Zindi rose and patted his shoulder. Don’t worry, Forid, she said. I know you’re scared of him, but I’m not. You leave him to me; I’ll deal with him. And khud balak, remember, don’t be so scared. There’s not a thing he can do to you.
Forid Mian had begun to sweat. No, Zindi, he said wiping his face, I can’t. I can’t. But when he looked at her there was a spark of hope in his panic-stricken eyes.
Zindi patted him again. You leave Jeevanbhai to me, she said. I’ll deal with him. Today if possible.
She smiled, struggling to hold herself in check. She could have shouted with joy. The answers were always so easy and so elusive.
The loudspeakers in the Souq sang out the muezzin’s midday izan. Forid Mian looked distractedly around for his prayer-rug and stone.
I’ll go now, Zindi said to him. But I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. And don’t worry.
It took Zindi a long time to sell the lemon-squeezers, and they fetched less than half the money she had bargained for. It was as good as throwing them away. But she had no choice — she had to hurry, for she could see that Boss was hungry, even though he wasn’t crying (he never cried).
Back in the house, with Boss fed and put to sleep, she had nothing to do but wait for Kulfi or Jeevanbhai. The house was empty except for her and Boss. It usually was now, because Abu Fahl and Chunni and Rakesh and all the rest of them spent all their time after work with Alu, at Hajj Fahmy’s house. What did they do there? Zindi almost didn’t want to know. Often they didn’t come back till late at night. They even ate their dinner there sometimes — Professor Samuel had made arrangements to transfer the expenses to Hajj Fahmy’s accounts. Only Kulfi came back to the house early, sometimes. She was a good girl, Kulfi. It’s all a lot of nothing, she told Zindi. Nothing happens there. They just sit there and laugh and talk and drink tea and listen to Hajj Fahmy and watch Alu weaving. Late into the night — talk, talk, talk and weave, weave, weave. So boring: what to do? I wouldn’t go at all except for the films. Now they say they’re going to get a video and have a new film every day.
Maybe Kulfi would be back early today. But early for Kulfi nowadays was usually quite late at night. She had found work as a cook for another Ghaziri family, and they ate late in the evenings, sitting on their terrace because of the heat. Perhaps Jeevanbhai would be back early. But if he’d bought a new bottle and gone to his room behind the Durban Tailoring House who could tell? Nothing to do but wait.
Wait. Zaghloul and Rakesh came to the house to bathe and change after work, but they went out again half an hour later. The house was very quiet. She went up to the roof, and she could see the lights in Hajj Fahmy’s house. She could almost hear the talk and the laughter. She wandered into the courtyard to feed the ducks and the geese. Her eyes fell on the door to Jeevanbhai’s room. She looked at the lock. It was made of brass and it looked very strong. She weighed it in her hand. It wasn’t as big or as heavy as it looked. Perhaps it wasn’t as strong, either. She gave it a small tug and something in it seemed to yield. She dropped the tray of corn she had been holding, and caught the lock in both hands. She pulled, but the lock held firm. She was suddenly very angry. It was not that she wanted anything from the room — she didn’t know what she would do if the lock opened — but why should a door be locked against her in her own house? She spread her legs, took a good grip on the lock and pulled with all her strength. The door creaked on its hinges, but the lock held.
There was a gentle cough behind her. She didn’t hear it, for the blood was pounding noisily in her head. She pulled again. There was a sound of wood cracking, near the hinges, but the lock still held. Then a hand snaked out and tapped her on the shoulder.
Zindi turned and saw Jeevanbhai. She looked at him and she looked at the lock in her hands and her anger vanished and her face began to drip with sweat. Jeevanbhai, she stammered, dropping her hands. I … I don’t know.
Jeevanbhai nodded politely; he was as sober as a rock in a desert. You should have asked me for the key, Zindi, he said.
No, no, Zindi said confusedly, it wasn’t that. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten to lock it.
Are you sure now? Jeevanbhai smiled, putting his key into the lock. Come in — look around. There’s nothing here.
I know that, Jeevanbhai, Zindi pleaded, following him in. It was a small narrow room, with one small window set high in the far wall. There was a camp-bed in one corner, and beside it a rough wooden desk and a chair. A few neatly folded files lay on the floor, next to the desk.
Jeevanbhai flicked a switch and a pedestal fan in a corner began to turn slowly, sweeping the room with gusts of hot, damp air. He sat on the chair and pointed at the bed: Sit down, Zindi.
Really, Jeevanbhai, believe me, I wasn’t doing anything, Zindi said, sinking on to the bed. It creaked under her weight. A dimly glowing bulb dangled on a wire above her head.
I know, Zindi, Jeevanbhai said, I know. You didn’t want anything. It’s just that you’re worried about something, aren’t you?
A long minute passed while Zindi weighed the significance of the question. Then, hoarsely, she said: What do you mean?
Well — Jeevanbhai looked at his fingers — you’re worried about Forid Mian’s marriage, for example, aren’t you?
Zindi felt the breath rushing out of her. She stared at Jeevanbhai’s impassive face: What do you mean?
I suppose, Jeevanbhai said quietly, it would be nice for you if he married Kulfi and came to live here and started working for you? He would be reliable; not like the others? Isn’t that so?
Zindi, watching him, felt her face going stupidly slack, her mouth falling open.
Zindi, Zindi, he said, chiding her gently, shaking his head. How could you be such a fool as to plot against me with Forid Mian? You’re growing so old and desperate, you’re losing your wits. Did you really think I wouldn’t hear about it? Don’t you know? Forid Mian has no secrets from me; he can’t have. Do you know how he came to al-Ghazira? He used to work in a ship which, in Dhu-l-Hijja, used to carry pilgrims on the Hajj, all the way from Singapore and Chittagong and Bombay and all kinds of places. It used to stop here on its way to Jiddah. That’s how I met Forid Mian; he used to carry things for me sometimes. One year the ship arrived with Forid Mian locked up in the hold. He’d killed an eighty-year-old woman, a pilgrim. They found him under the covers of a lifeboat, trying to file the gold off the corpse’s teeth. He’d have hanged for murder in Chittagong, if I hadn’t managed to buy his way off the ship. But I kept the papers of course. So, you see, Forid Mian can’t afford to have any secrets from me. Did you really think you could make an ally out of him?
Zindi’s enormous shoulders sagged, and for a long time she sat slumped forward, in grim silence. Then, with an effort, she rose from the bed. She went to the chair and stood behind Jeevanbhai. She ran her hands over the sides of his face, over his nose, and over his lips and the edges of his red teeth.
Jeevanbhai, she said, do you remember that time? How you crawled into this house black with bruises and sweating fear? Do you remember how I hid you with the geese, and rubbed your body with oil?
Very deliberately, she undid the first button of Jeevanbhai’s shirt and slid her hand inside. She rolled the coarse hairs of his chest between her fingers and, slipping her hand under his vest, she brushed her thumb over his nipples. She could feel them stiffening. Jeevanbhai’s breath became a trace heavier. Do you remember? Her hand wandered down, past his navel, till they reached the drawstring of his underwear. She bent forward and caught his earlobe in her mouth. Jeevanbhai was shivering now. Remember? She took her hand out of his shirt and rubbed the fly of his trousers. She could hear him gasping for breath. She pulled the button open and slid a finger in.