Fishy Chronicles 42: Blink, Blink. It’s Gone

I tasted the liver dish, but it wasn’t the culinary masterpiece that was Aunty Leila’s. I still didn't know what Aunty's dish was really called.

“Are you sure it's not a Parsi dish that you're mistaking for something Iranian?” Genie needled. I took a deep breath. 

I clicked my tongue once. The children playing downstairs used the tongue click to indicate nonchalant disagreement. Though it was a vulgar, impatient sound, it was a no-nonsense negative.

                                       ******

This is a fictional series about a 30-something Mumbai-based narrator whose former pet fish and former manservant have returned to stay awhile. Personal equations are different now.  

In this episode, the narrator cancels a lunch with family but is unwilling to say why.

                                       ******
I could see Genie shift uncertainly. After being the butt of his jokes all evening, I had started reacting to his comments – when pushed to respond – with tongue clicks and snorts. 

“What makes you think it's not a Parsi dish?” Genie said. This time he poked me hard between my shoulder blades with his elbow. 

“It's not.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It's called Lah Dee Dah Leila Liver."

“So?”

“So, even if Uncle was making a joke of it, he was serious about respecting copyright. So, he's bunged in Aunty's name to show she's the recipe's original creator.”

“We followed the recipe and it didn't turn out the same.” I turned around and glared at Genie. He moved back a pace, held up his hands and grinned. “Can't you just call her and ask?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“She doesn't like me.”

“How do you know that?”

“She never shared recipes with me. But I’d see her reciting them to Uncle and correcting his version.”
Genie tsked tsked behind me. Aunty Leila closed up whenever I turned up and hated my ex even more. She usually left soon after. Which was a pity, because she was a beautiful, magnificent woman and clearly lived life well. To me she was a star, a personality – someone I wanted to spy on even more than Roma's crush, the actor Arushmaan Verma (https://viewfromthetopofthetank.blogspot.com/2019/05/fishy-chronicles-21-love-thy-neighbour.html).

Genie tsked tsked again, this time in my ear. The only times Aunty Leila had called me was to ask about Uncle Nigel’s passing and his memorial service. His relatives had refused to entertain her calls and she called me and wailed in sorrow. She was in the US with her son then. The keening sound and the depths of her distress were awful. It left me in tears, feeling worn out and hollow. 

Uncle's relatives had been suspicious of all his friends, especially those who visited often. He had been a bachelor with a very wide social circle and there was not a thing his family could do to contain his extraordinary joie de vivre.

I looked at Uncle's recipe. Genie had decoded it, but I wondered if some ingredients were missing. When he had too much to drink, Uncle would toss in powders that I hadn't seen before. Until then I assumed they were new ingredients. 

“Do you know what I think?” Genie pushed my head into the recipe book and held me pinned down. I struggled and screamed in frustration, trying to free myself. Would Genie have dared make so much body contact if my parents had been alive!

“What?!” I finally screamed, thanking my stars that I was pressed into the pungent spice-smelling recipe book and not into the wet kitchen platform.

“I think Uncle's recipe is a Parsi one.”

“And Aunty Leila’s name in the title?” I said, trying to look at Genie. For a long time I thought it was the Parsi dish Alleti Palleti – I'd checked with a friend and YouTube too. But what was the Leila angle?

“All flights of fancy,” Genie said from above me. “No connection with the dish unless there's someone immediately around. Uncle thought Leila was larger than life – literally an exotic Iranian dish. Hence, the fancy title.”

“Huh!”

“How else do you explain Dikra Bomanooooo, Aloo Picky Tikki... or Govinda Jinga (prawn).”

“Right.” I didn’t know a Govinda. Maybe the actor? I was certain Uncle and Govinda hadn't rolled in the same circles.

“Now that we have that business cleared, you can tell me why you cancelled lunch with the Lonavala group,” Genie breathed into my face, his eyes boring mine. I felt panic. My head was still pinned under Genie's arm and there was no wiggle room between the platform and his body. 

The Lonavala group were the folks from my holiday a couple of weeks ago – my cousin Roma and assorted family. I could feel Genie's breath fan my face every time he exhaled. I kept my eyes trained on the water bottles in front of me. Their outsides needed washing. There was a cobweb forming in the corner – between the empty bottles of ketchup and wine that I wanted to recycle and hadn't got around too. Suddenly the dishcloth landed on my face, my whole world going dark. “Hey!” I started to struggle and kick backwards. 

“Hey, you yourself. I want to know what is going on! You dashing out early in the morning and returning a mess late in the evening. You’re losing weight. Not eating... not cooking! I was surprised you actually wanted to cook this dish. And Roma has been calling me everyday to find out what's going on with you and why you aren't taking her calls!”

I stopped struggling. Roma knew why. Talking and giving her explanations were more than I could handle. Her father, my father’s older brother, had also called. I could anticipate his derision and, hence, had not picked up the phone. Here I was... no job, no money. I was a damned mess.

My ears flattened painfully against my head with the pressure of Genie leaning over me to look into my face. “Roma didn't tell you?” I said.

“She threatened to turn up if you didn't call her back.”

“Not now. I can't bear to listen to an I-told-you-so lecture.”

“Maybe you’re judging her harshly.”

I tried to wriggle around to glare at him, feeling intense rage, but I couldn't move. Two could duel – so I clamped my mouth shut and stayed still. I heard my phone ring. It rang for an eternity, and several times. It could only be Roma. She had been calling me for days. I was surprised she hadn't come home and thrashed me.

Genie leaned closer, “Have you never thought that she might be the only one who cares for you?”

I felt rage peak, but I soon started feeling like a shit. Roma was the only one who cared. The only one who called regularly. Who dragged me to family dos when the rest of my family had forgotten me.

The phone stopped ringing. After five minutes, Genie's phone – in his pocket – started to ring. I groaned. He pulled it out, “Yes, Roma. Just a moment.”

He placed the phone on my ear and I listened to Roma ordering me to come home, telling me that they were worried about me and that all would be okay and that it was only money that I had lost. 

“Did you hear what I said?!” Roma panicked. For once my cousin didn't sound impatient with me. She seemed genuinely upset. 

Genie spoke into the phone, his voice deeper than usual. “Yes, Roma. She heard.” He cleared his throat. “We'll call you back in some time.” He switched off the phone, righted me and wiped my tears with the dishcloth from which I got the faint odour of rancid oil.

He pulled me into the sitting room, made me sit on the sofa and pushed tissues into my hands. After several days of tension and fear, I finally had a good cry. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Genie asked.

I shook my head, looking down at the white tissues in my hands. 

“Okay. I'll make tea. We can talk about it later,” he said.

“You know what it is?” I asked, blowing my nose. 

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“How?”

“I used to drive Papa to the bank.” He took my hands and held them tight.

“I've lost my savings of the past eight years,” I told him, unable to look him in the eyes. The bank I was banking with had folded suddenly.

“Not all of it, surely.”

“Most of it. The bank had offered two percent more of interest than the others. It made sense to move my money there since I had quit work and I'd been hoping to live on the interest. Now it seems I'll have to go back to work and cut expenses in every way I know how.”

We sat and listened to the children playing outside. I felt bleak. I hadn't been able to summon up any interest in cooking lunch for the Lonavala group. Worse, I wasn't sure I'd be able to hide my worries or appear happy.

I’d been looking forward to my sabbatical ever since I divorced and both my parents passed away. I had kept my resignation secret from my closest family and friends, all the while hoping I'd propel my vague plan in motion – I was going to travel around India and come back in several months. It was the most adventurous I'd ever been.

And now, it seemed, it wasn't going to be. 

From where I stood, I was going to stay poor, I had no support and I only seemed to be making more stupid decisions every day. And now, the whole world knew.

Fishy Chronicles 41: Eggs Extraordinaire

“Why did you postpone lunch?” Genie asked, leaning against the kitchen doorway, effectively blocking my chances of escape.

“Er, yes.”

“And?”

“And?”

“Why did you cancel?”

“Who told you?”

“Zeba. Roma. You ordered coconuts and rice and then cancelled the order.”

“Okay.” I tried to stay nonchalant. I continued to shred the potatoes. I was going to deep fry them later... if Genie stopped interrogating me. He was now standing next to me, his eyes boring a hole into the top of my head. I dearly hoped he wasn’t doing a pensieve or a Professor Dumbledore on me. I tried to push past the wall of muscle, but only felt his finger duelling with my chin to try and lift it to make me look at him. Finally he gave up and pulled his index finger away. Genie bent double, leaned down, planted his elbow on the untidy kitchen platform, turned his body my way and smiled. Someone else would have looked comical in that awkward pose, but Genie refused to fit an ‘anybody’ mould.

I took in his wholesome form. There was barely space to squeeze through between the fridge and Genie's buttocks. It was unfair – handsome guy, small space, unbidden lust, you name it. Plus nothing was going to happen.

I sighed and turned back, wondering what to do. I moved three paces to the sink and poured water into the bowl with the shredded potatoes, then put three tablespoons of salt in the mix. I saw Genie's mouth curl.

“What!”

“You don’t need to take it out on the potatoes – salting them to death!” Genie said.

I laughed. “Monkey! I’m making those little chippies that go with that Irani dish.”

“Aha. I see. You're trying to replicate Aunty Leila's liver dish. Do you even know what it is called?”

I didn’t. Aunty Leila was a friend of Uncle Nigel. Her family had farms in Nasik, but she, an Iranian Muslim, had married a Parsi and moved to Mumbai, many many years ago. Her food had a wholesome and sometimes rustic quality, which Uncle had attributed to her early years in Shiraz, Iran. When I told him Shiraz was a major city in Iran and was unlikely to have ever been a village or rustic, he laughed.

I always hoped Aunty Leila would feel sorry for him and want to cook Uncle Nigel a meal, because then I learned something new. I needn’t have fretted, Uncle gave me his recipe books.

Only there was a problem.

Genie leaned over Uncle's book and smirked. “Let me get this straight, you tried to cook it before with this recipe, but it didn’t taste like the real thing.”

I thought Uncle loved me too much to want to finger me from his spot in the netherworld, but, at times, especially when I tried to reproduce a dish, I felt it was a distinct possibility. 

                                       ******

This is a fictional series about a 30-something Mumbai-based narrator whose former pet fish and former manservant have returned to stay awhile. Personal equations are different now.  

In this episode, the narrator tries to replicate an Iranian dish from Uncle Nigel's recipe book but hits a road block.

                                        ******

I felt a gentle poke. “Well?” Genie asked.

“Yes. It was awful. Of course I couldn’t feed it to anyone and...” another poke, “... and Uncle did not seem surprised.”

Genie took the book and read the recipe closely and then flipped pages back and forth.

I moved closer to him, “What are you looking for?”

“Uncle's egg recipes.”

I took the book from his hand. I had never looked at those simply because I made them well, and I had favourites. I opened the book to Uncle's versions of Akoori and an egg curry.

I could feel Genie's breath on the back of my ear. “Well?”

The recipe was weird. Someone would die of food poisoning with the measures and ingredients Uncle was using. Uncle's meals were legendary. He had had the best vessels and the most exotic condiments and his talent suffused his meals. But these instructions were preposterous. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed before. One recipe was even named Dikra Bomanooooo. I kid you not about the number of Os. Around the recipe he had drawn little hearts being shot at by obese, naked archers.

“Cupid, not naked archers,” Genie corrected me. I gave him a dirty look and went back to look at the instructions. “Do you want some advice?”

“About what?” I asked, feeling frustration bubble up. Genie took the book from my hand.

“Don’t you think Uncle was more complicated than you gave him credit for?” Genie placed the book on the platform, located another recipe, held a bunch of pages upright with his index finger and thumb and compared the two recipes on either side.

I hopped in frustration, “Of course! He was a brilliant man...”

“I wasn't talking about his brains. We know he was brilliant and extraordinarily creative. But don’t you get that everything he thought of was well considered, that they didn't, and wouldn't, make sense until they were supposed to?”

I was flummoxed. Genie was speaking like a drunk philosopher. And I couldn’t understand a thing! I took a deep breath. “Come again,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Come closer. Have you ever known Uncle to share anything of importance easily?” Genie asked, still comparing the recipes.

Much like yourself, Dude! I stared at Genie's handsome profile and enormous moustache. I pulled the end of his large moustache and his head whipped around and he glared at me. I grinned and moved closer, trying to concentrate on the recipes but thinking about moustache-pulling retribution.

“The measures and ingredients are ridiculous,” I said.

“What exactly is?”

“The quantities.”

“How about the ingredients?”

“They’re too exotic and shouldn’t find a place in this recipe,” I pointed at an Indian egg dish – in fact a Malayali egg roast. For sure, Uncle had got this from one of his neighbours. For a while Mr Mathai suspected Uncle of trying to have an affair with Mrs Mathai, until Uncle came back from a foreign trip with a bottle of Chivas Regal and told Mr Mathai his ugly secret. After the Chivas, Uncle became a welcome guest in the Mathai household.

I felt a poke and dragged my attention back to the book. “See, if Uncle planned to use these recipes, there’s got to be a method to his envisaged madness.” Another nudge. “Right?” Genie looked at me, nodding his head and looking at the book and back at me in turns.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Genie?” The look of shock was well worth the annoyance he had put me through. I grinned, pulled the book closer to me and stared at the numbers. For instance, Uncle had written “50 grams Epsom Salt. Stir in...” All his recipes had Epsom or some weird variety of salt in it, but no actual rock or table salt. “Chop 30 barracudas and grind by hand.” How the hell did one catch a deep sea barracuda? Would any part of a barracuda fit into Uncle’s mortar? How many months would it take him to grind 30 very large fish and how many thousands of people would that feed? I had had utter confusion looking at his recipes, but while he was alive I had just watched him cook and, a little later, written them down.

“Anything strike you?” Genie prodded, sounding annoyed.

“Everything's multiplied by 10. Some ingredients are code words. Like barracudas, probably coming from Uncle's fascination for sea life, could be chillies, because,” I flipped several pages that mentioned dishes I knew well, “Epsom salt and barracudas figure in all of them and could only be salt and chillies... in the recipes, I mean,” I looked up, happy. A light bulb had suddenly flickered into life and was blasting bright. And I realised Genie was way smarter than I had given him credit for. But what did I really know about him? And why was he staring at me that way?

He blinked and pulled the book back towards him. He put his head back and laughed. “What's cow? Three cows, roasted and powdered? I wish I’d known Uncle Nigel... a little more at least.”

“Yeah. I wish I did too. This book is crazy.”

“It’s not meant for the faint hearted or lazy people.”

I eyed Uncle's lovely old world, curly, large handwriting. This trick recipe book wasn’t a joke for Uncle. It had a special rack to hold it and had many of his prized recipes in it. Some of his mother's too. Yet, everything in it seemed like a game.

“You know what I think?” Genie murmured in my ear, his arm on my shoulder.

“What?” I mumbled back.

“He didn’t want just anyone to have it.”

“He had a strange way of showing it.”

“I’m thinking you’d have figured it out and enjoyed the game in time.”

Oh! I was so slow. Of course, that’s what it was. I was being challenged and being shown something I’d never see otherwise. I had to keep myself open to possibilities. Loosen up. Stop clinging to clichés. Etc, etc, etc. Uncle had left me the strangest things. Keys. A briefcase full of objects I could make no sense of, some more in cartons in my loft. Old books that collectors had begged me for, but I had resisted selling. His will was being contested by some of his relatives, but it was ironclad – so his lawyer said. I dreaded meeting them. One of his cousins called me a gold digger at the lawyer's office. I had...

“Hey!” Genie shook me. “Are we going to make this dish or not?”

“You're going to help me?”

“Of course! You’re never going to figure it out on your own.”

I held back my irritation. Genie's point was debatable. I could see Genie look at me slyly from the corner of his eyes and a slow smile appeared. “At least, I think you'll need my help figuring some of these codes,” he tilted his head at the book.

“Yes. Two heads are better than one – in this case, at least. Come on, let's crush some barracudas and toast those cows.”

Fishy Chronicles 35: Au Revoir, Lonavala

There was a gentle tap on my hotel room door. I'd bathed, dressed and packed. Our holiday was finally over and we were checking out of Pretty Villa Hotel in Lonavala by 11am.

Nidhi was still sleeping and would likely miss breakfast again today. The younger, more intrepid, lot was planning to have tea first, walk around Charlotte Lake and then go to a nearby Parsi hotel for breakfast.

Genie smiled and took control of the tank and Fish listed out the various horrors they'd endured during the night.

Downstairs, we met Arief, Ashok, Eva, a grumpy Georgy, Roma and their kids and Georgy's sisters and their families. This was unusual as Georgy's sisters rarely liked to mingle with outsiders. Genie, Arief and I were considered outsiders, even though we were insiders and knew enough to not to want to know more.

I felt a hand pull my ponytail. "You went skinnydipping in the pool last night," Arief said, grinning mischievously.

"Probably got me mixed up with someone else."

"Nope. I saw you."

"Something wrong with your eyesight then."

"Nothing wrong with my eyesight. I saw you and Roma smoking in the pool."

"Ah!" I casually slapped Arief on the chest. "We were modestly covered. And you're not supposed to say we smoke in front of our relatives."

"Why not?"

"Because it's secret. Hence, our midnight swimming session."

"I see."

He didn't really. But I didn't want to explain the time warp in which our families existed. "So, did you have a good holiday?"

His eyes widened and blinked. He smiled slowly, "In a manner of speaking."

"It's me you're talking to. You can be honest. 'A manner of speaking'... you might as well have said you didn't have fun."

"I did have fun." I opened my mouth to argue but stopped when Arief gave me a brilliant smile. "Just not in the way I expected."

"Oh."

"You could have woken up Nidhi and got her out with us," Arief said, spoiling the moment.

"I could have. But I didn't want to punish myself more than necessary. By the way, you could have woken up Nidhi too. She would have welcomed your sunny morning greetings with a 200-watt smile. Why didn't you?"

"I thought I'd leave all that to her beloved cousin, sleeping in the next bed."

"She's not my beloved anything."

"On par with what you feel for your ex?"

I looked at Arief wondering why he suddenly brought my ex husband into the picture. I wondered what to say. Whatever I said I wouldn't be able to recall it. And later I'd realise it was inadequate. I often had speeches for what I wanted to say to my ex, but they never saw light of day. My parents and well-meaning relatives had told me I'd regret what I said – even if I was right. Not saying what I felt had never worked well for me. But it didn't work well even when I did say them. The best solution, I eventually realised, was to walk away.

I took a sharp uncomfortable breath and started walking faster until I was next to Roma. I put my arm into hers. I didn't turn back. Somehow I didn't want to talk to someone who was going to constantly bring up my ex or Nidhi. He could have them both.

                                        ******

This is a fictional series about the narrator, her  opinionated former pet fish, and her parents' former manservant Genie, who is now her friend. 

They are wrapping up a rather eventful holiday with the narrator's cousins and in laws. There is palpable relief in the air.

                                        ******
"Why are you avoiding Arief? He seems to like you," Roma said while we were navigating our way around Charlotte Lake. I say navigating because Georgy's older sister lost her balance while we were walking on a path leading downhill. She grabbed my arm and we rolled a little way. We stopped – with her on top of me and a large stone in my side. It was bloody painful. I gasped for breath, coming to the conclusion those were my last.

But someone lifted the heavy woman off me and I could feel Genie and Arief pull me to my feet. Genie made me sit. I couldn't bear to look at Georgy's sister. It would have to wait until I'd mastered the rage born of my soreness. My churidhar was torn at the knee and I could see a trickle of blood. But it was nothing compared to the pain in my side and my embarassment at it all. Roma clucked with worry and finally pulled me toward Pretty Villa Hotel.

"Very sorry," Georgy's sister said embarrassed. There was not a scratch on her, though Georgy kept brushing some dust off her. My nice white kurta had turned a dark clay brown and there was a tear at the side.

Roma, Arief and I were now back at the hotel and I was unpacking to see which of my previously used clothes I could reuse. Nidhi was awake and yawning. Her face screwed up as soon as she saw me and then changed for the better when she saw my disheveled state.

"Rolled around in the dirt, did you, doggie?"

"Woof!" I replied, finding no real answer on me.

"Shut up, Nidhi!" Roma said. "How dare you call my sister a dog!"

"Er, Roma, I didn't see you." Nidhi jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. I heard the lock turn. I could think of several swear words – none of which did Nidhi justice.

I finally found a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and I had quick shower in Roma's room.

Downstairs Arief looked me over. "Let's take my car to the hotel."

"No parking there. Let's just walk it."

"Is Nidhi awake?" he asked.

"Yes. She was asking for you. Maybe you should go up." I felt Roma grab my arm and give it an angry shake.

"No, Arief," Roma said, "Just ignore her. Come on. Let's go."

"Are you in pain?" Arief asked. I was grimacing from where my knee had scraped the ground and the hotel was a 15-minute walk away.

"Why do you always mention my ex and Nidhi when you know I don't like it?" I turned on Arief.

Arief smiled involuntarily. It died when Roma glared at him. "My bad. It draws the worst reaction from you – childish of me. It's just that... I used to know your ex from Pink Sun. I attended your wedding..."

"What?" Roma and I stopped in our tracks. 

"Yes. I'm sorry for being nosey. I have so many questions running in my head - about your ex, Mr Poonawala and the fish."

"I won't be answering any of them," I said coldly. I felt Roma's hand gripping my upper arm in warning.

"Er, yes, of course," Arief nodded and we walked silently. I seethed. There weren't enough nosey buggers in this world. Fish were right about him. I looked through the corner of my eyes. It was an absolute pity he looked like a delicious walking icecream.

                                        ******

Genie pointed to the spot next to him and I hobbled over. I ignored the voyeurs. We had spent three days here and even though they hadn't talked to us much, the entire family had watched us like hawks. I should have sat on Genie's lap a few times. He might have jumped out of his skin. Perhaps I could have sat on any random man's lap. No. More problems than I needed.

Genie ladled scrambled eggs into my plate. This was an authentic Parsi breakfast with the eggs almost runny. I remembered Uncle Nigel showing me how to make it, while singing a ditty he had created. That day he hadn't invited my ex and it had led to a fight between us. Uncle had shown me some of his family albums and it had made me forget my husband in a few minutes.

"How did you learn to cook so well?" I had asked. He had shown me some traditional dishes and I had picked up fast.

"Oh. My mother was a wonderful cook and cooked for a rich Parsi and I'd help her. He eventually paid for my boarding school and the rest of my education."

"That's good then."

"I don't know. I thought so, but my mother was always unhappy working for the family."

"Why is that?"

"She never said."

"And you don't know?"

"Today, knowing what I do of the world, I could wager a guess."

I held my tongue, feeling slightly sick. A few days later Uncle came to my parents' home. I had invited him to try my mother's appams and stew. The ex was in a very good mood because of the visit. But I felt good because my parents and Uncle had hit it off. Somewhere we had a common thread, all of us, except for the ex.

You see, to everyone I had lied about who had actually inherited Fish. Everyone thought it was the ex. And we let them because the ex's ego had been hurt. But I attributed Uncle wanting to give me his fish to an extraordinary whim. Plus, there had been perks.

I understood why Ashok and Arief had so many questions. Why they constantly watched Fish, Genie and me. There had been rumours. Some of Uncle's relatives had even raised a stink but he had warned me about it. And his lawyer, S. Iyengar, had assured me the will was iron-clad.

Now more than ever I wondered about Uncle Nigel's motives. Why did he leave Fish to me. Was I all wrong about his feelings for the ex? 

I wondered why I remembered him so much during the trip. I turned to look at Fish. They were treading water watching me. What an incredible coincidence Genie ended up working for my parents and we shared the same feelings for Fish.

I stood up and rummaged in my bag. I had managed to get them something special today. Raw chicken liver. The broiler shop owner had cut it into slivers. I fed Fish slowly, chatted while they ate and then sat down to my cold breakfast. Everyone stared, their eyes twice the size they had been 15 minutes ago. 

Genie removed the plate covering my half-eaten breakfast, put another large spoonful of the beautifully soft eggs and a freshly buttered piece of toast on my plate. We joked about returning home to Peaceful Society and tried to imagine the gossip our joint absence would have elicited.

"Next month, that public holiday, could I come and stay with you guys?" Roma leaned over and asked. I could see her little son Aditya stand up in excitement. Georgy cleared his throat, but Roma ignored her husband.

"Yes! Of course!"

"There will be two young men following me."

"The more the merrier."

"Roma..." Georgy said warningly.

"Relax, Georgy. Just going to chill with my cousin. Not a problem, is it?" she gave him her most winsome smile. I saw Arief and Ashok grin.

"Er, no. I'll check the calendar and talk to Mummy. It should be okay," he said unhappily, all the while staring at Genie.

I dared not look at Genie. From the reflection in the glass door opposite us, he was giving Georgy his most winsome smile.