Das nodded and they fell into a tired silence. After a while, Lal said languidly: Tell me, what did you think of our friend Jeevanbhai?
Das sat upright and thought for a moment. I don’t think, he said carefully, that I’ve ever heard anyone talk as marvellously as he did tonight.
Really?
Yes, Das said softly, embarrassed. But tell me, do you think he’s reliable?
Oh, yes. I think so. Besides, he has to be, because otherwise his stock of whisky would dry up. Why?
Nothing really. It’s just that … though he tries to be businesslike and all that, when he actually talks, he’s like a sleepwalker — like a man living in a dream. I wouldn’t trust him — not because he’s dishonest, though he might be — but because he doesn’t seem to be living in this world at all.
Lal laughed: Next you’ll be telling me he’s a bird of paradise.
Das grimaced in embarrassment. Never mind, he said. But what was that business at the end, about the ‘other thing’?
Oh, that. He’s got some idea into his head that he wants to go to India and settle there in a small town and start a shop. He wants citizenship and he wants help getting out of the country. He thinks they may not let him out. The trouble is we need him here; he’s much more useful here.
Lal stretched and stood up. Let’s forget business for a while, he said. Come, I’ll show you an interesting game.
He led Das into their drawing-room. At one end stood a streamlined, steel-blue television set. Beside it, on a stool, was a squat, gleaming, chrome-plated machine, bedecked with knobs and buttons.
Lal switched it on. Geometrical images and the word ‘play’ appeared on the television screen. He watched Das’s surprise with evident delight.
It’s a video game, he said. Cost me two months’ savings. Even the Ambassador hasn’t got one like it.
Of course, he added quickly, it’s for children really. I bought it for my son, Sunil. But it’s fun sometimes, even for us.
He handed Jyoti Das a set of controls. You have to shoot me down, he said, and pressed a button. The images on the screen began to circle confusingly about. Jyoti tried to make sense of it and couldn’t.
Sorry, he said, handing his controls back. I don’t think I’ll be any good at this.
Lal laughed: You’re a washout, yar. Wait, I’ll show you how it’s played.
He went to the door and called out: Sunil. Sunil beta, come and play videos. He had to call out three more times before a wide-eyed, knee-high boy in shorts was pushed into the room by a servant. He stood in the doorway, sucking his thumb.
Come on, beta, Lal cajoled him. Come and show this nice uncle how to play videos. He hasn’t seen one before.
The boy stayed where he was, sucking his thumb. Lal said apologetically to Jyoti: He doesn’t like it much. But he has to learn.
He went up to the boy and said sharply: Come on, beta. Come and play with your video. It cost money.
He pulled the boy’s hand out of his mouth and put a set of controls in it. The boy pressed the wrong button and the image on the screen faded away.
What’re you doing, beta? Lal exclaimed in irritation.
Jyoti, watching the boy, saw that his hands had begun to shake and drops of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Suddenly a heavy, putrid smell filled the room.
Jyoti glanced quickly around the room in surprise. Then he looked at the boy. A stain was spreading across the back of his shorts, and a yellow mess was dribbling down his thighs. He was sucking his thumb again.
Beta! Lal exploded. He stopped and drew in his breath. Then he caught Jyoti’s arm and pulled him out of the room. Slamming the door on the boy, he shouted towards the kitchen: Babs, go and look. He’s done it again.
He hurried Jyoti to the balcony. His forelock had fallen across his face and his hands shook as he splashed whisky into their glasses. Jyoti stood frozen in a corner.
Everything’s going wrong, Lal said. Nothing’s right any longer; it’s all chaos. It worries me. I’m very worried.
Chapter Fourteen. Besieged
Zindi counted through the hours for ten days before she allowed herself to go looking for Forid Mian again. On the morning of the tenth day, at ten o’clock — not too early to make her journey seem like anything but an ordinary shopping trip — she put Boss on her hip and set out for the Souq. When she reached the front door she stopped, suddenly remembering the plastic bag Professor Samuel had left for her that morning. She went back to her room to fetch it. It was a large bulging bag, with colourful advertisements for cigarettes printed on both sides. It was very heavy, for it contained forty-two aluminium lemon-squeezers.
Zindi hurried through the Ras to the embankment, ignoring the faces that were pointedly turned away from her on the way. As she scrambled up the slope of the embankment, the plastic bag seemed to grow heavier and heavier, until she was struggling to pull it along, like a ship fighting a dragging anchor. She cursed the lemon-squeezers, cursed Professor Samuel, cursed Alu and the whole of the Ras. When she reached the road at the top, she knew she would not be able to walk all the way to the Souq, as she had planned, so she squatted on the gravel at the side of the road and waited for a share-taxi. There was very little traffic on the road, nothing more than an occasional speeding truck. The road began to shimmer in the heat of the climbing sun, and soon the heavy cloth of her black fustan was drenched to the ankles in sweat. She began to worry about Boss, who was squirming quietly in the sun. After a while, she took off her scarf, baring the thin hair on her head to the sun, and draped it over him. A yellow and black taxi materialized like a mirage somewhere in the shimmering haze on the road, and she ran out to stop it. It swerved neatly past her and disappeared, blaring a tune on its musical horn. Zindi went back to the side of the road, cursing: Sons of bitches, shit … Now she was too impatient to sit down again, and she squinted down the road standing, shifting Boss from one hip to the other. Ten days was not such a long time, but some ten days were worse than others. These had been as bad as any she could have imagined; worse, because she could not have imagined these. She had had to lock herself into the house every day to keep herself from rushing off to the Souq and Forid Mian. The Souq was hope. That was why she had denied it to herself for so many days — so that the taste of it would be the sweeter when it came. Not just that, of course. Every time temptation threatened to overwhelm her, she had reminded herself of all the reasons why she had decided on ten days, no more, no less. Ten days was just right: long enough to make her, Zindi, seem disinterested; enough to let Forid Mian think a bit, worry a bit; but not so long that their conversation would slip from his mind. Ten days was just right.
Here was another taxi, a large one this time, an old Mercedes-Benz. She stood in the middle of the road with her arms stretched out, like a traffic policeman, and it stopped. It took her some time, and a little help, to climb out again, when the taxi drew up at the Maidan al-Jami‘i. Kam? she asked the young, curly-haired driver, reaching into the neck of her dress for her purse.
One dirham, he said.
What? she shouted. You son of a …
He laughed: Yes, Mother?
She had to forgive him: that was clever enough to make him an Egyptian, even though his accent didn’t sound it. Laughing to herself, she turned and saw the Bab al-Asli across the square, guarding hope, and everything left her mind but the main intention. She forgot that she had meant to dispose of the lemon-squeezers first. She hurried across the square, through the Bab, and turned into the first lane. There it was, the Durban Tailoring House, conspicuous by its dimness in that row of shining shops.