Then Zindi screamed, and for a moment I thought my head had rolled off my shoulders, for her arm snapped tight around my neck, which as you can see is no tree-trunk.
Far away from us, near the platform, Karthamma had risen to her feet, and in her hands was an old blue biscuit-tin.
Zindi threw herself into the crowd, shielding the baby with one arm and flailing about with the other. And while she fought she shouted, Give me back my money, you thief, you whore, and other things of that nature.
But Karthamma didn’t hesitate for a moment. She laughed, showing her brilliant white teeth, and said in her broken Hindi: It’s not your money, it has nothing to do with you. It’s the price of our sweat, our work. And, saying that, she took the lid off the tin and emptied the money on to the mound on the platform.
Zindi howled and her free arm thrashed about like a buzz-saw, but she was powerless — the crowd had imprisoned her.
Karthamma sneered at her as she struggled helplessly in the grip of a dozen men, and said: Give me back my child.
At that Zindi stopped fighting, and clutched the boy to her chest. There was laughter all around her then, though some people were quite angry. You could hear shouts: Send her out, send her out, what’s she doing here?
The fight had gone out of Zindi. Silently, hugging the boy, she let herself be pushed and elbowed out of the door. When she was beside me I saw that she was weeping. She muttered, tears streaming from her eyes: What are we going to do? He’s going to get us killed. We’re ruined, all our years of struggle wasted because of a few days of madness.
I took her arm then, and led her out, through the jeers of the crowd in the lane. And all the way back to her house she said not a single word.
Jeevanbhai stopped abruptly. His eyes rose to the ceiling and he seemed to go into a trance, swaying on his chair. Das, who had been straining forward, drinking in every word, felt himself fall, like a dropped puppet. He looked around him, startled. Jai Lal’s eyes were shut, as though he had been lulled into a doze by Jeevanbhai’s monotone. Das leant over and shook him. Without missing a breath Lal said loudly: Very interesting, Jeevanbhai, very interesting. And where is this man staying now?
Jeevanbhai fumbled around the desk for the bottle of whisky and poured himself another drink. He was clearly very tired. Propping up his head with his arm, he looked at them in turn.
He’s staying in Hajj Fahmy’s house now, he said wearily. I believe he’s weaving a lot. I’m sure Hajj Fahmy won’t lose by his hospitality. This man’s a good weaver, they say, and there’s a good market in hand-woven cloth among foreigners.
What will happen next, Patel sahb?
Who can tell? Jeevanbhai sighed. I know as little as you do.
I can’t understand it, Das broke in. I can’t understand it at all.
Lal snorted derisively: What don’t you understand? He’s worked out some kind of new money-making racket. That’s all you need to understand. It’s something to do with money.
He looked at Jeevanbhai for confirmation. Jeevanbhai inclined his head politely.
But what should we do now, Jai? said Das. What are our options? What can we do?
Nothing, Lal said drily. There’s nothing we can do. It’s a very tricky situation. We can’t alert the Ghaziri authorities. It would be a disaster if they found out that Indians are involved in this business. They’d probably stop giving new visas to Indian workers. They’ve done that kind of thing before. They might even expel the workers who’re already here. That would mean a drop in remittances, and therefore in the foreign-exchange reserves back home and so on and so forth. If anything like that happened, half the embassy here would be recalled in disgrace, with all their increments docked. We can’t risk anything like that. We’ll just have to try to keep the whole thing quiet, and see what we can do. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll find some way of getting your man out of here and back to India.
Lal looked despondently at Jeevanbhai: Isn’t that true, Patel sahb?
Yes, said Jeevanbhai. His eyes searched the floor till they found the heavy leather attaché case Lal had brought with him. He looked at Lal expectantly.
Lal lifted the attaché case on to his knees and opened it. But, he said, you’ll keep us informed, Patel sahb, no?
Yes, of course, of course.
Lal took two bottles of Scotch whisky out of his case. Jeevanbhai stretched out his hand, but at that moment Das reached across and tapped Lal’s arm.
Listen, Jai, he said, I want to go to this place — the Ras — and look it over a bit. If possible, I’d like to see this man; see where he’s living and so on. It would give me a more realistic picture, and at least I’d have something for the reports I’ll have to send back home. What do you think?
Lal leant back, with the bottles in his hands, and looked inquiringly at Jeevanbhai: I’m sure you can arrange it, no, Patel sahb?
Jeevanbhai clicked his tongue in irritation: No. I don’t see how it can be done. How can anyone take an absolute stranger into that place? People would be suspicious at once. I couldn’t guarantee his safety, especially if people found out what his connections are.
Das put the bottles on the floor, beside his chair. Try to think, Patel sahb, he said sharply. I’m sure you can manage something.
Jeevanbhai wiped his forehead with his sleeve. There’s one possibility, he said reluctantly. I can’t take him of course, because the people there are suspicious of me anyway. But there’s a chance that I might be able to persuade Zindi at-Tiffaha to take him. But it’ll take some time, and he’ll have to wait.
Lal nodded: That’s fine; get in touch when it’s arranged. He held the bottles out to Jeevanbhai and smiled: That’s good whisky, Patel sahb. It would cost hundreds of dirhams for a bottle of that here.
Jeevanbhai almost snatched the bottles out of his hands, and locked them away in a drawer. Lal stood up. Patel sahb, he said gravely, we’ll need all your help over the next few weeks.
Jeevanbhai nodded. Then, softly, almost timidly, he said: What about the other thing, Mr Lal?
Other thing? said Lal surprised. What thing?
Don’t you remember? said Jeevanbhai. I was asking you the other day …
Oh, that, said Lal. Oh, yes. We’ll work out something.
Jeevanbhai dropped his eyes and led them through the shop. Lal stopped at the door. Tell me, Patel sahb, he said. You know these people, and this man. What do you think his game is?
Is it a game?
Isn’t it?
You must explain it to me, then. Jeevanbhai smiled at them, very sweetly, and ushered them out with a stoop of his shoulder.
Afterwards, at Lal’s large fifth-floor flat in a newly built residential suburb, they sat on a balcony, surrounded by potted palms and ferns, drinking beer and watching the strung-out lights of tankers at sea. Das was very tired but strangely elated: it was as though in the course of one day he had been forcibly stretched into the calm strength and insights of middle age.
He talked desultorily to Lal about their colleagues in India, while Lal’s slim, pretty wife offered them bowls of cashew nuts and dalmoth. Then a servant called her away to the kitchen, and Lal yawned and shut his eyes. My God, he said, he talked on and on. I thought he’d never stop.