Jeevanbhai rose slowly from his chair, gripping the desk tightly. He stood still for a moment, testing his legs. Then he staggered over to Zindi’s chair and leant against her back.
I went to the Star once, he said thickly, clutching her shoulders. Only the Star wasn’t there then and I had to go by boat. Do you remember, Zindi?
I remember, Zindi said grimly, and brushed his hands away. They came back again, feeling their way unsteadily over her shoulders and neck.
Do you remember? Do you remember how I arrived in your house? Jabal and the Pathans were behind us. Abusa managed to get us on to a horse, and we raced away. Only, I fell off on the dirt path, where the embankment is now. But somehow I crawled into your house. Do you remember?
He bent down and kissed her on the top of her head, where her hair was thinnest. She jabbed her elbow angrily into his stomach. He lurched backwards and then fell to his knees beside her, hugging her arm.
Do you remember how you looked after me, Zindi? Do you remember that one time when you came to me at night and found me writhing in pain?
Zindi pushed him back: Stop this nonsense.
There were tears in his eyes now, and his face crumpled like wet paper. He caught her hand and lifted it to his cheek.
We lost that battle, Zindi, he said, and that war, too. Why did we lose?
Zindi snatched her hand away. Jeevanbhai, she snapped, be a grown man, in God’s name.
Jeevanbhai brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. Then he put his arm around her waist as far as it would reach, and sank his head into her lap.
Do you think I’d win now, Zindi, he said, if I tried?
Zindi did not answer and she made no effort to push his head away. He looked up at her. He said: Do you think I might win, once?
Zindi shook her head. Stop this now, Jeevanbhai, she said wearily. There’s nothing to win any longer.
Jeevanbhai reached up and pulled her head down. Zindi, he whispered into her ear, once more. Please. Just one more time, like the last one.
Zindi snapped her head back, startled. But where? she cried.
Jeevanbhai waved a hand at the records of his planned matings. I could spread them out on the floor, he said eagerly.
Zindi laughed: We’re too old, Jeevanbhai.
Zindi, he pleaded, just one more time.
She looked at him and saw a spark of hope glinting behind the fog of years of defeat and, despite herself, she drew his face towards her and kissed him gently on his moist forehead. Then she pushed him away: It’s too late now, Jeevanbhai.
He caught her hand and sat back on his haunches. As you like, Zindi, he said. But can I tell you something? I can tell you now because we’re both drunk and tomorrow’s so close. In my own way I’ve always loved you — as much as I can love, and with as much as I had to spare from my wife.
Zindi ran her hand over his papery cheek. No, Jeevanbhai, she said sadly. You’re like all men; what you loved was the reflection you saw of yourself in my eyes.
She rose from her chair and banged her glass on the desk. I have to go now, she said. Boss has to go to sleep; it’s very late.
Jeevanbhai darted to one corner of the room and began to rummage around in a stack of files. Wait, he called out after her. I’ve got another new bottle somewhere here.
Zindi went into the shop and pulled the collapsible gate open. The passageway was pitch dark. She lifted Boss into her arms and pressed him to her breasts.
Listen, she shouted into the inner room, I’ll be back tomorrow at eight-thirty. You’d better have the papers ready.
There was no answer. Growling to herself, she left the shop and walked down the passageway, trying to keep her steps even.
Zindi! a shout echoed down the passageway. She turned, pulled her torch out, and shone it towards the shop. Jeevanbhai was leaning against the collapsible gate, holding a new bottle of whisky in one hand. She turned back and hurried away towards the Bab al-Asli.
But his voice followed her: Zindi! Tell them I’ll meet them at the Star. Tell them they have nothing to worry about. We’ll win this time.
Chapter Sixteen. Dreams
At six in the morning the telephone shattered Jyoti Das’s thirty-two hours of sleep. The telephone was on a low table beside his bed. He tried to open his eyes and found them gummed together. Turning over he fumbled blindly around till his fingers touched the cold plastic of the sleek digital telephone, and found the right button. The electronic bleating stopped. He had no idea how long it had been making that noise; the sound had seemed to grow out of his sleep. It could have been hours.
Hullo? he said into the plastic flap which opened out of the receiver. His throat felt like clotted sand.
Hullo? Das? He recognized Jai Lal’s voice, crackling with urgency.
Yes, he said. He prised his eyes open with his fingers. The heavy curtains that he had drawn across the plate-glass windows yesterday were glowing, with the first morning light behind them.
Das? Jai Lal said. Listen.
Yes? said Das.
I’ve got something to do in your part of the town. It’s important. I’ll stop by your hotel on the way. It might interest you, too.
All right, Das said. Jai Lal disconnected before he could say anything else.
Stretching his arm out to put the phone back, he could feel an almost painful stiffness in his joints. The crumpled sheets of his bed had left their impression on his skin over the last day and a half; his arm was marbled over with wrinkles. He hadn’t slept through all of the thirty-two hours, of course. Twice yesterday he had gone down to the hotel’s restaurants. He had even thought of going out for a walk once, but when he reached the revolving glass doors which sealed the steamy Ghaziri air out of the hotel his resolution had failed him. He had looked through the glass at the swirling traffic, at the entrails of unfinished buildings festooned across the skyline, and the flow of people with their inexplicable nationalities, and all he had wanted was to get back into bed, back to peaceful, orderly sleep. He had meant to ring up Jai Lal but hadn’t got around to it; sleep had claimed him first. Besides, Jai Lal had made it clear that he was busy and wouldn’t be able to shepherd him around any longer.
But now he had to hurry to be ready for Jai Lal. He made his way unsteadily to the bathroom.
By the time Jai Lal knocked, he had shaved, changed and even ordered breakfast. Jai Lal, looking grim, forced a smile when he opened the door.
Hullo, Jai, hullo, Das said. Come and sit. I’ve just ordered breakfast — do you want some?
Breakfast? Jai Lal gaped at him in astonishment. Yar, this is urgent; I didn’t come to have breakfast.
Das grimaced. Sorry, he said. I was just asking. What’s the matter?
Jai Lal glanced around the room. Haven’t you got a radio or something? he asked.
Das pointed to a knob set in a perforated panel next to the bed. Jai Lal turned it and the hotel’s piped music tinkled out of the panel.
Sorry, said Lal. There’s no need really — it’s just a habit. I even do it at home sometimes.
There were two low chairs, upholstered in imitation leather, near the window. Das took one and gestured at the other.
What’s the matter? he said. What’s so urgent?