| General Fiction posted August 20, 2019 | Chapters: |
...79 80 -81- 82... 
|
  |
A shopping expedition
A chapter in the book The French Letter
The Liberty Market
by tfawcus
| Background Seconded by MI6, Charles and Helen arive in Pakistan to accomplish an assignment in the Hindu Kush, to neutralise Abdul Jaleel Zemar, the leader of an international group of ISIS terrorists. |
Closing paragraphs of Chapter 80...
"For you, mem-sahib, only four thousand rupees."
"Two thousand five hundred," she countered, switching to Urdu.
"Three thousand, then. Any less and you'll be stealing the bread from the mouths of my children." He looked crestfallen but immediately cheered up when we agreed.
I did a swift calculation in my head. About eighteen euros. Pretty good deal. I looked at Helen with renewed respect. "Maybe I'll be able to afford that wedding ring now."
"We could send a photo of it to Madeleine. She said it was time you made an honest woman of me."
Hmm. That'll be the day. I still wasn't quite sure.
Chapter 81
Rasheed was as good as his word. We arrived at the Parkway Hotel mid-morning. Despite its austere, prison-like façade, the staff were friendly and accommodating. The two young lads behind the counter vied with each other in praise of its virtues, radiating enthusiasm and goodwill.
"Yes, sir. No problem. We have just the room for you. Very quiet. Good view. Don't you worry. We take care of your luggage while you enjoy the sights. Rasheed is very best driver. Trust him to show you our beautiful city."
I was overwhelmed by what seemed like a genuine desire to please. Already, I began to like Lahore and wished we could stay longer. It occurred to me, however, that Rasheed was probably getting a handsome kickback for bringing tourists to the Parkway, but, as station hotels go, it wasn't bad. We had no complaints.
Not long afterwards, refreshed and in clean clothes, we were on our way to the Liberty Market. Helen had changed into a loose-fitting trouser suit and was wearing a chiffon headscarf.
"Goodness! You look like Mata Hari in that get-up. A woman of mystery."
She drew the scarf up to cover the lower part of her face and fluttered her eyelashes. "I'll show you Mata Hari. You wait till you see the salwar kameez I'm going to buy."
Rasheed spent the journey extolling the shoppers' paradise as he wove his way skilfully through the gridlock of cars and auto rickshaws, leaning on his horn, mounting the pavement, and waving back cheerfully at those who shouted and swore, shaking their fists. Helen and I clutched each other and prayed as the taxi darted from lane to lane like a knight traversing a chessboard.
"Don't you worry, sahib. Nearly there now. Rasheed is very good driver. Quite safe." No sooner had he finished speaking than he wrenched the steering wheel around, narrowly avoiding an elderly woman with a live hen under her arm. There was much squawking and flapping of wings as it tried to break free, and we were thrown about in our seats in a manner reminiscent of our recent landing.
A few minutes later, we drew up outside the market. I paid Rasheed, thanked him profusely, and told him that we'd make our own way for the rest of the day. For a moment, he looked downcast, then grinning sheepishly, he handed me his card.
"Give me a call, sahib, when you change your mind. There are many scoundrels who will be trying to take advantage of you, but you can trust Rasheed to come to your rescue." I felt a bit of a heel abandoning him, but life is precious.
"I hope you didn't give him a tip," Helen said, as we joined the bustling throng.
"No," I lied, as I started to stuff my wallet into my back pocket.
"Not there, darling. Put it somewhere where you can keep a hand on it."
Just then, I felt a tug at my trouser leg. "Baksheesh, baba! Baksheesh!" A gaunt amputee sitting on a makeshift trolley looked up at me with pleading eyes.
I slipped a couple of notes from the wallet before putting it into the side pocket of my trousers. Seconds later, I was mobbed by several urchins, who pushed and jostled to get my attention. A babel of voices ensued. "Baksheesh, mister! Baksheesh! Baksheesh!"
Helen dragged me away into the main concourse. "These tourist places are full of professional beggars. Just be careful. If you want to give your money away, give it to an N.G.O. - or, better still, give it to me."
Having been suitably chided, I turned my attention to the market. My nose was assailed by the aroma of street food. Exotic spices filled the air as small balls of dough sizzled on charcoal burners.
"What are they?" I asked. "They look good."
"They're called gol gappas. Stuffed with potato and vegetables and tamarind chutney. Sometimes with chickpeas. Look, why don't you grab the table over there and order a couple, while I slip into that dress shop and try a few things on?"
I looked across the potholed laneway at an expensive shopfront displaying mannikins draped in embroidered silks. Gol gappas certainly seemed like a better alternative. Settling with my back to a wall, I surveyed the seething mass of shoppers, glad to have found a backwater. Several sparrows were busy clearing up the crumbs left by previous patrons. One, cheekier than the rest, landed on my sleeve and cocked his head. Even amongst the birds, there are beggars.
I finished my greasy gol gappas and washed them down with a refreshing mug of ginger tea. There was still no sign of Helen, so I crossed the street and poked my head into the shop. She was surrounded by garments in various styles and colours.
Hearing the bell as I opened the door, she said, "I shan't be long. Why don't you browse around and come back in a quarter of an hour?"
There was a jeweller nearby, and I thought I'd have time to buy a cheap wedding ring, a relatively quick procedure without female assistance. An obsequious Chinese man swept me into the shop and placed a tray of his finest rings on the counter for me to view. He lifted out the finest specimen.
"Haven't you anything cheaper?"
The avaricious look faded from his face as he brought out a fresh tray. I picked out the thinnest band I could see. "How much is this one?" He mentioned a figure that set me reeling. "You must be joking. I was thinking of something half that price."
He disappeared under the counter again and came up with a third tray. By now, he was sullen. "These ones are gold-plate. Poor quality. Not suitable for a gentleman."
I picked one at random. "This will do. How much?"
He looked offended when I offered him a lower amount. "Very sorry. Fixed price only." I wavered. "Perhaps, if you buy two, I give you a discount."
I walked out of the store with two over-priced rings and a hole in my pocket, but with the satisfaction of having beaten him down by a few hundred rupees. Helen would have been so proud of me.
When I returned to the clothing store, she was nowhere to be seen. The shopkeeper gave me a look of resigned patience. "She's in the fitting room, sahib. Trying on a salwar kameez." I sighed, then settled down to wait.
"For you, mem-sahib, only four thousand rupees."
"Two thousand five hundred," she countered, switching to Urdu.
"Three thousand, then. Any less and you'll be stealing the bread from the mouths of my children." He looked crestfallen but immediately cheered up when we agreed.
I did a swift calculation in my head. About eighteen euros. Pretty good deal. I looked at Helen with renewed respect. "Maybe I'll be able to afford that wedding ring now."
"We could send a photo of it to Madeleine. She said it was time you made an honest woman of me."
Hmm. That'll be the day. I still wasn't quite sure.
Chapter 81
Rasheed was as good as his word. We arrived at the Parkway Hotel mid-morning. Despite its austere, prison-like façade, the staff were friendly and accommodating. The two young lads behind the counter vied with each other in praise of its virtues, radiating enthusiasm and goodwill.
"Yes, sir. No problem. We have just the room for you. Very quiet. Good view. Don't you worry. We take care of your luggage while you enjoy the sights. Rasheed is very best driver. Trust him to show you our beautiful city."
I was overwhelmed by what seemed like a genuine desire to please. Already, I began to like Lahore and wished we could stay longer. It occurred to me, however, that Rasheed was probably getting a handsome kickback for bringing tourists to the Parkway, but, as station hotels go, it wasn't bad. We had no complaints.
Not long afterwards, refreshed and in clean clothes, we were on our way to the Liberty Market. Helen had changed into a loose-fitting trouser suit and was wearing a chiffon headscarf.
"Goodness! You look like Mata Hari in that get-up. A woman of mystery."
She drew the scarf up to cover the lower part of her face and fluttered her eyelashes. "I'll show you Mata Hari. You wait till you see the salwar kameez I'm going to buy."
Rasheed spent the journey extolling the shoppers' paradise as he wove his way skilfully through the gridlock of cars and auto rickshaws, leaning on his horn, mounting the pavement, and waving back cheerfully at those who shouted and swore, shaking their fists. Helen and I clutched each other and prayed as the taxi darted from lane to lane like a knight traversing a chessboard.
"Don't you worry, sahib. Nearly there now. Rasheed is very good driver. Quite safe." No sooner had he finished speaking than he wrenched the steering wheel around, narrowly avoiding an elderly woman with a live hen under her arm. There was much squawking and flapping of wings as it tried to break free, and we were thrown about in our seats in a manner reminiscent of our recent landing.
A few minutes later, we drew up outside the market. I paid Rasheed, thanked him profusely, and told him that we'd make our own way for the rest of the day. For a moment, he looked downcast, then grinning sheepishly, he handed me his card.
"Give me a call, sahib, when you change your mind. There are many scoundrels who will be trying to take advantage of you, but you can trust Rasheed to come to your rescue." I felt a bit of a heel abandoning him, but life is precious.
"I hope you didn't give him a tip," Helen said, as we joined the bustling throng.
"No," I lied, as I started to stuff my wallet into my back pocket.
"Not there, darling. Put it somewhere where you can keep a hand on it."
Just then, I felt a tug at my trouser leg. "Baksheesh, baba! Baksheesh!" A gaunt amputee sitting on a makeshift trolley looked up at me with pleading eyes.
I slipped a couple of notes from the wallet before putting it into the side pocket of my trousers. Seconds later, I was mobbed by several urchins, who pushed and jostled to get my attention. A babel of voices ensued. "Baksheesh, mister! Baksheesh! Baksheesh!"
Helen dragged me away into the main concourse. "These tourist places are full of professional beggars. Just be careful. If you want to give your money away, give it to an N.G.O. - or, better still, give it to me."
Having been suitably chided, I turned my attention to the market. My nose was assailed by the aroma of street food. Exotic spices filled the air as small balls of dough sizzled on charcoal burners.
"What are they?" I asked. "They look good."
"They're called gol gappas. Stuffed with potato and vegetables and tamarind chutney. Sometimes with chickpeas. Look, why don't you grab the table over there and order a couple, while I slip into that dress shop and try a few things on?"
I looked across the potholed laneway at an expensive shopfront displaying mannikins draped in embroidered silks. Gol gappas certainly seemed like a better alternative. Settling with my back to a wall, I surveyed the seething mass of shoppers, glad to have found a backwater. Several sparrows were busy clearing up the crumbs left by previous patrons. One, cheekier than the rest, landed on my sleeve and cocked his head. Even amongst the birds, there are beggars.
I finished my greasy gol gappas and washed them down with a refreshing mug of ginger tea. There was still no sign of Helen, so I crossed the street and poked my head into the shop. She was surrounded by garments in various styles and colours.
Hearing the bell as I opened the door, she said, "I shan't be long. Why don't you browse around and come back in a quarter of an hour?"
There was a jeweller nearby, and I thought I'd have time to buy a cheap wedding ring, a relatively quick procedure without female assistance. An obsequious Chinese man swept me into the shop and placed a tray of his finest rings on the counter for me to view. He lifted out the finest specimen.
"Haven't you anything cheaper?"
The avaricious look faded from his face as he brought out a fresh tray. I picked out the thinnest band I could see. "How much is this one?" He mentioned a figure that set me reeling. "You must be joking. I was thinking of something half that price."
He disappeared under the counter again and came up with a third tray. By now, he was sullen. "These ones are gold-plate. Poor quality. Not suitable for a gentleman."
I picked one at random. "This will do. How much?"
He looked offended when I offered him a lower amount. "Very sorry. Fixed price only." I wavered. "Perhaps, if you buy two, I give you a discount."
I walked out of the store with two over-priced rings and a hole in my pocket, but with the satisfaction of having beaten him down by a few hundred rupees. Helen would have been so proud of me.
When I returned to the clothing store, she was nowhere to be seen. The shopkeeper gave me a look of resigned patience. "She's in the fitting room, sahib. Trying on a salwar kameez." I sighed, then settled down to wait.
 Recognized |
#164 2019 |
List of Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris. A double agent, who has infiltrated the ISIS network in France
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - Gaston's grandfather. Author of the infamous letter of 1903.
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
Pays 10 points and 1.07 member dollars (and maybe more).
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris. A double agent, who has infiltrated the ISIS network in France
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - Gaston's grandfather. Author of the infamous letter of 1903.
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
Pays 10 points and 1.07 member dollars (and maybe more).
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