“Thhik achhey.” Chauhan abruptly calmed down. “Never mind, mashai.”
Twenty or thirty men had lined up under a long eave of corrugated roof, waiting for the cinema’s next showing, and they were watching with open fascination. Chauhan swung his gaze past them, cowing several, then turned away.
“Come,” he said. “We’ll talk inside.”
The jua shala was still and damp, a sour smell of tari hanging in the unmoving air. Some of the crew began to straighten up, brushing off tables and opening windows.
“I know as little as you, truly,” Chauhan said.
“People think you are on top of everything.” Mohit felt oddly disconnected from the situation, able to talk to the most dangerous man in Chittagong like he was the next laborer in the carrying gang.
Chauhan barked a short, grunting laugh. “And that’s a useful reputation, to be sure.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mohit again.
“Insha Allah.”
Someone called from behind the hammered plank that served as a bar, asking about inventory, and when was that layabout bringing over more Bangla Mad, anyhow? Chauhan started to shout back, then paused, returning to Mohit for a moment.
“I don’t say that I know him.” His voice was quiet. “I don’t say that I know anything about how he came to his end, or who did it, or why. But I will tell you one thing.”
Mohit watched him, waiting.
“He had no money when he died,” said Chauhan. “And if one were to follow back all the places he’d been recently, he was not spending much. A little extra than usual, perhaps. No more.”
“But Hasan—”
Chauhan held up one hand. “I say nothing of Hasan. I only tell you what I know.” Then he turned away, and Mohit knew he was dismissed.
With nowhere to go, Mohit wandered around until he encountered Sohel, who was waiting in a long queue for the telephone stall. The government offered cheaper service, but that was a half-hour away in Chittagong proper. As for the post, even if both the sender and recipient could read and write, it could take six months for a letter to make its way across the country. Most of Bhatiary’s inhabitants kept in touch with their families at the stall, where an entrepreneur kept a cell phone available twenty hours every day. Friday, naturally, was the busiest time.
“It’s been three weeks since I called,” said Sohel. “And that time I only reached a neighbor. He’ll have passed on the news, of course, but I miss talking to my family.”
“They are well?”
“By God’s will. We hope the next harvest will be better.”
A boy walked down the queue, hawking fried groundnuts from a folded palm leaf. Mohit shook his head at the solicitation, but other men bought small handfuls, perhaps more from boredom than hunger. The drizzle sputtered on.
“The dead man — you heard?”
Sohel nodded vigorously. “I went by, but the poolish had already taken him away. Typical of the police, so efficient only after the crime is over.”
“He was the thief, the one who robbed Hasan’s house.” Mohit described what he’d learned.
“You spoke to Chauhan?” Sohel tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “So directly? And he answered you?”
“He speaks straightforwardly,” said Mohit.
“And why not?” Sohel decided. “He is too powerful to be concerned what you and I might think. He says what he knows, and then goes on with his business. Did you believe him?”
“Yes — about the money, I mean.”
“Hen.”
“I don’t understand, though.”
“Perhaps Hasan’s wife had taken it already... or the thief didn’t find the real stash.”
Mohit remembered the widow, sobbing in grief and anger, and the grim-faced relatives surrounding her. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
“A conundrum, then,” said Sohel with the satisfaction of one who knows the world runs on secret plans and hidden motivations.
“Perhaps there is nothing to understand.” Mohit stepped forward as the line advanced, gaining some shelter by the wall. “An accident, no more, and a crime of opportunity. Then the thief meets another blackguard. Just bad luck all around — as simple as that.”
“No, no, no. Life is never simple. All events have reasons, or causes.”
“Not always,” said Mohit. “Not here.”
When they reached the stall, Sohel retrieved several takas from a small cloth sack, holding the worn bills in his fist.
“Where are you calling?” the vendor asked. He sat bored under an awning of plastic, one wire running up to an aerial overhead and two others down to an automobile battery under the table. The current customer was still talking, rapidly now that he saw the vendor indicating his time was up, trying to say far more than the last few seconds could hold.
“Ghorarchar, in Rajshahi,” said Sohel. He recited the number.
“Wait, wait,” grumbled the vendor. “Here now — five minutes, ten takas.”
“When he’s done. What if the battery expires?”
The vendor shrugged. “Then you get your payment back. But why worry? I charged it fully this morning.”
Neither man took it seriously, but they argued while the current caller finished up. Mohit watched. Finally the caller stood and left, Sohel sat down, and the vendor collected his fee.
“It will take a few moments to connect,” he said, tucking the cash into his belt.
The money, thought Mohit.
A damp breeze ruffled the plastic sheet. The vendor glanced up as he finished dialing and put the phone to his ear.
Mohit put his hand on Sohel’s shoulder. “I have to go.”
“What?”
“Tell your wife — I don’t know.” And he left, almost running, as the wind increased and a smell of smoke and rain rolled over everything.
By the time he arrived at the row of concrete housing, the monsoons had burst again, a downpour slashing the muddy alleys and flimsy walls. A hundred meters away he came across another group of men, still out though most everyone had sought shelter. Mohit stopped long enough to exchange a few words, then ran on ahead.
He hammered the door with his fist and it swung open, unlatched. Farid, dozing on his charpoy, sat up in surprise.
“Ki? Mohit? What is happening?”
“Aii, saheb.” He stood dripping rainwater onto the reed mat and panting. “Why? Why?”
Farid rubbed sleep from his eyes and pushed his hair back. “Bhai?”
“You never gave Hasan the money.” Mohit thought he might cry. “That’s why the thief was still here in Bhatiary — he didn’t gain enough to leave, only enough to get himself killed.”
“What are you saying?”
“Did you arrange that too?” Mohit stepped forward to stand above Farid, staring down at him. “Because he might tell?”
“No, no.” Farid shook his head.
“You told me yourself — only someone with long experience and deep knowledge of the ships could have rigged the explosion. And who here has longer experience than yourself?”
“You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“Just tell me—” Mohit’s voice broke. “I’ve known you my entire life, saheb. You are the hero of Ghorarchar, the only reason the village did not starve years ago. When you selected me to come to Chittagong, I was so proud, I could have floated off the ground. And now...”
A long pause. Farid’s head dipped, and he mumbled something Mohit could not understand.
“What?” Mohit sank to one knee, to look Farid in the eyes.
“My daughter,” Farid whispered. “I told you, the school fees — she would have had to leave.” He hesitated. “She is not strong, like you. I would do anything for her.”