A Steal of a Deal (11 page)
We head toward a cluster of homes at the right side of the flat valley bottom. I soak in everything I see with curiosity and a hunger that surprises me.
But guess what? Even here, at this rocky top of the world, we have to clear one more military checkpoint. Yes. Another one. In spite of Xheng Xhi, our guide, and the “other party” of travelers that’s had the same itinerary we have. Yeah, right, travelers. More like guys with gun-shaped lumps under their clothes.
“I thought we were done with this when we left Myanmar,” I grumble. “So now we come to Kashmir, and it’s all the same old thing all over again.”
“Now, Andie, dear,” Miss Mona says. “The government’s just being cautious.”
And I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Our herd approaches the wooden booth. I knee my steed closer to Aunt Weeby. I don’t want an international incident. We already did the dead-houseboy gig back in Srinagar. And one of her funny and innocent but off-the-wall comments might do worse than launch a thousand-year war.
As I reach her side, I notice the cross-legged, uniformed Asian man on the rough stone slab that passes for a front step.
I risk alerting the guy.
“Psst!”
Aunt Weeby glances over her shoulder. “You okay, sugarplum?”
“I’m fine,” I whisper. “Just don’t say anything. We do better at these when we let our guides do the talking.”
“You calling me a blabbermouth?”
“Um-huh-hum-hum . . .”
She winks. “I’ve been known to say a thing or two!”
I laugh. Who can resist?
When the guard spots our crew, he leaps up, gawps, takes a couple of steps forward, stops, stares some more, then whirls, runs into the booth, slams the flimsy door, and watches us go by from inside.
I shake my head. “Do we make an entrance or what?”
Aunt Weeby giggles.
Don’t ask me what kind of checkpoint guy the more . . . intense, shall we say, elements of the government would prefer to replace this one with, but I’m okay with him myself.
Xheng Xhi, who replaced potential killer Robert as our guide, leads us to a fairly new brick structure. Without knocking, he opens one of the double wooden doors into what looks like a courtyard from where I’m sitting—yeah, I’m still on my stinky mount.
“Xncsent tspher owxaki shuyz!”
he yells—that’s how I “hear” it.
A petite, older woman dressed in a gorgeous russet
salwar
kameez
, the traditional Indian and Pakistani outfit of tunic and loose trousers, runs out, bows deeply, and smiles a welcome. She shoots back more garbled chatter at Xheng Xhi, punctuating her words with birdlike hands. He then throws open the other courtyard door, they stand aside, and Xheng Xhi waves us through. We all troop in—yep, people and mules and junk, oh my!
In the Himalayan dusk, the shadowed courtyard of the three-story building looks exotic, intriguing, and very much like a barnyard. Smells like one too. Once I get my bearings, I identify the source of the . . . um . . . scent. Stable-like cubbyholes line three sides of the ground floor; the fourth side being the massive doors Xheng Xhi has now barred shut. From one far corner, a fast flutter and a ruffle of clucking tells me the family keeps chickens—in their home!—as well as the snuffly beasties in the stalls. Fast and furious yapping alerts us to the watchdog.
Watchdog—hah! As soon as we slump, slither, or crash down off our mounts, the lean brown pooch rolls over on her back at my feet. Who am I to deprive a lovable canine of a belly scratch?
“Aren’t you the sweetest?” I croon and rub.
She wriggles in ecstasy. Can she ever smell a sucker!
I rub some more. “Have you been working too hard, girl? Don’t you have a little friend to tickle and cuddle you?” Of course, the dog responds with a fresh burst of excited, ecstatic yips. “Tell you what, then. While we’re here, I’m going to have fun spoiling you.”
Max laughs. “She’s got you where she wants you.”
I give him a wry grin. “I’m a sucker for a pooch. But I’m also hungry, and don’t have a clue where we’re bunking down for the night. How about we figure out what we’re supposed to do?”
As harrowing as our trip to the Burmese ruby mines was (imagine a collapsing mine shaft and a chase by armed goons—didn’t bother to check whether they were government types or not), we did stay at a plain, clean hotel while there. This looks like a huge farmhouse, maybe for multiple generations—of fowl, humans, and other mammals too.
Glory sidles up to Max, then flashes him her widest smile. “Is there anything I can do to help you with some of your gear?” Ick! Ptooey! Yuck! All that sweetness and light is enough to give a woman cavities. Max? Well, he’s not a woman and has the typical male sweet tooth. He eats it up with a spoon.
Xheng Xhi hurries to my side. “Nice here, Miss Andie. You no more ride. Okay?”
I give the man a weak smile. “Not for a while, but we still have to go back to Srinagar soon enough. But thank you for your help.”
He beams, then bustles off after the mules.
The dog nuzzles my knee. “C’mon, girl.” To my surprise, or maybe not so much, since she strikes me as a kindred soul, she follows. “Let’s go find some chow. Your ribs didn’t feel too well padded, so I’m sure you can use a scrap or two . . .”
Fifteen minutes later, Glory, Allison, and I walk into a room with three wooden bed platforms, a folded fur at the foot of each, but no mattress or pillows in sight. “Phew! I’m glad we brought our gear.”
Glory runs her fingers through the animal skin on one of the beds. “I bet this is yak.”
I shudder. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stick with my sleeping bag.”
Since we’re about to become roomies, I make sure to “please” and “thank you” Glory to pieces as we make our beds. I dislike the . . . oh, phooey! I might as well admit it— again. I don’t like the jealousy I’m feeling. It’s not her fault she’s pretty and likes Max. I have no claim on the guy.
Then we head downstairs for our evening meal. Far from the lavish feast we enjoyed in Srinagar, this family’s dinner consists of rice, curry-scented veggies, flat bread, and—get this—yak butter! The spread has an earthy undertone, but it’s not so bad.
I eat in silence. I’d rather keep my loose tongue occupied with food than talk, since it gets me in trouble too often when it flaps. As I munch, I take a discreet survey of the room we’re in.
We must be in the original great room of all great rooms.
Living, dining, and cooking all happen here. The area’s main feature is the huge clay oven at the center; a round mouth in the front lets me watch the raging flames. As hot as it must be, the oven’s walls look thick enough to contain all that heat, since I’d felt little warmth when I walked past on my way to the long, low table. Smoke puffs out around the bottom of two pots that simmer on holes along the oven’s top. The sooty clouds rise to escape through a small vent opening in the ceiling. There’s no chimney in the place.
Don’t think of smoke inhalation, carbon monoxide poisoning,
or five-alarm fires, Andie. Don’t. Just don’t.
But I can’t help myself. I don’t want to wind up as a shish kebab. Which reminds me of the two little goats that greet everyone with a nudge of their knobby heads.
“Can you believe they live with their
animals
? Inside the house,” Glory whispers as we take another flatbread.
“Looks that way,” I say. “But it’s probably not that much different than living with cats, dogs, or pot-bellied pigs.”
She scoots away from me on the bench to give me a “you-gotta-be-kidding” look. “I’ve
never
known anyone who lives with a pig.”
There’s a million mouthy ways I could answer, but I remember my many prayers for control. “Me neither, but I hear they’re popular.”
During the meal, I tear chunks of the yummy flatbread slathered with yak butter, and slip it to my furry friend. She returns the favor by plunking her warm butt on my frozen toes—have I mentioned the Himalayas have the iciest summer
ever
?
“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” I ask, once I’m done with my last cup of fragrant green tea.
Trevor Musgrove, who must think we’re the weirdest bunch on earth, clears his throat. “They’re expecting us at the orphanage tomorrow morning. There are a number of projects waiting for us.”
Miss Mona stands. “I suggest everyone get a good night’s sleep so we’re all good and ready to pitch in.”
A quick glance around the table shows no resistance to her suggestion. Then I hear Aunt Weeby. Since I can’t make out what she’s saying, I stand to look for her. I find her at the far left of the room, where she’s cornered our host beneath a high shelf that holds three cooking pots.
“. . . Is that your best price?” she asks the wizened gentleman with a complexion reminiscent of a prune.
To my amazement, he shrugs. “Best price.”
Who’d a thunk we’d find someone out here who speaks English? Then again, there have been a bunch of crews who’ve come out this way to survey the sapphire mines’ potential over the years. It’s not too far-fetched that someone who once dealt with the assayers would have picked up a working knowledge of the language.
“Whoa!” What am I thinking! Who cares if the man speaks English or Martian? They’re talking price over there. I hurry across the room. “What are you buying, Aunt Weeby? Your mule can’t carry a whole lot out of here—not if you want to come home too.”
She gives me that smile that sends terror down my spine.
Uh-oh. Here we go again. See the ship about to take a dive?
Help us, Father!
“Aw, sugarplum, you don’t have nothing to worry yourself about. Mr. Xi La here will take care a’ sending ’em to me.” “Them” implies multiples. I slip an arm around her waist. I love the dear woman, even though her trouble quotient is astronomical. “What ‘them’ is he sending? And where is he sending ‘them’?”
“Why, Andie!” Exaggerated surprise widens her eyes. “Louisville, remember? You moved back. That’s where.”
I cross my arms and tap my toe, more worried by the second. “And the what?”
“Why, I’m doing my part to help my dearest friend.”
My boss—her dearest friend—makes a choked sound, and charges up, abject fear on her face. “What are you up to?”
See? I’m not the only one. “That’s right, Aunt Weeby. What
are
you up to?”
“All y’all were on that donkey ride too, sugarplum. Let me tell you, I don’t
ever
plan to do that again! Been praying up a storm the good Lord doesn’t have another a’ them treks in my future once I’m off this mountain.” She shudders for emphasis.
She’s hedging; never a good sign. “Can we get back to the point, please? What’s Mr. Xi La sending you?” Let me tell ya, I’m scared. I know the woman. Really well. “And no more beating around that beaten-up infamous old bush.”
Miss Mona drags in a toe-deep breath.
“Hmph!” Aunt Weeby offers. “We talked about it on that nasty ride, dear.” She turns to Miss Mona. “It’s the only Christian thing to do. We have to bring business to the Kashmiri, and this is the best way.”
The vibes I’m getting here are worse than bad.
Miss Mona frowns. “What way?”
“The yaks, dear.”
My boss shrieks, “The
whats
?!”
I thought she’d forgotten. I really did. But Aunt Weeby’s got a mind like a trap, I tell ya.
She smiles. “A’ course, Mona, dear. We’re going into the yak business.”
I gape at my favorite relative. “Please! Please, please, please tell me you’re not trying to buy yaks. You can’t still be on that selling-yaks-on-TV kick.”
She tsk-tsks. “What’s wrong with you people? A’ course, I want to sell yaks. We’ll make a nice business with it, since we have that there TV channel of Mona’s all set up already.”
Miss Mona starts waving a hand in front of her face, her tomato-colored face. “Wha—how . . .
why
?”
I pat my boss’s arm to offer her the comfort I’m not feeling right now. “Don’t give it another thought, Miss Mona. She can’t sell yaks on TV. No one sells livestock on the airwaves.”
Aunt Weeby crosses her arms and gives us her smuggest smile. “That just goes to show, sugarplum, you don’t know everything, after all.”
I ignore Max’s snort of laughter. And Glory’s giggle too.
I really thought Aunt Weeby’d forgotten her yak woollies after the mule ride. Boy, was I wrong! “You
can’t
sell livestock on TV.”
Her chin tips up higher. “Says who?”
Hmm . . . is there such a law? I know you can’t sell live stuff on eBay. Does the FTC or the FCC or whichever government alphabet soup governs the airwaves have any say in this kind of madness?
I try reason—without much hope. But I have to try. “Aunt Weeby, a yak is hardly like those commercials where you call the 800 number and they’ll build you a stuffed bear for Valentine’s Day. Yaks are big, hairy, and stinky.”
Max sidles up to me. “At least, for once you’re not talking about me.”
“Oh, please. I’ve never called you stinky.” I turn back to my aunt, try to reason with her. “Please tell the nice man you can’t buy his yaks. Or sell them for him—whatever. There’s no such thing as selling big beasts on TV.”
My contrary relative gives an exceptional sniff. “That, Andrea Autumn Adams, is where you’re plumb wrong. All that time I was stuck in the hospital after my leg problems, with nothing to do but watch that big ol’ TV, I got to know me all the channels ever—there’s one for just about anything. And, let me tell you, there
is
such a thing as selling livestock on TV. Why, honey! They sell cows and bulls all day long, sometimes.”
“Huh?” And here I always thought Miss Mona the queen of the “Huh?” factor, while Aunt Weeby’s the one who’s held the title all along. Learn something new every day.
I blow a strand of hair off my forehead. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Weeby. It must’ve really been rough, the surgery and all that. Those pain meds must’ve done a number on you. I’m sure the movie you watched—”
“That weren’t no movie, Andie. Not mooing and pooing all over some corral, what with the auctioneers, and the cowboys, and the straw hats, and all.”
Cows and bulls and straw hats. Hallucinations, don’t you think? But there’s no way I can say that without making a scene, so I scramble through my mush-for-brain to try and come up with something to derail Aunt Weeby’s latest lunacy. But before I come up with anything, her partner in crime opens up.