Mr Kasmi remained motionless for a few moments. Then, pressing the handkerchief to his nose, he sat down. He closed his eyes to calm his heartbeat.
‘A new month, Kasmi-sahib,’ said the headmaster. He stood in the doorway, smiling across the room at Mr Kasmi. Mr Kasmi returned the smile.
A wave of the foul smell rose from beneath the floor.
‘You get used to it, Kasmi-sahib,’ the headmaster said cheerfully, pointing at Mr Kasmi’s handkerchief. He had walked around his desk and was settled in his chair. A little embarrassed, Mr Kasmi returned the handkerchief to his pocket. He unzipped his bag and took out the pension book.
As he handed the stamped book back across the desk the headmaster shook his head mockingly and said, ‘I’m a generous man, Kasmi-sahib. I keep giving you all this money despite the fact that even with a double MA you don’t know anything about literature.’
Mr Kasmi shut his eyelids and, raising a forefinger, whispered an ‘ah’. He smiled. This was a long-standing but friendly argument. Mr Kasmi had always believed that Chaucer’s Squiere’s Tale was based on a story from the Arabian Nights, taken to Europe by Italian merchants from the Black Sea. The headmaster never accepted this. He did not even acknowledge the similarity between the two stories. To back up his argument Mr Kasmi would bring back pages of notes every time he visited a city library. The headmaster would give them a cursory glance and say, ‘No. Chaucer is far superior. Far, far superior.’
Stepping out of the office, Mr Kasmi strained to catch any noises coming from the classroom in front of him. Then he shook his head; there was no reason to suppose that the duel was still going on.
Mr Kasmi unhooked one leaf of the school gate and emerged on to the street. The sun shone oppressively, producing in the sky a glare so brilliant that it ate into the silhouettes, blurring their edges. The heat was beginning. The fortnightly queue of labourers was in place outside Mujeeb Ali’s house, winding around the walls and stretching out of sight behind a cluster of trees. A few of the men had broken away and were helping to restrain a headstrong mare, kicking up dust. The others watched with interest, shouting occasional words of advice and encouragement. Mr Kasmi waited under a tree for the beast to be overpowered before resuming his walk towards the courthouse. He went along the riverbank, passing the bus station which was deserted at this hour. A bus remained in the shelter at all times, parked with its muzzle pressed against the posts. At seven o’clock every morning a busload of people, animals and birds, boxes and crates left the stand; to be replaced, an hour or so later, by the incoming service bringing the mail, newspapers, and schoolboys from the surrounding villages, as well as other passengers. There was another exchange in the evenings.
Mr Kasmi went to Yusuf Rao’s office. The small room stood away from the other buildings of the courthouse in the shadow of a dusty jand tree. The area around the giant tree’s roots was overwhelmed by weeds that had run to seed and were turning yellow.
‘Waiting for customers?’ Mr Kasmi said into the office before entering. Above him hung a small, clumsily painted sign–
YUSUF RAO.
ADVOCATE, NOTARY-PUBLIC,
NON-OFFICIAL JAIL VISITOR
The room was approximately twenty feet by ten; and pushed against the longer wall, behind the desk and beneath the only window, was a narrow rope cot on which Yusuf Rao was lying, his hands clasped behind his neck, his eyes closed.
‘Of course.’ Yusuf Rao opened his eyes. ‘Lawyers are like prostitutes. If a customer comes we eat, otherwise we go hungry.’ He swung his feet to the floor and felt for his slippers.
Mr Kasmi approached the desk. ‘The courts are shut for four days in honour of the judge but I knew you’d still be here, waiting to pounce on some unfortunate passer-by.’ Through the open window he could see the empty arches of the courthouse and, brilliant-white in the sunshine, the whitewashed bricks that lined the edges of the paths leading to various parts of the building. Yusuf Rao, because he had been the first lawyer in town, was the only one who had managed to build an office. The three younger lawyers conducted their business from kiosks which stood beneath the trees. Their signs were chained and padlocked against those who would steal them for roofing material.
With an effort Yusuf Rao got to his feet and stiffly took the three steps to his desk. ‘I’m an optimist. Anything’s possible in a country where the land reforms are welcomed by the landowners.’
‘And while we’re on the subject of the rich,’ Mr Kasmi said seriously, ‘who do you think it was? About the judge, I mean.’
Yusuf Rao drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I don’t know. He was a judge, corrupt to the core. And he was involved in politics. It could be anyone.’
Many years before, having just returned to the town of his birth to begin a practice, Yusuf Rao had soon understood that Judge Anwar of the Fourth Criminal Court put many obstacles in the way of justice. He had duly denounced the judge to the authorities in the capital, accusing him of failing to remand known criminals, even murderers, in custody and allowing them to intimidate witnesses; he had also given court credentials to some of the killers on the Special Commission’s list.
‘And he was rich,’ Mr Kasmi said, unfastening his bag.
‘Yes, but they didn’t take anything. They must have come with only one thing on their mind.’ Yusuf Rao touched two fingers to his right temple.
Mr Kasmi took out the jar of coffee.
‘Coffee!’ Yusuf Rao exclaimed and finished taming his hair with the palms of his hand. He leaned forward and took the jar from Mr Kasmi’s hand. ‘Where did you get it?’
Mr Kasmi studied the pleasure on his friend’s face. ‘Burkat’s wife brought it. She came to see me on Tuesday, wanted me to write a letter in English to her son.’
Yusuf Rao was drawing the smell of the grounds into his nostrils. ‘Yes. I heard she was back from Canada.’
Mr Kasmi said, cautiously, ‘She’s Kalsum’s sister. Did you know that?’
Yusuf Rao nodded without looking up. ‘Yes, I did.’ And replacing the lid on the jar he asked, ‘How is that poor woman?’
‘She gets by,’ Mr Kasmi replied. ‘After the boy died Mujeeb Ali went on paying her his wages. She’s grateful for that.’
Yusuf Rao’s head shot up. ‘Is she, really?’ He smiled with one side of his mouth. ‘Perhaps someone should tell her that it was Mujeeb Ali who had her boy murdered in the first place.’
‘There’s no evidence for that. That is only your theory.’
Yusuf Rao ignored the interruption. ‘A neat arrangement. I get my eighteen-year-old employee to fire at my political opponent at an election meeting. And to cover up I hire assassins to beat the boy to death after he has fired the shot. My opponent has a hole in his thigh, the boy is dead, and I get a chance every month to prove my generosity by giving money to the boy’s mother. A very neat arrangement indeed.’
In the past on more than one occasion Mr Kasmi and Yusuf Rao had discussed this matter much more passionately, both men refusing to give ground. But today Mr Kasmi just shrugged. ‘How is your leg, anyway?’