But Tehmina suddenly changed her mind. “Wait here while I get my ice,” she said, realizing that she could use his help to lock the door.
Inside, she decided it was best not to push Francis too far. One never knew when this type of person would turn vicious. If he wanted to, he could knock her down right now, ransack Najamai’s flat and disappear completely. She shuddered at these thoughts, then composed herself.
From downstairs came the strains of “The Blue Danube.” Tehmina swayed absently. Strauss! The music reminded her of a time when the world was a simpler, better place to live in, when trips to Tar Gully did not involve the risk of spit globs. She reached into the freezer, and “The Blue Danube” concluded. Grudgingly, Tehmina allowed that there was one thing about the Boyces: they had good taste in music. Those senseless and monotonous Hindi film-songs never blared from their flat as they did sometimes from the other blocks of Firozsha Baag.
In control of herself now, she briskly stepped out. “Come on, Francis,” she said peremptorily, “help me lock this door. I will tell Najamai that you will be back tomorrow for her work.” She held out the ring of keys and Francis, not yet appeased by her half-hearted attempt at pacification, slowly and resentfully reached for them.
Tehmina was thankful at asking him to wait. “If it takes him so long, I could never do it in this darkness,” she thought, as he handed back the keys.
Silloo downstairs heard the door slam when Tehmina returned to her own flat. It was time to start dinner. She rose and went to the kitchen.
Najamai stepped off the train and gathered together her belongings: umbrella, purse, shopping-bag of leftovers, and cardigan. Sunday night had descended in full upon the station, and the platforms and waiting-rooms were deserted. She debated whether to take the taxi waiting in the night or to walk. The station clock showed nine-thirty. Even if it took her forty minutes to walk instead of the usual twenty, it would still be early enough to stop at the Boyces’ before they went to bed. Besides, the walk would be healthy and help digest her sister’s pupeta-noo-gose and dhandar-paatyo. With any luck, tonight would be a night unencumbered by the pressure of gas upon her gut.
The moon was full, the night was cool, and Najamai enjoyed her little walk. She neared Firozsha Baag and glanced quickly at the menacing mouth of Tar Gully. In there, streetlights were few, and sections of it had no lights at all. Najamai wondered if she would be able to spot any of the pimps and prostitutes who were said to visit here after dark even though Tar Gully was not a red-light district. But it looked deserted.
She was glad when the walk was over. Breathing a little rapidly, she rang the Boyce doorbell.
“Hullo, hullo — just wanted to pick up today’s paper. Only if you’ve finished with it.”
“Oh yes,” said Silloo, “I made everyone read it early.”
“This is very sweet of you,” said Najamai, raising her arm so Silloo could tuck the paper under it. Then, as Silloo reached for the flashlight, she protested: “No no, the stairs won’t be dark, there’s a full moon.”
Lighting Najamai’s way up the stairs at night was one of the many things Silloo did for her neighbour. She knew that if Najamai ever stumbled in the dark and fell down the stairs, her broken bones would be a problem for the Boyces. It was simpler to shine the flashlight and see her safely to the landing.
“Good-night,” said Najamai and started up. Silloo waited. Like a spotlight in some grotesque cabaret, the torch picked up the arduous swaying of Najamai’s buttocks. She reached the top of the stairs, breathless, thanked Silloo and disappeared.
Silloo restored the flashlight to its niche by the door. The sounds of Najamai’s preparation for bed and sleep now started to drip downstairs, as relentlessly as a leaky tap. A cupboard slammed … the easy chair in the bedroom, next to the window by day, was dragged to the bedside … footsteps led to the extremities of the flat … after a suitable interval, the flush … then the sound of water again, not torrential this time but steady, gentle, from a faucet … footsteps again …
The flow of familiar sounds was torn out of sequence by Najamai’s frantic cries.
“Help! Help! Oh quickly! Thief!”
Kersi and his mother were the first to reach the door. They were outside in time to see Francis disappear in the direction of Tar Gully. Najamai, puffing, stood at the top of the stairs. “He was hiding behind the kitchen door,” she gasped. “The front door — Tehmina as usual —”
Silloo was overcome by furious indignation. “I don’t know why, with her bad eyes, that woman must fumble and mess with your keys. What did he steal?”
“I must check my cupboards,” Najamai panted. “That rascal of a loafer will have run far already.”
Tehmina now shuffled out, still clad in the duster-coat, anxiously sucking cloves and looking very guilty. She had heard everything from behind her door but asked anyway, “What happened? Who was screaming?”
The senseless fluster irritated Kersi. He went indoors. Confused by what had happened, he sat on his bed and cracked the fingers of both hands. Each finger twice, expertly, once at the knuckle, then at the joint closest to the nail. He could also crack his toes — each toe just once, though — but he did not feel like it right now. Don’t crack your fingers, they used to tell him, your hands will become fat and ugly. For a while then he had cracked his knuckles more fervently than ever, hoping they would swell into fists the size of a face. Such fists would be useful to scare someone off in a fight. But the hands had remained quite normal.
Kersi picked up his bat. The cord had set firmly around the handle and the glue was dry; the rubber grip could go back on. There was a trick to fitting it right; if not done correctly, the grip would not cover the entire handle, but hang over the tip, like uncircumcised foreskin. He rolled down the cylindrical rubber tube onto itself, down to a rubber ring. Then he slipped the ring over the handle and unrolled it. A condom was probably put on the same way, he thought; someone had showed him those things at school, only this looked like one with the tip lopped off. Just as in that joke about a book called The Unwanted Child by EL. Burst.
He posed before the mirror and flourished the bat. Satisfied with his repair work, he sat down again. He felt angry and betrayed at the thought of Francis vanishing into Tar Gully. His anger, coupled with the emptiness of this Sunday which, like a promise unfulfilled, had primed him many hours ago, now made him succumb to the flush of heroics starting to sweep through him. He glanced at himself in the mirror again and went outside with the bat.
A small crowd of C Block neighbours and their servants had gathered around Najamai, Silloo, and Tehmina. “I’m going to find him,” Kersi announced grimly to this group.
“What rubbish are you talking?” his mother exclaimed. “In Tar Gully, alone at night?”
“Oh what a brave boy!” cried Najamai. “But maybe we should call the police.”
Tehmina, by this time, was muttering non sequiturs about ice-cubes and Scotch and soda. Kersi repeated: “I’m going to find him.”
This time Silloo said, “Your brother must go with you. Alone you’ll be no match for that rascal. Percy! Bring the other bat and go with Kersi.”
Obediently, Percy joined his brother and they set off in the direction of Tar Gully. Their mother shouted instructions after them: “Be careful for God’s sake! Stay together and don’t go too far if you cannot find him.”