And now it’s not just the Ras any more. People are getting to hear of it outside, and they’re pouring in. Last week the Baluchis, who used to sweep the streets of the New Town during the day and sleep in them at night, started arriving and they’ve all been given places to stay.
It’s getting worse and worse every day. Now no one will talk to me any more or let me into their houses or their shacks, because I’m not fool enough to wear their duster on my arm. They say I bring in germs. Think of it! Zindi at-Tiffaha, without whose consent no shack could be built in the Ras once upon a time, brings in germs now!
Whatever happens, it’s the end for me: either they’ll get the house or the police will. It’s just a matter of time now before the police and the Amirs get to hear of it. No one’s gone to them yet, because that’s the one thing no one in the Ras ever does. But soon enough someone or other will go, and then it’ll be the end of the Ras, the end of our houses, the end of our peace, the end of our luck and our good times.
And where shall I go then?
Jeevanbhai Patel was staring at the floor, his hands clasped between his knees. It was a long time before he spoke. He said: Zindi, you don’t have to go very far. What about the shop?
Zindi, still hiccuping with sobs, stopped wiping her face: What shop?
My shop. The Durban Tailoring House. Don’t you want it?
Zindi looked him over suspiciously: Yes. Why?
Jeevanbhai smiled and patted her on the shoulder. Tell me, Zindi, he said, why do you want that shop so much?
Why do I want it so much? Can’t you see why I want it so much? If I had it, I’d be able to get away from here before the end comes. And who knows? God willing, I might be able to take a few of them with me. They might listen to me if I had something to offer, some alternative. They won’t listen to me now, but with that shop who knows? And at least, if I do get it, when the end comes a couple of them will have somewhere to hide.
Jeevanbhai ran his tongue over his teeth. Zindi, he said, I told you before, but you weren’t listening. You can have the shop.
Zindi rose from the bed and went to the door. All right, Jeevanbhai, she said briskly, tell me what you’ve got in your mind or I’m going. I know you’re not a man who gives away shops for love and sweet words. So just tell me the truth; I’m not a child.
No, Jeevanbhai said quietly, you’re right; I’m not the kind of man who gives away a shop for nothing. But I’m not going to give it away for nothing. You’ll have to pay me half what it would cost on the open market. I know you’ve got enough money hidden away somewhere. We can talk about the price later. The other half will be my share. We can divide the profits. The place needs a change anyway; it never brings luck if it stays the same for too long. I’ve been thinking of it myself.
Watching him closely, Zindi said: But that’s not all, is it?
Jeevanbhai smiled. No, Zindi, he said, it’s true. That’s not all. I want something from you, too. But it’s a small thing, and it’s not very important.
Tell me quickly and no more talk. You know you can have what I’ve got to give, but that you don’t want. What do you want?
She leant forward and peered at him. Not Kulfi? she gasped in surprise. No, not her?
Jeevanbhai burst into laughter: An old whore’s like an old zip — stuck. Can’t you ever think of anything else? No, I don’t want her or anything like that. You can still marry her off to Forid Mian if you like — if he has the strength to sign the khitba. No, what I want is a very small thing. I just want you to tell me what’s happening here, now and then. You know I don’t get to hear as much now as I used to and, as you said yourself, nowadays one can’t afford to be behind the news. And I may want you to do a couple of things for me sometimes.
What things?
Small things. For example, I’ve got a couple of friends — Indians, nice people. One of them’s heard about Alu and wants to meet him. Maybe you could take him tomorrow?
Zindi leant her head against the door and thought hard for a while. Then, with a quick, regretful shake of her head, she said: Police, I suppose? No, I can’t. You know that’s one thing I couldn’t do to them. Whatever happens in the future, in the past they all ate my bread and salt. They’ve become part of my flesh. You shouldn’t have said that, Jeevanbhai. You know I can’t do it.
Zindi, Zindi, don’t be a fool. Do you think I’d ask if they were police? Don’t I know you well enough? They’re not — they’re just ordinary people who I met once in India. They’re just ordinary people. You’ll know as soon as you see this man. He’s a boy really, just like Alu. He must be in his twenties. He always looks surprised, like a schoolboy. One of his eyebrows is higher than the other. He’s just heard a few things and he’s curious, like anyone else. Like you or me. That’s all. Believe me.
Zindi hesitated for an instant, and then she shook her head. No, she said, you know I can’t do it.
So what about the shop, then?
Zindi turned, swinging her huge bulk sharply on her heel, and took the latch off its hook.
Jeevanbhai spoke rapidly, at her back: Listen, Zindi. God didn’t mean you to be a fool. Listen to me. I’ll talk to my friend and I’ll tell him to wait for you, in the road opposite my office, near the harbour. Don’t come into the office. Bring him straight here and take him to Hajj Fahmy’s house. Wear a duster if you have to, for once. Give him one, too, if they won’t let you in otherwise. Let him talk to Alu if he wants. He may even want to take a few pictures. Afterwards take him out of the Ras, put him into a taxi and send him home. But I want you to tell me what he does and what he says. So come to the Souq the next day — day after tomorrow. Come to the Durban Tailoring House at nine. I’ll be there. We can talk safely there. And the very next morning you can start setting up the shop. Do you hear me? Zindi?
Zindi threw the door open and hurried across the courtyard. It was time to feed Boss again.
Chapter Fifteen. Reflections
Zindi knew that today she would have to walk all the way to the Souq. Very few share-taxis or buses passed by the Ras after dark, and those that did never stopped.
She left her house at a quarter past eight, for she knew it would take her three-quarters of an hour, probably more, with Boss in her arms. At least there weren’t any lemon-squeezers to carry. She remembered at the last minute to take her torch; it was very dark in the Ras at night, and even someone who knew its lanes like the lines on her own hands, as she did, stood in danger of tripping over a sleeping dog or stumbling into some newly sprouted shack. As an afterthought she decided to take a stick as well — many of the stray dogs in the Ras were known to turn vicious at night.
It took her longer than she had expected to reach the Maidan al-Jami‘i. She had to stop twice on the way to rest: Boss was growing heavier every day. By the time she reached the Souq it was almost nine-thirty. Most of the jewellery- and electronics-shops had already shut down, but a few of the cloth-shops were still open. She didn’t expect to see a light in the Durban Tailoring House. She knew Jeevanbhai would be in the small room behind the shop. Drinking, probably. He could wait: it would do him good; make him drunker. Maybe he’d drink himself to death.