Mrs Hashimoto has a little red car - little cars are particularly advantageous for a city like Karachi. The car is waiting outside Appa's house as if for a getaway. Mrs Hashimoto is inside.
"Get in - quick!" she shouts, clearly enjoying the adventure. The house is still - none of the servants are up yet.
Then Mrs Hashimoto laughs. It's a strange half manic half joyful sound as she pushes at the accelerator and brake with bare feet, a common practice of ladies in Karachi.
"I'll take you to my place," she says. We bump along the Karachi roads over potholes and mid-morning traffic. "I wonder what Mrs V will say when she hears you've been kidnapped!"
She laughs maniacally again. A sort of whooping sound and I wonder about the frying pan and the fire.
We don't go that far. The house is along Hali Road (Later converted to a school.) Hali Road can qualify as a boulevard with trees down the middle island. Mrs Hashimoto (I'll call her Jean) has a large house with a wraparound balcony. She lives in a second-floor apartment (house portion actually) overlooking a Russian hostel. The front gates are ramshackle, like the Ewell's in To Kill a Mockingbird. They are indented with hollow moon crescents and stars.
We go up a twisting stairwell, and I end up on a sofa in her living room, plushly decorated with cushions and elaborate furniture. Jean sits like a geisha, still and statue-like next to me.
"Get in - quick!" she shouts, clearly enjoying the adventure. The house is still - none of the servants are up yet.
Then Mrs Hashimoto laughs. It's a strange half manic half joyful sound as she pushes at the accelerator and brake with bare feet, a common practice of ladies in Karachi.
"I'll take you to my place," she says. We bump along the Karachi roads over potholes and mid-morning traffic. "I wonder what Mrs V will say when she hears you've been kidnapped!"
She laughs maniacally again. A sort of whooping sound and I wonder about the frying pan and the fire.
We don't go that far. The house is along Hali Road (Later converted to a school.) Hali Road can qualify as a boulevard with trees down the middle island. Mrs Hashimoto (I'll call her Jean) has a large house with a wraparound balcony. She lives in a second-floor apartment (house portion actually) overlooking a Russian hostel. The front gates are ramshackle, like the Ewell's in To Kill a Mockingbird. They are indented with hollow moon crescents and stars.
We go up a twisting stairwell, and I end up on a sofa in her living room, plushly decorated with cushions and elaborate furniture. Jean sits like a geisha, still and statue-like next to me.
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