Zindi wandered into one of the cloth-shops and looked it over. It took her no more than a glance to see that it was all wrong — some shelves were too crowded, some too bare, and there weren’t enough sample leaflets on the counter. She left it, nodding to herself. She knew she could do better.
The Durban Tailoring House was dark, as she had expected; but she could see a sliver of light under the door to the room at the back. She rattled the shop’s heavily padlocked steel collapsible gates. The door at the back opened promptly, and she saw Jeevanbhai silhouetted against a rectangle of dim light. He stood there for a moment, fumbling for his keys, his shoulders slightly stooped, his hair neatly combed as always, his teeth an iridescent ruby streak in the darkness. As she watched him unlocking the gate, the helpless, unnameable rage that had kept her awake for two nights suddenly poured into her head and began to throb in her temples.
’Aish Halak ya Zindi? he said, smiling politely, as he pushed the gate back along its rails.
Zindi crashed past him into the shop, knocking him aside with her shoulder. Why is it so dark here? she snapped. Spinning around, she slammed the edge of her palm on the light switches. Two neon lights flickered on, filling the shop with their silvery glare.
Zindi, what’re you doing? Jeevanbhai protested, sheltering his eyes and groping for the switches.
Zindi blocked his way with an outstretched arm. What’s the matter? she said. Why d’you always hide from the light like a cockroach?
She reached over the counter to the shelves and yanked out a roll of cloth. With jerks of her hand she spread several layers of the cloth over the counter. Then, very gently, she laid Boss on the improvised cot.
Yalla, go on, ya Boss, she whispered loudly. Piss, shit, do what you like. It’s our cloth now — yours and mine. We’re buying it tomorrow.
Zindi, Zindi, Jeevanbhai muttered in mild protest. Can’t you do all that later? I’ve been waiting for you. Come into the other room, and tell me …
Listen, Zindi snarled, spraying his face with spittle. I did what you said, for my reasons. Mine, not yours. I’m not your bought slave like Forid Mian. So don’t give me any orders. I’ll do what I want, and I’ll tell you when I want.
She reached into a pocket in the waist of her fustan and pulled out a tape measure. Laying one end of it at the corner of the shop, beside the collapsible gate, she measured along the wall to the far corner. Then she started at another corner and measured the breadth of the shop.
Just four metres by three metres, she said to Jeevanbhai. Very small; much smaller than it looks.
It’s big enough, Jeevanbhai said.
Have you got the documents ready?
In good time, Zindi, he answered guardedly. In good time.
‘Good time’ means tomorrow morning, as you said that day. You’ll remember that, if you want to keep all your bones together.
Zindi lifted Boss, together with his makeshift cot, off the counter and put him on the floor, in a corner. Then she put her hands and shoulders to the counter and pushed with all her strength. It scratched out a tooth-jarring squeak as it moved across the floor.
Zindi, Jeevanbhai shouted over the noise, what’re you doing?
Zindi dusted her hands and leant back to look at the counter. It was now parallel to the far wall. It looks better this way, she said. And it’s more convenient. Tomorrow I’ll get it painted nicely.
The counter had left behind a long, rectangular plinth of dust near the shelves. Zindi picked a dead scorpion out of the dust and threw it out through the bars of the collapsible gate. Look at this filth! she said. I’ll have to get it properly cleaned tomorrow.
All right, she said briskly, looking round the shop. Now I’ll do the shelves.
Zindi, Jeevanbhai said, can’t you do that tomorrow? Come inside now and tell me what happened.
Zindi smiled grimly at the unfamiliar sight of Jeevanbhai pleading. First, she said, tell me, what time shall I come tomorrow?
Any time.
No, I want a definite time. I’ll come in the morning, at eight-thirty, before the other shops open. I want to take the signboard down and shut the place up, while I rearrange it and get new stock and all that.
Jeevanbhai spat disgustedly through the collapsible gates into the corridor. All right, he said, come at eight-thirty, come at seven, stay the night, do what you like. Can’t we decide all that later?
No; the important things come first. So you’ll be here at eight-thirty with the documents, then?
Why do we want documents? Can’t we just have an agreement, between friends?
Yes, we could if we were friends, but you haven’t had a friend since your wife died. So listen, you bastard, you bring those documents with you tomorrow or I’ll tear out your cock and stuff it up your arse with a pneumatic drill. Do you understand?
Jeevanbhai backed away from her, licking his teeth. Yes, he said, I’ll bring them.
Fine, she said and shoved him towards the room at the back. We’ll go inside now.
Before going into the room, Jeevanbhai switched off all the lights in the shop, while Zindi put Boss back on the counter. The only light in the tiny room at the back came from a table-lamp that had been turned to the wall. Jeevanbhai cleared files and papers off a folding steel chair and gestured to it. A half-empty whisky-bottle and a few glasses stood on the desk, weighing down the litter of flapping paper. Jeevanbhai waved the bottle at her. Have a little bit?
Zindi made a face: A little bit.
So what happened yesterday? Jeevanbhai asked, pouring whisky into two glasses. He handed Zindi one of the glasses. She stared at the amber liquid for a moment, and then threw her head back and drained the glass.
A little bit more?
A little bit.
So what happened yesterday? Jeevanbhai asked again, pouring whisky into their glasses.
Nothing very much happened, she said. She took the glass and gazed into it, holding it in both hands. Then she pinched her nose tightly shut and tossed the whisky down.
I met him exactly where you’d said, she began. He was standing in the road outside your office and I went straight up to him and spoke to him in Hindi.
He was absolutely flabbergasted. Who knows what he’d expected? His mouth fell open and his eyebrows shot all over his forehead. He looked as though he was longing to run back across the road into the office. Perhaps he thought there had been some kind of mistake; that he was talking to the wrong woman. And then, when he understood that it wasn’t a mistake, he began to behave like a schoolboy who’d run into his headmistress with a cigarette in his mouth. In the taxi he sat squeezed against the door, as though he was afraid of being beaten, and began to talk about birds.
Birds!
It seemed as though he wasn’t really in his right mind. It grew even worse when he was trying to explain what he did for his living. He seemed to be choking on his tongue. In the end he managed to say: I’m a journalist — but he didn’t, for one instant, look as though he expected to be believed.
The whole thing seemed more and more difficult as the taxi drew closer to the Ras. How was anyone going to take this tip-top suited-booted babu into the Ras without people knowing exactly what he was the moment they saw him?
But it was the Ras itself which solved that problem.
From a long way away it was clear that something unusual was happening around the embankment. The driver saw it, too, and he slowed down. There was a crowd at the foot of the embankment. Even at that distance, they could hear shouts and a tremendous noise. Then a large part of the crowd broke away and went up and over the embankment, and disappeared into the Ras.