Nothing, I said. It is on the house.
Take something. Please, those monsters paid me a lot of money tonight. Here, take it and call it a night. . take it and turn off your light and go home and sleep. Here, Larry said, and pushed two large bills into my hand.
Thank you. . and good night, I said.
Good night, Limo said, and she left.
STEEL
THE NIGHT AFTER my adventure with the no-name once-famous writer, I went to the Bolero. I arrived, secured a table, lifted a tray, and went up to the counter to order food. The Greek owner was in the kitchen. I could see his stained white apron and I imagined he was sweating under the blue and white scarf he always wears tightly around his neck. Light blue and white, like the rest of this place. It is said that, after consultation with the oracles, the owner planted a ceremonial Greek flag and some postcards next to the cash register so that Hellenic supremacy could reign over the Latin name, Bolero, which he had retained for pragmatic reasons.
The owner’s wife always looks tired, bitter, and dissatisfied, her glasses about to sink down her ancient Hittite nose. It is the daughter, that little goddess who appears and disappears from behind the brume of food offerings, who saves us all from starvation. Her long, curly hair constantly hovers over the stainless-steel warming trays. Not once since she began her work here, has she ever dipped her hair into the food. Her hair is measured and trimmed with admirable precision, but I am sure no driver would mind that salty addition of flavour, that extra Homeric tang, that divine transgression. Besides, I’ve heard that a mixture of yogurt and olive oil brings a shine to one’s hair.
Soon enough, two spiders came to join me at the table. They set their trays across from mine and we formed a trinity. I wanted to make an observation about the number three and its fundamental role in Hellenic culture, but Number 76, whom I wavered between calling the Spider of Interruption or the Spider of Destruction (I settled on the Samson Spider in the end), was agitated and had already started telling us about his encounter with two rich boys.
The other day, he said, I picked up these two brats. Right away, they started acting funny in the back seat. When they asked me how the night was going, I told them I’d just started and they were my first customers. I’d done about ten hours of work by then, but the moment you tell them that, those bandits start to imagine the piles of money you’re carrying. But one of the kids said to me, I bet you have it under the seat. I said, Have what?
You know, the money.
And what is it to you?
It is everything, motherfucker, the kid said.
I looked in the mirror and didn’t see a weapon. Two little fuckers dressed in expensive clothing, trying to scare me, I thought.
You motherfuckers better hold on tight, I said, because you’ve got the craziest driver in town. You think I give a fuck about this, you little assholes?
And I stepped on it. I was doing one-eighty or two hundred on the highway, the car was shaking! To freak them out I started to sing opera and conduct an imaginary orchestra. I am Samson! I shouted. Let this temple fall on me and my enemies, o Lord, for my hair has grown back! I have no fear and my people have risen. . or some shit like that. Then I started to invent songs about the Lord and the second coming and I said to them, Get on your knees, because soon the temple will be restored and we shall all be saved. . Hallelujah!
One of them pissed in his pants, and the other started to beg. The kid confessed they were only playing and trying to scare me. They were not planning to rob me, they were from a rich family and they’d give me money if I would just stop the car. . The next thing I knew, there was a policeman chasing me with his lights and sirens. I pulled over and they slapped me with a big fine and a warning.
And now, said the Samson Spider, those two punks turn out to be the sons of a wealthy businessman who finances the mayor’s campaign. The man is suing me for reckless driving and endangering his kids. Their lawyer wants a psychological assessment. He asked the taxi commission to revoke my licence. How much can a man take? I want to defend myself but I don’t have the money for a lawyer. I’m willing to stand in front of the judge and tell him what happened, but my wife is worried and fed up. I never see my kids. I’m always working. . She says if I lose my licence she will leave me, take the kids and go back to her parents. .
Then I, Fly, who is not a Spider but a wanderer, stopped my food consumption, looked up at the spider, and said, What company does the man work for and what is the man’s name?
His name is Mr. Sarnath Patel. He is the CEO of Dovlin Steel. A man who pillages the world and pollutes six villages and won’t give a damn about a taxi driver like me. I am ruined!
I stood up and returned my tray. The owner was outside the kitchen now. He was pouring coffee into a paper cup decorated with stripes of Greek temple columns, matching the colour of the walls and his own white apron and blue hat.
The next day, early in the morning, I went home, took a shower and shaved, and then I immediately drove to the Dovlin building. At the reception desk, I asked for Mr. Patel, the CEO. They told me to wait and then a man in a uniform came down and called me to the security desk.
What is the nature of your business? he asked.
I am a taxi driver and I am here on behalf of another taxi driver. It is the matter concerning Mr. Patel’s sons.
The uniformed man asked me to stay put. Then he stood up and left.
Half an hour later, a woman, accompanied by a bodyguard, came down and took me up to the twenty-fourth floor. At the elevator doors, I was met by two other security guards or maybe bodyguards, who showed me to a table and searched my bag. There was a book I’d picked out from my library at home, Invisible Man. For the longest time, when I was arranging my books, I had assumed the book to be a manual on magic and the art of disappearing. But the story, of a man who lives in a hole full of light, turned out to be more magical than any manual. The guard looked at the book and mumbled, Here everything and everyone is visible, and he shoved the book inside the bag with such disrespect that I had to stop myself from throwing bolts of lightning to bring the building crumbling down.
Next, I was offered coffee or water. I chose coffee but it didn’t appear. I waited for another hour. At intervals, the woman came out with faint apologies and requests for my patience. Mr. Patel is a very busy man, she didn’t cease to remind me.
Finally, Mr. Patel arrived with the woman, his secretary, trailing behind him. I immediately assessed his weight by the heaviness of his steps on the carpeted floor and I knew that the coffee would never come.
He humbly shook my hand and said: I apologize for the wait, but I have only a few minutes to spare before I leave for the airport. I was informed that you are a taxi driver, and a friend of the driver who took my two sons on a dangerous ride.
Mr. Patel, I said, I shall be brief. My friend did what he did because he was scared. We taxi drivers are under threat all the time. In our profession, we are vulnerable. I am here to ask you to reconsider and to drop the lawsuit. The truth is, your kids misbehaved, and my friend did what he did to protect himself, out of fear for his life. .
The man interrupted me. Your friend broke the law, he said calmly.
And who doesn’t break the laws? Does your grand enterprise always obey the laws when it ravages these lands from above and below? When it pollutes villages and rivers with poisonous liquids? And how many deformed faces and crippled kids should sue you back? I hissed in his face.
Without a word he was gone. His secretary ran after him in a panic. Seconds later, the two security men were beside me. They asked me to face the wall.