Forid Mian was there after alclass="underline" that was one ten-day-long worry she’d forgotten this morning. She stood in the passageway for a minute, and looked the shop over again, critically judging its length, its breadth, weighing its possibilities. It didn’t disappoint her, as she had feared it might.
She bustled in, trying to look busy. Ah, Forid Mian! she said, putting her plastic bag down on the floor. How are you?
He was working at his sewing machine. How are you? he answered politely.
She lifted Boss with both her hands and put him down on his back on a pile of cloth on the counter.
Don’t do that, Zindi, Forid Mian cried in alarm. He’ll wet the …
No, don’t worry, she said. He never pisses on strange clothes. He’s not like other children.
Forid Mian looked at her sceptically and went back to his sewing machine. Zindi seated herself on a stool and leant back against the counter. For a long while she said nothing. The approaches and openings she had so carefully prepared slipped out of her mind while she looked around the shop, taking in small details, like the exposed wiring near the switches. Somewhere at the back of her mind she tried to work out what it would cost to make the place respectable again. Then, with a start, she remembered Forid Mian and turned. She caught him darting her a sidelong glance.
So, Zindi, he said quickly, what brings you to the Souq?
Oh, just some shopping, Zindi said. I was passing by and I thought I’d come around and see how Forid Mian is.
Forid Mian leant back against the wall and looked at her, his dull eyes opaque. You’re thinking about me a lot nowadays, Zindi, he said.
Of course, Zindi said blandly, I always think about old friends.
What were you thinking? said Forid Mian.
Oh, many things. I was thinking about that funny thing you said that night. How are the nights going now? Still rubbing hard on dry sheets, hoping to set them on fire?
Zindi threw her head back and laughed.
Forid Mian lowered his eyes and looked at the bulging plastic bag on the floor. What’s in that? he said, pointing with a bent, pencil-thin finger.
Oh, that, said Zindi, still shaking with laughter. That’s lemon-squeezers. Forty-two lemon-squeezers.
Forid Mian gasped: Forty-two lemon-squeezers! What are you going to do with forty-two lemon-squeezers? Start a fruit-juice stall?
No, no. Zindi shook her head, wondering why they were talking about lemon-squeezers. They’re not for me, she said quickly. I needed some money this morning, and there was no money in the Ras, so Professor Samuel sent these — someone who works in some shop or factory had got hold of them and left them with him. If I want money for the shopping, I have to sell these.
Sell these? For money? Forid Mian looked at her in bewilderment.
Yes, she said exasperated. That’s what happened. Yesterday was Thursday, the end of the week. The people in the house usually give me the week’s money on Thursday. But now there’s no money in the Ras; it’s all in accounts and account-books. In banks, and Professor Samuel’s files. Anyway, they didn’t give me any money. Samuel said he’s put it all in my account and entered it against my name and all that. But I wanted money. Money. What’s the use of numbers? So I said: You sister-fucking arsehole, I want money. Cash. But then he called all the others, and even Abu Fahl turned against me. I said: I want money. What’s the use of an account-book? Can you pay for a bus with an account-book? I haven’t been out of the Ras for more than a week and I’m going to the Souq tomorrow. I need money. So she said, that bitch Karthamma: Why’d you want to go out of the Ras? You don’t do any work. We do the work; you should stay here and clean the house. As if. So I said: I’ll tear your eyes out if you try to keep me here for one more day, you ungrateful bitch. Then she shouted, and I shouted. And I said to Samueclass="underline" Why don’t you give me one of those envelopes with money inside, like you give the others when they go out of the Ras? And he said that all the envelopes had already been given out for the next day. Then later he said he had these … these lemon-squeezers, so I took them. Luckily I had a bit of cash in my purse, and Kulfi gave me a bit.
Zindi stopped, her chest heaving, her eyes bloodshot. Why’re you asking all this? she said. You’d know all about it anyway, if you didn’t live like a snail, hidden away in the Souq.
Then a thought struck her, and she looked at him anxiously: Do you want to buy some? She took a lemon-squeezer from the bag and handed it to him. He played with the handles, opening and shutting it like a pair of scissors.
How much? he said.
Two dirhams? she answered tentatively.
No. He shook his head.
One-fifty?
I don’t really want it, he said and handed it back to her.
No, Zindi laughed. I’d forgotten. It’s something else you want to squeeze now. No?
What do you mean, Zindi?
Well … something like a wife?
Forid Mian didn’t answer. Zindi leant towards him: Don’t you remember? We were talking about your marriage that night?
Forid Mian rose abruptly from his stool. It seems to me, Zindi, he said, that you’re thinking about my marriage much more than I am.
Zindi laughed, attempting unconcern. Of course I think about your marriage, she said. If I didn’t, who would? Don’t you remember how you said that night that you’d like to get married and settle down in your Chatgan and leave all this behind? Don‘t you remember? I think there’s a chance, just a chance, that it might be arranged.
Forid Mian began to tidy one of the shelves behind the counter. I don’t know what I was talking about that night, he said. I must have gone crazy. Why should I want to go back to Chatgan when everyone in Chatgan is trying to get here?
Zindi stared at him in uncomprehending disbelief. But, she began, you said …
Oh, I was just talking.
Zindi looked wildly, tearfully around the shop. Instinctively her hand rose to scratch her mole. But, listen, she said, there must be something …
Why, Zindi, Forid Mian said loudly, are you so interested in my marriage?
Zindi impatiently waved the question away. Listen, she said, what about, what if we get you married here?
Here? Forid Mian turned from the shelf and stared at her. To whom?
To someone. Zindi compressed her lips and squeezed out a smile. But you tell me first, what do you think of the idea?
How can I tell you, until you tell me?
To Kulfi-didi, Zindi said, and watched the narrowing of his eyes with triumph. Do you know her? She lives in my house.
Let me see, said Forid Mian, stroking his stringy white beard. Tell me what she’s like.
She’s fair; very fair. And she has a nice figure — not full exactly, but not thin, either. She’s a widow. She’s nice. You’ll like her.
Forid Mian nodded. Yes, he said, I think I’ve seen her in the Souq.
What do you think?
Forid Mian shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, but Zindi was quick to spot the suddenly lustful twist of his mouth. But do you think she’ll be willing? he said. She must be Hindu.
Let’s see, said Zindi, let’s see. She stopped and looked at him hard. But there’s one thing, Forid Mian, she went on softly. And that is this. If it’s arranged, you’ll have to come and live in my house, and you’ll have to leave Jeevanbhai and start working for me.
Forid Mian was suddenly very frightened. No, Zindi, he said, biting his knuckles. No, I can’t do that. How could I tell Jeevanbhai? What would Jeevanbhai do? No, no, Zindi, I can’t.