Chapter Seven
i
On Monday, after another torturous night of mosquitoes, Gustad left early for work. Morning was the best time to see the manager, who, according to the staff, was a very stiffly-starched fellow, and not merely because of the hard, unyielding collars he wore regardless of heat or humidity. But Mr. Madon could stay cold and aloof, thought Gustad, and tie silly bows round his rigid neck, so long as he was impartial in matters regarding the bank. And if he wanted to keep his first name a secret, that, too, was Mr. Madon’s own pompous business.
Twenty-four years ago, when Gustad had just joined the bank, Mr. Madon was an assistant manager. It was rumoured that the then manager had found Mr. Madon’s snuff habit quite abhorrent, and ordered him to stop, despite the fact that it was a twenty-two karat gold snuffbox into which Mr. Madon dipped with the utmost style. One thing quickly led to another, and though no one knew exactly what happened, it was the manager who departed under a dark cloud. Mr. Madon immediately ascended the coveted chair.
An old peon who now spent his time in an unhectic corner on a stool as rickety as his person, doing nothing more strenuous than drinking glasses of tea or fetching them for others, claimed to have once overheard the secret first name. The peon, Bhimsen, who never used his own surname (it was not certain if he even had one) would tell of the time when he had barged in accidentally while Mr. Madon and the manager were locked in a pungent quarrel. Accidentally, for one of the two had slammed a ledger on the desk, triggering the bell that was Bhimsen’s summons. But the moment of eavesdropping had occurred so many years ago that though Bhimsen remembered the event, he had forgotten the name.
Mr. Madon’s heart, however, was as kind as his habits were finicky. He was absurdly particular about the arrangement of things on his desk: the calendar, pen stand, paperweight, lamp, all had to be positioned just so. When old Bhimsen was low on funds, he would come to work early, unshaven, and displace things while dusting Mr. Madon’s office. Then the manager would arrive, notice the misalignment, and ring for Bhimsen. Invariably, the perfunctory scolding was followed by a gift of fifty paise for a shave at the downstairs barber, which Bhimsen pocketed before proceeding to the bathroom where his razor was hidden.
‘Half-day off?’ said Mr. Madon to Gustad. ‘This Friday?’ He leaned forward and looked at the desk calendar through goldrimmed glasses. ‘Hmmm.’ He raised his eyes over the gold rims and tapped the snuffbox. ‘Why?’ The snappiness might have seemed rude to someone not familiar with his mannerisms.
Gustad tore his thoughts away from the rich, warm lustre of Mr. Madon’s leather chair. He had envied the occupant while admiring the chair for twenty-four years, and for the first few, had even harboured an ambition to make it his own some day. Very soon, though, he realized there was no room for him in that seat, given the nepotic scheme of things everywhere and the ragged path his own life had taken. He had prepared his story for Mr. Madon. ‘Have to go to doctor. This leg, giving trouble again.’
Last night in bed, while trying out the various offerable excuses for shape, size and credibility, his first plan was to say that his little girl had to be taken to the doctor. But he quickly abandoned that pretext in mid-creation. Fear of the Almighty’s wrath, or something like it, caused him to steer away from making imaginary illnesses befall his children. There was a heavenly host of angels, his grandmother had taught him long ago, who, from time to time, listened to the words and thoughts of mortals, and granted whatever was desired therein. Of course, this did not happen very often, she explained, because it was only a minor host, which was a blessing, considering how carelessly and unthinkingly most people used words. All the same, it was of the utmost necessity to keep one’s thoughts good, lest, at the moment of a bad thought, an angel might listen and make it come to pass.
‘What happened to your leg?’ asked Mr. Madon. The snuffbox was open now.
‘Nothing new, sir, just my accident from nine years ago.’ Rather me than my children. ‘It is causing—’
‘I remember your accident. You were on leave for fourteen weeks.’ He looked at the calendar again. ‘What time?’
‘One o’clock, please.’ Each time Mr. Madon leaned forward, the collar cut deeply into his neck. How did he suffer that day after day? Starch was one thing, plywood another.
‘And you will come back to the office after your appointment?’ The snuffbox moved closer. His index finger and thumb, pinched together, hovered like an insect over the dark brown powder.
‘Yes, sir, if it is before six o’clock, definitely, sir.’
‘Fine,’ snapped Mr. Madon, and was echoed by the calendar snapping shut. The audience was over. Then, quicker than Gustad’s eye could follow, a trace of snuff was lifted to the right nostril.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ he said, and limped to the door. As he shut it behind him, the Officers’ Enclave resounded with a series of explosive sneezes. He walked down the corridor, remembering to limp pronouncedly.
Till Friday afternoon he would have to continue the exaggeration. But it was easier than pretending a sore throat or fever. The latter was the riskiest, for Mr. Madon had been known to reach out and feel foreheads with the back of a slyly solicitous hand. If he suspected a blatant fraud, he led the wretch to his sanctuary where, swift as quicksilver, he whipped out a clinical thermometer from his desk drawer and tucked the bulb under the patient’s armpit. The seconds were counted off on his gold Rolex chronometer. Then he held the glistening glass stem for the anxious malingerer to peruse the glinting message. ‘Congratulations,’ Mr. Madon would say, ‘fever all gone,’ and the patient, expressing his thanks to the mercurial miracle-worker, returned quite crushed to the teller’s cage.
Wending his way to his department, Gustad saw Dinshawji clowning around Laurie Coutino’s desk. In the last few weeks, Dinshawji had succeeded in getting acquainted with the new typist, and now visited her at least once a day. But it was not the Dinshawji of the canteen joke-sessions who performed before Laurie. Forsaking his natural flair for humour, he tried to be dashing and flamboyant, or swashbuckling and debonair. The result was a pitiful spectacle of cavorting and capering during which he looked so ludicrous that Gustad was embarrassed for his friend. He could not understand what had come over Dinshawji, making a kutchoomber of his self-respect. At times like these, he was glad that although the paths of their working day crisscrossed, Dinshawji did not officially come under the jurisdiction of the Savings Department. Or it would have fallen into Gustad’s greasy, overflowing dishpan of duties to say something about the inappropriate behaviour.
Laurie’s desk was underneath a framed public notice: Entry of Firearms or Other Articles Capable of Being Used as Weapons of Offence Inside the Bank Is Strictly Prohibited. Which made it worse, because Dinshawji’s antics were in full view of the customers. With Laurie’s stapler in his hand, he was prancing around, making swooping, coiling, writhing movements of his arm, darting at her with its metal jaws, then hissing and withdrawing. Gustad admired her patience and her svelte figure.