Out of the Blue Valise

By Mari Gayatri Stein

When a cancer diagnosis begins to drain author Mila's vital force, a hippopotamus with magical powers comes to her rescue, inspiring a brand new story. "Out of the Blue Valise" takes us from Oregon to Malibu, Paris to Africa, unpacking such delights as a Hollywood artist sober on AA, a lovable red-and-white zebra, twin can-do British aristocrats, and s supersized villain you will love to hate. With whimsy and pathos, humor and heart, Mila is writing for her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fuze Publishing
• Release date: Dec 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996555319

Book preview

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Praise for OUT OF THE BLUE VALISE

"Out of the Blue Valise is a beautifully written novel that takes the reader on a powerful journey of the heart. Part fantasy, part spiritual expedition, this story conveys the fullness of the experiences present in facing one’s own mortality."

Sharon Salzberg—Lovingkindness and Real Happiness

Hippos shrink, zebras speak French, and love heals all wounds in Stein’s debut novel. ... Just the right balance between humor and pathos. The narrator’s voice has a confidence that feels no need to explain itself, and the characters are alive with wit and occasional wisdom. ... A delightful jumble of jungle creatures, two-legged and four-legged alike.

—Kirkus Reviews

"A tale of magical realism so wonderfully creative and true that I want to shout to all my friends, devour this now! Combining whimsy with wisdom, magic with grit, joy with the struggle to survive, this story of Po the Hippo and Petal, the passionately chimerical woman who acts as her mentor and fellow pilgrim, will keep you riveted far beyond the moment you turn the last page."

Jake Warner—Coming of Age in Berkeley

A soaring testament to the healing powers of creativity and imagination—for both reader and writer. Mari Stein renders with the simplest of strokes such a vast array of expression and feeling. I literally could not put this novel down, and even now can’t stop contemplating possible Po-etic mantras for a next adventure.

Toni Ihara—Murder on the Air

"A fable and a fairy tale for grown-ups, full of wit, adventure, and charm. There are life lessons in this book, and though entirely unique, its impact was comparable to The Little Prince and Jonathan Livingston Seagull."

Sheila Burns—proprietor, Bloomsbury Books

"A fulfilling, delightful, soul-searching story that works on multiple levels to touch the heart. Out of the Blue Valise holds in its pages a sense of powerful truth and vibrant imagination."

Barbara Baird—former journalist, The Los Angeles Times

Swoop, dive and hover over the mysterious intersection of fear, despair, whimsy, strength and beauty! This book lives on a multitude of visceral levels, and I find myself returning to this passage and that for the sheer joy of them.

Laurie Levin—You Can’t Hurry Love and Creative Weddings

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Also by Mari Gayatri Stein

Written and Illustrated

Puddle Moon

Unleashing Your Inner Dog: Your Best Friend’s Guide to Life

The Buddha Smiles

So You’re Going to Have Puppies

The Love Epidemic

Thoughts for my Friends

Illustrated

Higgledy Piggledy

Buddy’s Candle

The Educated Heart

Ready for Romance

The Buddha Laughing

Insight Meditation: An In-Depth Correspondence Course workbook

New Moon Book

29 Reasons Not to Go to Law School

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Getting There Without Going

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Ashland, Oregon

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Out of the Blue Valise Copyright © 2015 by Mari Gayatri Stein. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Fuze Publishing, Ashland, Oregon

Book design by Ray Rhamey

ISBN 978-0-9965553-1-9

Print ISBN 978-0-9965553-0-2

Print Library of Congress Control Number: 2015950686

Step One was reprinted with permission of Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc.

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For endangered species everywhere

with and without tails

Blue whale

Black rhino

Javan rhino

Bengal tiger

Giant panda

Chimpanzee

Snow leopard

Giant tortoise

Amur leopard

Green sea turtle

African elephant

African wild dog

Mountain gorilla

Cross River gorilla

Sumatran elephant

Hawksbill sea turtle

Pygmy hippopotamus

Leatherback sea turtle

African forest elephant

Borneo pygmy elephant

African savanna elephant

Greater one-horned rhino

. . . and many, many more . . .

May all beings, in all realms, in all forms, be free of pain

and suffering. May we all be at peace.

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When you feel sad, unlock the blue valise. —Po

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teacup-for-Mila.tif MILA ~ Writing For Her Life

I abhor the word convalescence, but what term better describes this endless summer indentured to my body?

I used to call it a soul case. Now it’s turning me into a nutcase; its basic functions dominate my days.

Weak and restless, I sprawl on the chaise longue, propped up by down pillows as weathered and soft as the fleece of my old Angora goat. I miss my daily walks to the fields, where I used to stand and talk plot with Goatee while he nibbled grain from my hand. I crave a tacky kiss from our Nilgai antelope; Estonia’s long black tongue can cover my entire face with one swipe, an icky experience I hate to love so much.

The peppers and melons are ripening without me this year.

White lace flutters around the French doors, which open onto a stone deck crowded with pots of flowers and herbs and an unruly hedge of arrow bamboo—Pseudosasa japonica, Charles would say. My hair feels like the bamboo looks, as though its rhizomes want to escape and spread beyond all barriers.

With half-closed eyes, I blur the roses, dahlias, and honeysuckle into a watercolor tableau.

Salty air wafts up from the breaking waves below the bluffs. I haven’t the energy to walk outside and be with my beloved sea. I adjust my position, but the discomfort persists.

On the wall beside me hangs a blood-red Japanese ceremonial robe. I wore it once and felt omnipotent, even though its thick, embroidered panels weigh ten pounds and trail three feet behind me. I carried myself like an empress with disciplined posture and confident footfalls. Constraints have their place, I’d thought at the time. Right now, I would argue the opposite.

The carved giraffe in the corner appears to be studying Charles’s hand-tinted photographs: courting lions, an elephant mother nuzzling her baby, a baboon riding on the back of a huge tortoise.

Oh, Africa! I can’t bring myself to cancel you. I long for your dense jungle to cradle me. I’ve always dreamed of finding my niche there among a family of kindred spirits dedicated to saving all the beautiful animals you try to shield. I thought there was time. Dreams are for doing, but what are the chances of that now?

I lift the small, soft stuffed hippo perched on my lap, pat her head, and kiss the broad, grayish-brown nose. You must act the ferryman and steer us across the River Styx to safe harbors.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch something moving at the threshold into the hall, a gray-brown shadow. When I look directly at the spot, there is nothing but the switch plate on the wall.

In the center of the room, the weathered barn table that makes up my workstation rebukes me: Stop stalling. I pull myself from the chaise. Unsure of the floor, I navigate four steps to my desk chair and gently settle myself on its cushion. I rest the point of my Montblanc pen on the white slice of paper and stop. Nothing.

A soft sound of snuffling at my back. I twist to check and glimpse something gray-brown again. Always at the edge of vision. Something solid this time—like the lip of a small, gray cup—before it vanishes. Mild hallucination? Must be the medications.

More snuffles, words: Blue valise with a red strap. Airport, 1000 hours.

The studies linking artists to mental illness flash through my mind, leaving a trail of anxiety. But any writing is better than no writing at all: I inscribe the words on the blank paper.

Just then something warm, rough, and a little moist presses against my cheek. In my nostrils: the faint odor of barnyard.

I swivel my chair full circle. There is nothing out of place in the room. I rub at the tingly sensation alive on my face, and my hand comes away sticky, a kiss of red lipstick smeared on my palm.

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Po-ttle.tif Chapter 1 ~ The Blue Valise

Go to the airport at 1000 hours, the communiqué instructed. There will be a blue valise with a red strap. Your name will appear on the attached claim ticket. Combination is 668437. Collect it without delay and make your exit. Best of luck.

Petal stands at the baggage claim, nerves afrazzle. She shifts her weight from foot to foot as the chute spits out luggage. The slam of each suitcase onto the carousel makes her shudder. She straightens her spine and imagines a bubble of protection, maintaining a picture of poise in her long black dress and wide-brimmed straw hat, but her insides roil, and she feels a chill although it is warm and humid. Her perfect oval face, large different-colored eyes, and luminescent pale skin stand out in the crowd like a hothouse bloom among a jumble of petunias.

Why does she get herself into these predicaments? No! It’s good. She wants to do this. Adventure scares her to her core, but she’s always pushing into unknown territory. To find courage is to be intimate with fear.

There it is! she exclaims, breath catching. She reaches across a pushy, pencil-thin man on her right, smiles into his glare. Then the boxy woman to his right nudges him aside, retrieves the blue bag, and presents it to Petal.

Thank you so much. This is all a bit overwhelming, Petal confides as she sets the lopsided valise down, balances it between her legs, and extends her hand to the thoughtful stranger, who gives it a pat, then turns away in search of her own luggage.

Her gut churning with curiosity and apprehension, Petal and the blue valise exit the airport. Petal spots a small patch of green and lowers herself onto the warm ground among the dandelions and crab grass. She pats the suitcase. She studies its combination lock. Then she rootles around in her purse for an orange notebook with a black elastic band.

Six, six, eight, four, three, seven. With great care she spins each dial until they line up. A thrill needles her nerves.

For six years, she has awaited this assignment as a card-carrying member of JARUM. The Jungle Animal Rescue Underground Movement is an international organization dedicated to saving abused and threatened wild animals from around the world. On August second, her sobriety birthday—she calls it her spiritual birthday—she officially signed up, asking to be put on a list of foster mothers.

I will take any animal of any size and disposition and love it back to health. That is what she wrote on the bottom of the official form in the Comment section. Two people had vouched for her—a requirement. She had also enclosed a generous donation, although that wasn’t a requirement. After that, she waited with as much grace as she could, given the urgency of her hopes. The longer she waited, the more dreams of soul salvation embroidered themselves around this event.

Here goes. She lifts the lid and throws it wide, banging her thumb.

On the left side of the valise is a neat stack of expertly ironed stiff-collared shirts. On the other side, tangled shreds of orange linen. Does she have the wrong case? On the inside of the lid, a fabric pocket presents a lump with squared edges. Petal reaches in and finds a slender, leather-bound book: . . . Guide to Good Manners. The volume is missing part of its front cover as though half the title has been bitten off. She slips the book back into the pocket and notices a small ecru envelope tucked down the side. This she withdraws.

It reads: Hi, my name is Po from the Okavango Delta in Botswana, Africa. I love water and mud. I’ll eat anything but custard, and I miss my mother.

Unblinking, Petal studies the shirts. Suddenly she detects a small movement—a stirring among the camouflage of collars and tangled strips of mangled fabric.

A tail appears—a short comma of a tail, twirling, then circling in a frenzy.

Don’t be afraid, Po. My name is Petal. If it is agreeable to you, I will take you home with me to a beautiful green sanctuary. It’s not a jungle, it’s a farm, but it feels like an island unto itself. We will have grand adventures in the fragrant grasses, and you will sleep on silken pillows beside Lemon Face. I will love you for a lifetime and protect you from all harm. Please, don’t be afraid. Won’t you show yourself?

The tail stops twirling. There is a rustle of fabric, the twitch of a starched collar. A broad nose appears between the folds of a polka-dot sleeve, followed by two blue eyes, a pair of cup-shaped ears, and a smile that could light the night.

Ha! Petal gasps. Why, you’re a hippopotamus. A very small one.

Petal picks up Po and clasps her to her bosom, then she extends her arms and they regard each other warily. Po wriggles in Petal’s hands, and Petal fears she has made a grave error, but then a mixture of curiosity and hope swirls between them, and the outside world fades away.

Is there anything to eat? Po speaks with lilting inflections.

Petal laughs and proceeds to shower Po with kisses.

I think I am in hippo heaven, Po giggles.

Do you like tea, really strong? Petal asks. With a soupçon of milk? And pumpkin muffins thick with Brazil nuts and plump raisins? Oh, and Endangered Species brand chocolate—exceedingly dark!

I don’t really know, but I am eager to sample your wares.

You speak excellent English, Petal says.

I also speak fluent Zebra, four dialects of Hippo, and a smattering of French, Po boasts. I can teach you, if you like.

That would be lovely! But we have so much to do—we’d better get started. Petal pauses. By the way, are you always this small? Very convenient for travel, I would guess. I’ve heard of pygmy hippopotamuses but never of Po-sized ones.

I’ll resume my fully upholstered status when we get . . . Her eyes glaze wistfully. Wherever.

What is it, Po?

Nothing. Well, it is something, but I can’t talk about it right now. Is there any water?

Petal offers Po a drink from the canister in her purse.

Thanks. Po glugs it down. But I meant big water, like a river?

Ah, yes. There is lots of water, not a river, but a warm swimming pool and a cool pond full of lotus flowers, mud, and friendly fish, and an ocean nearby. Now let’s go home and put the kettle on.

Petal tucks Po into her right jacket pocket, picks up the suitcase, and heads for the car. She has written down the letter and number of the aisle. (She hates getting lost.) H-17, she says, referring to a scrap of paper in her breast pocket. "How auspicious, the H, don’t you think?"

But Po doesn’t reply. She is wondering what a kettle is and how Petal will look when she puts it on, and what about this Lemon Face?

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Po-ttle.tif Chapter 2 ~ Po Finds Her Feet

Petal parks the car and reaches across to disentangle Po from the seat belt. Po has squirmed during her ride home, so her right front leg dangles over the diagonal strap, and her left leg is squashed against her melon belly under the lap strap. The minute she’s free, the pint-sized Po bolts out the door, tripping over her back feet, and in an instant the dense bushes that divide the driveway from the lawns close around her.

Petal stares, open-mouthed, at the spot where she thinks she last saw the tiny tail. Then she plunges into the hedge, frantically clawing the branches. She’d signed a pledge to protect this needy creature, not to lose her in the first hour. Arms scratched and bleeding, she bursts out on the other side of the bushes. Nothing. Po is gone, and Petal has just sampled her worst nightmare.

Po! Where are you? Come back. This isn’t a game. Po, please—don’t desert me. Petal’s body folds together like a bellows droning its last sad note. She is about to swoon when stomping shakes the air. A rustle from a clump of bamboo becomes a barrage. The pink pampas plumes double over. Clusters of yellow and white rose blossoms tumble to the ground. Leaves fly, twigs shoot skyward, the ground trembles like the aftershock of an earthquake. The green curtain of shrubbery parts, and like an island in an oasis, Po emerges—the size of a Volkswagen van.

Ah. That feels so much better, Po sighs with pleasure, then flashes that hypnotic smile. I’m always at my best when fully fleshed out. She skips up the driveway, twirling as she goes.

Petal is dumbstruck by the abnormal normalcy of it all. Po’s sheer mass is mind-boggling. How did she do that? Petal replays Po’s admonition at the airport, I can’t talk about it right now. Was she referring to this?

Petal peeks into the bamboo at the site of Po’s transformation. Devastation, as if a hurricane blew through. Craters in the ground. Branches everywhere. The orange hibiscus is completely uprooted, its blossoms smashed to a pulp.

Well, she wanted an adventure, and here it is.

It will take me a while to find my feet, Po explains as she flexes one foot at a time and performs a series of pliés. I am a total flapjack. A round Po in a square hole.

Jet lag? suggests Petal.

More like jet leg, Po says. Don’t have my usual bounce.

Petal assesses Po through her uplifted hands, her thumbs

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and index fingers creating a director’s frame. Your perfect rotund shape is a tad lopsided as well, but never mind. What you need is a proper cup of tea and treats and a graze in the garden while the sun is high. I need it too, all except the grazing part.

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Po-ttle.tif Chapter 3 ~ Tea and Chocolate

(88 percent)

While the tea is brewing, Petal ushers Po to her room. In the middle stands a canopy bed—red. It practically screams jump on me, but Po summons all her willpower to control the urge.

And you’re welcome to jump on it, Petal says.

I wouldn’t dream of it, Po says primly.

I like to plan for every contingency. Petal raises the quilted spread, revealing a reinforced solid wooden base. Pongo teases me about things like this, but I see a sparkle in your eye that tells me I got it right. Po gives a demure shrug, wondering who Pongo is.

Beside the French doors looms an enormous weathered pine table. On it, vases overflow with blooms from the garden. Jars of pencils and pens flank a drawing tablet and several bottles of ink—black, blue, sepia, and red-orange. In the adjoining room, there is a blue velvet chair and ottoman and beside it, a stack of art books with bright, glossy covers.

Po sets her valise on the bed and strokes it with affection. It has been both tormentor and savior, delivering her to this amazing destination. Thank you, Petal. Tears well in her eyes.

Petal pets Po’s blossom-shaped ears, and the two retire to the garden, where Po samples the new delight called tea—life’s elixir,