Garden of Dreams (12 page)

The phone, again, intruded. Five rings before she picked it up. ‘An old friend is here,’ was all Rakesh said, hanging up. Little fucker, he was playing with her. But she trusted him, just enough, so buzzed the golden doors open, for the last time that day, god willing.

From the sofa, sitting up, she immediately recognised the slinking man in the pale grey pathan suit and reflector sunglasses, stringy dark hair flopping around his shoulders. They hadn’t been in touch since the fire; she’d assumed he’d gone into hiding. For some reason.

Bagh ja, chutiya
, was the phrase that came into her head –
Go away, fucker
. But she wanted to talk to him. Still, she stayed seated. Let him come to her.

‘My apologies, Auntie-ji,’ Anand said, bowing like the gentleman he’d never be. ‘I know I should have been here sooner.’ He still chewed gum.

‘Where have you been, exactly?’ She didn’t invite him to sit down but he did anyway, on the other end of the sofa.

‘Fucking busy, Auntie. And the cops are chasing me …’

‘Did you start that fire?’ Lakshmi eyed her empty whisky glass sadly. She really wasn’t in the mood for Anand; he looked especially slimy and had taken too long to report to her.

‘You insult me, Auntie! What makes you think I’d do such mischief?’

‘Then why are they after you? A new reason?’

‘I killed someone.’

‘That’s not new …’

‘Someone the cops are, were, very chummy with. An informant. The bitch was giving them lots of juicy details about the Road, about us, about you …’

‘Which bitch?’

‘Ojal, the hijra.’

Lakshmi tried to take it all in, connect the dots. ‘How do they know you did it? And by the way, which “they” are we talking about?’

‘Inspector Gupta and his people. He’s been up my arse for quite a while. And now he’s getting …’

‘Up
my
arse …’

‘At least closer, and hotter on the trail.’ Anand massaged his knees as he spoke. ‘I think you’re his actual target, Auntie – if I may say so.’

Lakshmi decided it was time for another Scotch. She rose and walked to the sideboard, swirled the liquor around in the decanter for Anand to see, and poured a drink. One drink. For herself. ‘So if you’ve got the police right on your heels, why do you come to me?’

‘To share some good news, for one thing.’ She was silent. ‘You don’t want to know?’

‘Tell me anyway.’ Lakshmi circled behind Anand’s chair and started rubbing his neck and shoulders, painfully tight. He relaxed slightly.

‘Your boy – I’ve put up his photograph on some posters around the city. Missing, reward, that sort of thing. Put up on the Road, near the Red Fort, round New Delhi. Gave a cell number to call – recorded the numbers of any callers. Thought you’d be pleased.’

Anand was even stupider than she’d thought. He had waved not only one but two flags for the police to nail her now – those police, the ones she didn’t have under her thumb, in her pocket. The dauntless Gupta. She’d never met the man, but had heard of his talent for flushing out scum and cleaning up the city; most of the force was more than willing to let it choke on its own filth. Again the question arose, directed at Gupta and at Anand too:
what was she going to do with him?

She patted him on the shoulder and made it clear it was time for him to leave, walking towards the golden doors. ‘You’re asking for my protection, isn’t it?’ She was smiling.

Like a little boy who has been forgiven by his mother, Anand walked slowly up to her and took her hand, kissed it. He still had on his mirrored sunglasses and she saw herself, warped in them. Two of her.

She even saw herself for the split second that her arms reached up, unleashing her dark hair like a black avalanche, the move a seductress might make before leading her lover to the bedroom. But in this case the woman – she – grabbed the peacock hairpin, omen of ill-fortune, and thrust it into Anand’s neck, the jugular spouting a bright spray of blood.

His fallen body twitched for a few seconds as the blood pooled on the stone floor. The leopard must have heard the thump, or smelled the blood, because he returned and started licking it.

In the spirit of honouring the dead, she now knew what to call him.

Anton de Villiers hated the heat, and there was nothing worse than the heat of the Terai in summer. He felt submerged in its dampness. As the jeep lurched along the jungle track, he grasped the edge of the door as tightly as he could stand; the metal burnt. He imagined all sorts of insects buzzing past him, far more than the occasional mosquito that hovered near his ear or landed on his exposed forearm. Everything was magnified, the cloying humidity and the sounds all around him, the shrieks of unidentified birds and whoops of monkeys – magnified because he couldn’t see. Only passing shadows beyond his blindfold.

You’ll never find him
, the boy had said defiantly. Anton had gone back to Kumar’s village, hoping the boy could lead him into the jungle near Chitwan, the national park and straight to Storm, his former leader. Hoping that, if rumours were true, the commander would know something about local trafficking, through the deepest parts of the jungle. Pande, Kumar’s father, wasn’t keen, not surprising; the surprise was that Kumar himself didn’t want to go.
He’s finally forgetting
, his father had said.
Let him forget.
But Kumar had at least given directions to where he’d last seen Storm and his comrades, where he was supposedly still hiding out in spite of government calls to disarm.

Raju, Anton’s driver, had faithfully pushed the hired X-Trail over the rough terrain, south through the hills ringing Kathmandu Valley, down a dirt track into the forests of sal and kapok trees, giant ferns, other green monstrosities and into the arms of Storm’s commandos. Who’d ambushed them, abandoning their vehicle, and were now taking them – he prayed it were true – to meet their leader.

Raju sat in the back seat next to him; he had groped for Anton’s hand soon after the guerrillas had blindfolded them both. He was young, in his twenties, and his hand shook until Anton’s own steadied it. Neither spoke, afraid of angering the Maoists, the four, maybe five, of them, firing away in Nepali at each other and into a walkie-talkie. He cursed himself for still not knowing the language well enough.

Someone had a heart: something cool was pressed into his lap.
Drink
, one of his captors said,
this place very hot for you
. So they knew English. Sort of. He lifted the water bottle to his lips, felt with his fingers that the cap was off, and drank, a huge icy draught. Someone wrenched the bottle from his hand and presumably handed it to Raju; he could hear him guzzling. Fine, for now. But what was he risking coming here?

They rode in silence; he had no idea how much longer, he wouldn’t ask. The jeep suddenly lurched through what must have been a shallow riverbed, struggling over rocks and splashing water against its sides, then angling uphill to reach solid ground again. A few swerves later they stopped. Small hands grabbed the knot at the back of his head and removed the blindfold.
Get out
, the Maoist said.
You are here
.

There were four men and a boy, probably not more than fifteen, all dressed neatly in olive fatigues, with the distinguishing red stars on their caps. The boy took up the rear, a G3 rifle confidently slung over his shoulder, as they followed the others into the shadows.

It was a small camp of wooden huts roofed in palm fronds, hiding in the shade of giant kapok trees, easily destroyed and rebuilt. There was a large kraal full of goats and chickens, and one larger hut that seemed to be some sort of communal shelter. On the far side of that, outside a hut just like all the others, they stopped while the lead commando went inside. He emerged shortly. ‘Only you,’ he said firmly, pulling him closer to the door while the others took Raju. ‘This one comes with us.’

He wanted to plead that they stay together but was dragged under the low threshold and into a room striped with sunlight. His eyes squinted to get used to the darkness, to get a good look at the soldier sitting behind the old metal desk in the room’s centre. The soldier stood, so small for a man inflated by legend. His left arm was missing, the sleeve of his camouflage uniform knotted, dangling.

‘I’ve heard of you,’ Storm said, stepping from behind the desk and gesturing to the one other chair in the room. Anton sat down obediently.

‘They won’t hurt my driver, will they?’ he asked, anxiously looking out the open doorway.

‘What do you take us for, Mr de Villiers? With your work, I thought you’d know us better than that.’

‘I don’t really know that much,’ he said.
Including why I came here
. ‘Your real name for instance …’

‘Irrelevant,’ Storm said, taking a Surya out of a pack crumpled in his chest pocket, sticking it in his mouth and igniting it with a lighter, all right-handed. ‘Do you smoke?’

He shook his head.

‘It passes the time out here in the jungle. With the war officially over, my cadres get restless. We are waiting, Mr de Villiers, never a pleasant status. Waiting for the government to grant us amnesty, let us keep our arms, let us serve with other Nepalis in the national army. Protect the new democracy. If we ever get one going.’

Anton smiled wryly, sharing this man’s pessimism about Nepali politics. The King was gone but in his place were fractious groups of politicians stonewalling each other, seemingly incapable of cooperation, concerned only with their own agendas – even the Maoists.

‘You can’t stay out here forever,’ De Villiers said, boldly.

‘Of course not,’ Storm said, stepping into a band of sunlight for a moment, flashing his onyx eyes under finely etched brows, as if plucked. Like Prachanda, their leader, he had a thick moustache. ‘We want to negotiate – and you can help us. If I help you.’

Anton could no longer recall clearly what he’d told the commandos who’d ambushed them. Something like
I’m Anton de Villiers, I work with the UN, I can help you with the government, I need you to help me find my son.
It sounded insane; they probably thought he was. But not Storm. Storm was reading his sane mind at this very moment.

‘I know what you’ve heard about us, what you probably think of us. Even though fundamentally you support the revolution, a democratic Nepal. We’re known to be brutal,’ Storm said, rubbing his cigarette out in the sand floor with the toe of his boot. ‘And by some standards, we were. No worse than the army, though. Believe me.’

‘You were tortured, weren’t you? I heard.’ He couldn’t help looking at the missing arm.

‘Correct. I was a human rights activist when I joined the party. Quite a high profile. Never thought the army would dare to detain me.’ Storm caught him staring and patted the empty sleeve. ‘That was shot off in the field.’

He didn’t want to ask anything else. Not about the war. Not now. He was bursting to ask about his son, but, like the fine mediator he was, he deferred to Storm, listened to his story, searched for empathy, registered his mood. Waited interminably for the uncomfortable moment when he could ask something of this man.

‘Let me show you what we do here,’ Storm said, walking towards the door. ‘And then you tell me if we can help you.’

He followed Storm out the door and along a path towards a clearing; the sky was brighter there and he could hear the shouts of military
commands, like any army. When the trees parted they revealed maybe three dozen Maoist soldiers in training, male and female, boys and girls. Some were still teenagers, others probably in their forties. They marched in one long line; upon command, in groups of six, they assumed firing position and shot their rifles into the forest, probably killing a bird or monkey or two in the process. As he watched his troops intently, Storm lit another cigarette.

‘We sent the youngest home, after the peace agreement two years ago,’ Storm said. ‘Now Anil, who escorted you here, is the youngest. Not so young, seventeen. But he, the other youngsters, are free to go. The point is, they don’t want to. They wanted to join the revolution, join their parents, be martyrs. Yes, the war may be over, but the revolution isn’t. Besides, what’s at home for them?’

Anton had heard the other side of the argument many times: how the Maoists had captured children to serve in their guerrilla war, kept them in camps against their will, ordered them to kill their own families. He wasn’t sure why, but now he believed this man. He’d seen what was at home for young people like Kumar. A struggle to survive, and probably, in vain, to reintegrate.

He wasn’t sure how to couch his next question, so he just asked it: ‘Do any of the former child soldiers get trafficked?’

Storm didn’t look at him as he answered, continuing to watch the cadres’ manoeuvres, as slick as any professional army’s, rhythmically percussive with the thudding of their heavy boots, commander’s shouts, clicks and crackling of their rifles. ‘We’ve heard from villagers of children disappearing,’ he said, taking a long pull on his cigarette. ‘The villagers talk to us, they always have. Those chickens, goats, up there – all from local villages. Gifts, paying their respects. Showing support. We’re a People’s Army, Mr de Villiers, and those are our people.’

‘But trafficking networks? People selling their own children?’

For the first time Storm smiled, barely, and shook his head. ‘No one has come to us directly with that information. But you hear things. By now it’s common knowledge – what the poor and desperate will do for money.’

Anton understood. When you thought about it, who could blame these people for sacrificing one child so the rest of the family could survive? He wanted Storm to know he wasn’t there to criticise. That his interest, at this point, was much more personal.

‘I’m asking because my son is missing. For two months now. He disappeared on the way to Delhi, he was coming to me in Kathmandu. He was
possibly trafficked.’ He sighed, breathed deeply to continue. ‘I thought you might help me find him.’

‘How?’

‘You know this jungle … I think he may be headed here. We have reason to believe that he may have escaped, may be headed for Kathmandu, for me, if the traffickers haven’t recaptured him. If …’ Anton halted.

‘If he’s still alive?’

‘Yes. Is it possible, after all this time?’ Reason told him the answer was ‘no’, but he looked at Storm expectantly. Desperately.

‘He hasn’t tried to contact you?’

‘No. Well, I haven’t received any messages.’ He was ashamed to admit what he said next. ‘I’m not sure he knows how to reach me.’

‘And his mother, where is she?’

‘Also missing.’ It sounded ludicrous. ‘She disappeared soon after our son did. Devastated. You can imagine.’

‘Of course.’

‘We’re separated.’ He could see he still needed to explain. ‘That’s why I don’t know exactly where she is …’ Then, pulling back to the official story: ‘The police have filed missing person reports and bulletins – but found nothing.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Storm held his gaze for a moment, then turned back to the cadres, still marching, performing, like a dance troupe. ‘This is my family.’

A strange family, but a united one, Anton thought. Together. He felt a surge of respect for this man, respect for his ends if not his means. Who was he, a ‘peacemaker’, to say, really, that violence had no place in the world? When the stakes were high enough, he could now well imagine, violence was an option.

‘So can you help me?’ Anton asked.

Storm had closed his eyes, as though listening to some far-off music. The sounds of the marchers, of the guns, had ceased; laughter drifted over from the clusters of soldiers now ‘at ease’, refreshing themselves with canteens of water and packs of biscuits. Watching them, Anton was suddenly unbearably thirsty, and hungry.

‘Come back for some refreshment,’ Storm said, opening his eyes and turning towards the path to the huts. ‘We’ll talk.’

Back in his hut, over a low fire in a pit off to one side, Storm squatted, stirring a pot of masala chai. ‘The most we can do, Mr de Villiers, is to send you out with a few of our cadres to the local villages to ask about
your son, whether anybody’s seen him. Ask them to keep a lookout. Do you have a photo of him?’

Anton nodded. He wasn’t sure this was a good plan, but since there was no other on offer, he accepted. Storm wasn’t going to divulge anything he knew about local traffickers; maybe he really didn’t know anything, who was doing the trafficking – only that it was happening.

‘The thing is,’ Storm said, rising to pour them two cups of tea, ‘what are you going to do for us?’