PART 8
Without wasting time, I walked around the station and was relieved to see a taxi waiting at the front door. I knocked on the window, which opened, and asked the driver if he knew where the Double Knot Cul-de-Sac was, the driver told me: I have no idea, I added that it was in the Cauldron district, and he answered: that, I know, and quickly added: get in, the open window lets all the heat escape. I sat down in the back seat and the car started, skating on the snow.
The driver obviously had no desire to have a conversation. As for me, his silence was welcome. I sank into the seat and, rocked by the taxi's movement, contemplated the landscape.
We hadn't been on the road for even two minutes when long gurgling noises - symptomatic of an upset stomach - filled the cab interior. I instinctively put my hand on my stomach, before realising that, once again, it was my brother in his bag who was acting up. His ill-timed stomach noises accompanied us for the whole trip without interruption. Towards the end - oh, my God! - the gurgles turned into a series of disgusting BURPs that were heard over the engine's noise like thunder. The driver gave me a dark look in the rear-view mirror, and I felt the car brake for a moment. Was I going to be kicked out? I didn't know what to do. I remember that I kept repeating to myself: as long as Benedict doesn't do anything worse, as long as he doesn't decide to produce other noises, even more embarrassing ones, of the smelly kind, I'm safe. As long as.
It would have been, I think, the worst humiliation.
To my great relief, I got to my destination without any new digestive fantasies from Benedict. The driver muttered that it was ten pounds, and I plunged my hand into my jeans' back pocket. What a moron, what a total moron! My weekly allowance couldn't have been there, since I had left it in my other jeans, the ones I wore the night before. I turned to the driver, ready to stutter a vague excuse, but the mean expression on his face made me change my mind immediately. I put Benedict and his bag outside - there were enough complications already - and went back to sit in the car, this time in the front seat. I put the magic box on my knees and told the driver:
– Ok. I’ll pay you. I just have to find my money…
Among all the accessories in the box, I had been intrigued by one in particular: the money printer. And it was this accessory that – clever me – I had now decided to use. The principle behind the machine is simple. The magician inserts a piece of white paper, spins a lever, the paper goes through two rollers, and mysteriously comes out as real money. Of course, the magician has a trick, which was not my case! Given the delicate situation I was in, the machine would have to work on its own. The inscription assured: Will produce a mountain of freshly printed money. I didn’t need that much. One little 10 pound note would have made me happy. I trusted the machine. Bad, very bad idea, as you’re about to see.
I took the wooden printer and a few blank paper coupons that came with it out of the box. I slipped one of the papers between the two rollers, crossed my fingers and prayed that magic would somehow happen. The driver grunted impatiently, obviously thrown by the bizarre turn of events, but preferring to keep his comments to himself. I cleared my throat, racked my brains, and vigorously said:
– Go go gadget, go. Give me some proper dough, or a tantrum I'll throw!
Then I gave the lever a hearty spin, and under my creditor’s disbelieving eyes, I produced a beautiful, brand new… £11.24 note. I made a rather stupid noise, and gave it a second panicked try: the new note’s amount was just as extravagant (47.39). It was also – this was a nightmare – not in pounds, but in Indian rupees! The driver opened his mouth, no doubt to say something annoying, but I cut him off:
– Just a minute! Let’s not panic!
I spun the lever a third time, and for a moment I believed in miracles, because – yes! yes! – it was a £10 note coming out of the machine! Then, of course, I was immediately disenchanted: on the note, instead of the usual image, the Queen was wearing a punk Mohawk! I looked blankly at the machine, and it started working again on its own, spitting out a new unusable note, and another, and another. Surprised, I dropped it and it fell between my legs. It hadn’t stopped working, now printing a ridiculous amount of useless notes which were fluttering around the car at a tremendous speed. I could barely see in this storm of paper. When the driver got agitated and started shouting in a strangled voice, I didn’t stick around: I left him the infernal machine without any regrets, wished him a Merry Christmas, burst out of the taxi in a cloud of notes (without forgetting my box and the rest of its accessories), grabbed the bag with my brother inside, and ran as fast as I could without looking back.
(Go to PART 9)