalanced.

  “What was that?”

  “Look… he’s turning, he’s coming back.”

  At the apex of its turn everyone caught full sight of the airplane that had buzzed them. It was a sleek, shark-shaped thing with two propellors nose and tail, angled wings, and a down raked tail. Nobody failed to notice the bright tiger stripes painted on its fuselage and the snarling, toothy grin on its nose. The airplane swooped over Desolation Road once more, barely skimming the top of the relay tower. Heads ducked again. The airplane hung at the point of its bank and afternoon sunlight blazed off polished metal. The people of Desolation Road waved. The airplane bore down upon the town again. “Look, the pilot’s waving back!”

  The people waved all the more.

  A third time the airplane swept over the adobe homes of Desolation Road. A third time it pulled into a tight bank.

  “I do believe he’s coming down!” shouted Mr. Jericho. “He’s coming down!” Landing gear was unfolding from the wingtips, the nose and the downswept tail. The airplane made a final pass, almost at head height, and dropped toward the empty place on the far side of the railroad tracks.

  “He’ll never do it!” said Dr. Alimantando, but nevertheless he ran with the rest of his people toward the great cloud of dust pluming up beyond the line. They met the airplane coming nose on toward them. The people scattered, the airplane swerved, snapped a wingwheel on a rock, and crashed onto its side, ploughing a huge slewing furrow in the dust. The good citizens of Desolation Road hastened to the aid of pilot and passenger, but the pilot was free and, sliding back the canopy, stood up and screamed, “You dumb bastards! You dumb, stupid bastards! What you want to go and do that for? Eh? She’s ruined, ruined, never fly again, all because you dumb bastards are too dumb to know to keep out of the way of airplanes! Look what you’ve done, just look!”

  And the pilot burst into tears.

  Her name was Persis Tatterdemalion.

  She was born with wings, there was aviation-grade liquid hydrogen in her veins and wind in her wires. On her father’s side were three generations of Rockette Morgan’s Flying Circus, on her mother’s a genealogy of cropsprayers, commercial pilots, charter flyers and daredevils back to great-greatgrandmother Indhira, who reputedly piloted Praesidium SailShips while the world was being invented. Persis Tatterdemalion was born to fly. She was a great soaring, roaring bird. To her the loss of her airplane was no less a matter than the loss of a limb, or a loved one, or a life.

  All her time, money, energy and love had, since the age of ten, been poured into the Astounding Tatterdemalion Air Bazaar, a one-woman, onering flying circus, a chautauqua of the skies that not only thrilled gaping audiences with death-defying aerobatics and stunting, but also educated them by providing those who paid her modest fee with aerial views of their farms, close-ups of the weather and sight-seeing jaunts to places of local interest. Thus employed, she had moved eastward across the top half of the world until she reached the plains town of Wollamurra Station. “See the Great Desert,” she sang to the sheepfarmers of Woilamurra Station, “marvel at the dizzying depths of the mighty canyons, wonder at the forces of Nature that have sculpted stupendous natural arches and towering stone pillars. The whole history of the earth laid out in stone beneath you: I guarantee for one dollar fifty centavos, this is a trip you will never forget.”

  For Junius Lambe, dazedly furious in the tail seat, the sales pitch was quite true. Twenty minutes out from Wollamurra Station, with not a canyon, stupendous arch or towering pillar within a hundred kilometers, Persis Tatterdemalion noticed that her fuel gauge had not moved. She tapped it. The red display indicators flickered and plummeted to the empty mark. She tapped it again. The indicators sat where they were.

  “Oh, shit,” she said. She plugged in a taped commentary on the wonders of the Great Desert to keep Junius Lambe quiet and checked her charts for a close-by settlement where she could make a forced landing. She could not return to Wollamurra Station, that was obvious, but the ROTECH maps gave no comfort. She checked the radio location equipment. It indicated a leak of microwave radiation not twenty kilometres distant, of the type associated with the relays in the planetary communications net.

  “Check it out, I suppose,” she said to herself, and committed herself, her airplane and her passenger to her decision.

  She found a tiny settlement where no settlement should have been. There were neat squares of green, and light flashed from solar collectors and irrigation channels. She could make out the red tile roofs of houses. And there were people.

  “Hold tight,” she said to Junius Lambe, for whom this was his first inkling that anything might be wrong. “We’re going in.”

  With her last teardrop of fuel she had brought her beloved bird down, and then what had happened? So dee
p was her disgust that she refused to leave Desolation Road with Junius Lambe on the 14:14 Llangonedd-Rejoice Ares Express.

  “I flew in, I’ll fly out,” she declared. “The only way I’m going out of here is on a pair of wings.”

  Rajandra Das tried to charm the wheel back onto the wingtip, but it was beyond his power or even the power of Rael Mandella’s welding torch to make the airplane airworthy again. What was most galling of all to the sole survivor of the Astounding Tatterdemalion Air Bazaar was that Rael Mandella’s welding torch ran on nothing less than hundred percent, pure, unadulterated aviation-grade liquid hydrogen.

  So Dr. Alimantando found Persis Tatterdemalion a home and a garden so that she would not starve, but she could not be happy because the sky was in her eyes. She saw the lean desert birds gather on the aerials of the relay tower and grew bitter because her wings had been broken by foolish people. She stood on the edge of the bluffs and watched the birds ride the thermals up the evening and wondered how wide she would have to spread her arms to rise like them and be drawn up the spiral of air until she vanished from view.

  One night Mikal Margolis made her two propositions and because she knew that only by losing herself in them could she forget the sky, she accepted them both. That night, and for twenty successive nights, the peace of the citizens was disturbed by strange noises from the Margolis dwelling. Some of them were the howls and mauls of intercourse. The others sounded like interior decoration.

  When the sign appeared, everything became obvious.

  It read:

  BETHLEHEM ARES RAILROAD/HOTEL

  EATS * DRINKS * SLEEPS

  PROPRIETORS: M. MARGOLIS, P. TATTERDEMALION

  “Is no son of mine,” declared the outraged Babooshka. “Ignoring his dear mother to take up with some cheap, foreign woman, and filling the peaceful nights with sounds the like of which I will not describe; such shame he is bringing! And now, this den of sin and sodomy! B.A.R./Hotel, hah! As if his dear mother does not know what it meant! Thinking his dear mother cannot spell, eh? Haran,” she said to her husband-to-be, “not one foot will I ever set in that place. From now on, he is no son of mine. I disown him.” She spat demurely on the ground before the Bethlehem Ares Railroad/Hotel. That night Persis Tatterdemalion and Mikal Margolis threw a grand opening party, with as much maize beer as anyone could drink, which was not very much, as there were only five guests. Even Dr. Alimantando was persuaded to leave his studies for an evening to celebrate. Grandfather Haran and the Babooshka remained to mind little Limaal and Taasmin. Grandfather Haran would have loved to have gone and earned himself reproaching glances every time the Babooshka caught him glancing wistfully out toward the light and the noise. Her total ban on crossing the B.A.R.’s threshold necessarily extended to her husband.

  The day after the party Persis Tatterdemalion took Rajandra Das, Mr. Jericho and Rael Mandella over the railroad lines and the three men dismantled the sand-scarred stunt plane and packed it into fifteen tea chests. Persis Tatterdemalion said nothing during the dismantling operation. She locked the pieces of her airplane in the deepest darkest cave in the B.A.R./Hotel and put the key in a jar. She could never quite bring herself to forget where that jar was.

  One morning at two minutes of two she rolled on top of Mikal Margolis and whispered into his ear, “Do you know what we need, darling? What we really need to make everything perfect?” Mikal Margolis held his breath, expecting wedding rings, children, little perversions with leather and rubber. “A snooker table.”

  7

  There were three Gallacelli brothers: Ed, Louie and Umberto. No one knew which was Ed, which was Louie, and which was Umberto, because they were triplets and as mutually indistinguishable as peas in a pod or days in a prison. They grew up in the farming community of Burma Shave, where the citizens held three common opinions about them. The first ws that they had been found abandoned in a cardboard box on the edge of Giovann’ Gallacelli’s maize field. The second was that they were something more than triplets, though what that something might be no one was prepared to say for fear of offending the saintly Mrs. Gallacelli. The third was that the Gallacelli boys had swapped identity. at least once since infancy so that Louie had grown up to be either Ed or Umberto, Umberto Louie or Ed, and Ed Umberto or Louie, and all possible successive permutations of further swaps. Not even the boys themselves were certain which was Ed, which was Louie, which was Umberto, but it was certain among the folk of Burma Shave that they had never seen such identical triplets ("clones,” oh, dear, that’s it said, it just popped out, you know, that word you’re not meant to mention in front of their parents): or such devilishly handsome ones.

  Agneta Gallacelli was a squat toad of a woman with a heart of warm milk chocolate. Giovann’ Gallacelli was tall, thin and spare as a rake. Ed, Louie and Umberto were dark-eyed, curly-haired laughing love gods. And knew it. And so did every girl in Burma Shave. Which was how the Gallacelli brothers came to depart from Burma Shave in the small hours of a Tuesday morning on a motorized railcar they had adapted themselves from a farm delivery truck.

  There was this girl. She was called Magdala, Mags for short. There is always a girl like her, the kind who flirts and plays and messes around and leaves no doubt that she is one of the boys until the boys are boys, when they, and she, realize that she isn’t one of the boys at all, not at all. For Mags her moment of realization came two weeks after her trip round the more out-ofthe-way fields in the back of the Gallacellis’ delivery truck. For Ed, Louie and Umberto it came when the truck was peppered with bird shot as they drew up outside the Mayaguez homestead to inquire why Mags hadn’t been to see them for so long.

  Fraternal solidarity was the polestar of the Gallacelli brothers’ lives. It did not waver when confronted by a resigned father and a furious neighbour. They refused to say which of them had impregnated Magdala Mayaguez. It was entirely possible they did not know themselves.

  “Either one of youse says, or ye all marry,” said Sonny Mayaguez. His wife gave weight to his demand with a shotgun.

  “Well, what’ll it be? Talk, or marry.”

  The Gallacelli brothers chose neither.

  Anywhere else in the world no one would have lost one wink of sleep over a silly little girl like Mags Mayaguez. In nearby Belladonna there were counted on Tombolova Street alone eighty-five abortion parlours and twelve transplant-fostering bureaus for silly little girls in just her situation. Belladonna, however, was Belladonna, and Burma Shave was Burma Shave, which was why the Gallacelli brothers chose Belladonna over Burma Shave. There they earned ten-dollar diplomas in farm science, law and mechanical engineering from a hole-in-the-wall universuum. They would have lived there contentedly for the rest of their lives but for a sad misunderstanding with a knife, a drunk shuttle loader and a girl in a bar on Primavera Street. So they ran away again, for there was still some law in Belladonna where the next best thing to a totally honest police force is a totally corrupt one.

  They were drawn down the network of shining steel rails that covered the world like a spider’s web: the farmer, the lawyer, the mechanic. Ed was the mechanic, Louie the lawyer, Umberto the farmer. With such qualifications they could have made it anywhere in the world because the world was still young enough for there to be more than enough work for every hand. But the place they actually made it to was Desolation Road.

  They bounced off their railcar grimly sweaty but still devilishly handsome and swung into he Bethlehem Ares Railroad/Hotel. They banged on the service bell one after the other. Heads turned to look at them. The Gallacelli brothers smiled and waved.

  “Ed, Louie and Umberto,” one of them introduced themselves.

  “Looking for a place for the night,” explained another.

  “Clean beds, hot baths and hot dinners,” said the third.

  Persis Tatterdemalion emerged from the beer cellar, where she had been fitting a fresh barrel.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Ed, Louie and…” said Ed.

  �
�Looking for…” said Louie.

  “Clean beds, hot…” said Umberto, and all at once, all at the same instant, they fell dreadfully, desperately passionately in love with her. There is a theory, you see, that states that for everyone there is one person who will fulfill their love perfectly and absolutely. The Gallacelli brothers, being the same person multiplied three times, of course shared that common, unique love, and the absolute fulfillment of that common life was Persis Tatterdemalion.

  The next morning the Gallacelli brothers went to see Dr. Alimantando about becoming permanent residents. He gave Umberto a large patch of land, he gave Ed a shed where he could fix machines, and because he could not give Louie an office or a district court or even a corner of the bar to practice his art, he gave him a piece of land almost as big as Umberto’s and advised him to take up animal husbandry, that being the closest thing Desolation Road could offer to jurisprudence.

  8

  Mikal Margolis had a problem. He was painfully in love with the lady veterinarian across the road in House Twelve. But the object and satisfaction of his lust was Persis Tatterdemalion, his bed-and-business partner. The lady veterinarian in House Twelve, whose name was Marya Quinsana, had a problem too. It was that she was the object of lust of her brother Morton. But she did not love him, even fraternally, nor did she love Mikal Margolis. The only person she loved was herself. But that self-love was cut like a diamond with many shining facets so that beams of that self-love reflected off Marya Quinsana onto those about her and deceived them into thinking that she loved them, and they her.