Such A Long Journey (22 page)

iv

Mr. Rabadi gathered up the newspapers outside his front door. He was unable to lift the lot in his arms, and insisted that Mrs. Rabadi help him. She was all for selling them to the
jaripuranawalla
but he would not listen. ‘I will show that rascal! You just do as I say!’

‘Yipyip! Yipyipyipyip!’ Dimple ran excitedly round the papers, tumbling the piles Mr. Rabadi had made. He dragged her inside, bade Mrs. Rabadi come out, then shut the door. ‘Carry,’ he ordered, pointing to one stack, and took the other himself.

In the compound, they ran into Inspector Bamji. ‘Hallo, hallo!’ he said. ‘Selling old papers? But shop will be closed now.’ He looked at his watch in confirmation.

‘I’ll show him!’ muttered Mr. Rabadi. ‘I came out to take Dimple for a walk, and tripped on them! Almost fell down the stairs and broke my neck! Outside my door he threw them!’

‘Who?’ asked Bamji.

‘That—that rascal!’ he sputtered. ‘Noble in name only!’

‘Gustad?’

‘Trying to kill me, laying a trap like that outside my door! What does he think in his own mind of himself?’ He dropped the papers close to the bushes. Mrs. Rabadi looked at him questioningly, clutching tight her stack, whereupon he grabbed her hands and pulled them apart. From his pocket he withdrew a matchbox.

‘Are you sure?’ said Inspector Bamji.

Mr. Rabadi struck and dropped a match. ‘First his son steals my papers!’ The newspapers caught. ‘If he thinks he can throw this outside my door and I will forget everything, he is mistaken!’ Within seconds the stacks were burning fiercely, which added fuel to Mr. Rabadi’s inflammation. His face turned a bright orange. ‘It is not the newspapers I care about! There are manners, apologies, respectfulness at stake! There are principles involved! Let him learn once and for all who he is tangling with!’

Inspector Bamji had nothing to say. Tehmul came to watch the flames. ‘Hothothothot.’ He edged closer, and Inspector Bamji pulled him back. ‘Careful, you Scrambled Egg. Or your face will get fried.’

Suddenly, there were yells of fire! fire! ‘
Aag laagi! Aag laagi
! Help! Call the
boombawalla
!’ Cavasji, leaning out the window upstairs with the
subjo
garland around his neck, gave the alarm. Mr. and Mrs. Rabadi melted away to their flat. Cavasji turned his attention to the sky. ‘Once again You have done it! Inflicting suffering on the poor only! The stink, the noise, the flood—now the fire! Have You ever burnt the homes of rich
sethiyas
? Have You ever, tell me!’

Gustad heard the shouts and simultaneously saw the orange glow through the window. When he got outside, only Tehmul was there. ‘GustadGustad. Hothothothot.’

The blaze was dying. Charred bits of newspaper lay by the bushes. Soon the breeze carried the scraps through the compound, and Tehmul began chasing after them. Gustad went inside, amused that the dogwalla idiot had been provoked to such lengths.

But something more had been provoked, Gustad soon realized. Mosquitoes, stirred up as never before, and maddened by the smoke. They descended in clouds of blind fury, bent on vengeance—stunning themselves against walls, pinging into the hot glass of the light bulb, ricochetting, alighting in his hair, stinging his face.

He ran to switch on the lights in the house, shouting to Dilnavaz to fetch all the large flat dishes she could find. But when he went to the drum and turned on the tap—nothing. He got up on a stool and looked inside. The drum was empty, it had sprung a leak where the spout was soldered to the side. And there was barely enough water left in one of the buckets to last till morning. There would be no mosquito traps tonight.

It was back to swatting and slapping, back to Odomos.

Chapter Twelve

i

Gustad went to the bed-with-the-door with the new mixture and pills. Dr. Paymaster had changed Roshan’s prescriptions four times in the last fortnight, and ordered blood tests, stool tests, and barium X-rays. Last week, Gustad had sold his camera to pay the bills.

When Roshan sat up to take the medicine, he wanted to hold her for ever in the safety of his arms. Instead he stroked her forehead and rubbed her back gently. But she already knew that her strong and broad-shouldered Daddy (with his big biceps which he could wriggle up and down like living creatures) was scared, helpless in the face of her illness. Sometimes, when he came to look at her in the morning, she thought he was going to cry, and it ushered the beginning of tears into her own eyes. Then she forced herself to think of nice things, like Major Uncle visiting on Sundays for Mummy’s delicious
dhansak,
when Daddy and he, with Sohrab and Darius cheering them on, would place their elbows on the table and try to push down each other’s hand. Their muscles swelled so big, it seemed they would burst. It was such fun to watch them sweating and struggling and laughing at the same time. Major Uncle was also a very strong man, even taller than Daddy, but Daddy usually won, he was so tough.

‘How is the injection, my little
bakulyoo
?’ said Gustad. ‘Still paining?’

‘Aches a little.’

He went to the sideboard and got the tube of Hirudoid ointment. ‘This will dissolve the swelling.’ He rubbed it over the spot. ‘Now. What else would you like? Would you like your big Italian doll to come out of the cupboard?’

‘Oh yes.’ Her eyes brightened at the prospect.

‘When I come home this evening, we’ll take all her clothes from the suitcase and dress her up. Then she can sit with you on the sofa. Or sleep here beside you. OK?’

‘Yes, but don’t be late, Daddy.’

‘No, I promise. Now go to sleep. Lots of rest. Come on, close your eyes. Or shall I sing for you, like a little baby?’ Teasing her, he began, to the tune of ‘Ta ra ra boom dee-ay’ the song she used to hear as an infant:

Roshan is a good girl,

A very, very good girl,

See how well she goes to sleep—

‘No, no! Not that song!’ Roshan protested. ‘Sing my favourite.’ So he sang a verse of the ‘Donkey Serenade’, then kissed her cheek and said goodbye.

‘Goodnight-Godblessyou,’ she said.

‘But it’s not night now.’

‘I am always sleeping. For me it’s always night,’ she said, and they both laughed.

He collected the thirty-ninth bundle from the kitchen. Will soon be halfway there, he thought. The sky clouded while he rode the bus, and the rain commenced when he reached Flora Fountain. The final rallies of a departing season. The monsoon was over the hump. He debated: bicycle clips or not? Air-raid siren not yet gone off—enough time. Hate sitting all day with damp trousers clutching my calves. He fished inside the briefcase for the clips, and raised a foot to the bus shelter’s bottom stile. The trouser cuff was wrapped tightly round his shin and the clip snapped on: first one leg, then the other.

From the bus stop he could see the dome of the bank building. How whitely it gleams, against the grey sky. Rain washing it clean, day by day. He reached the bank portico and snapped off the bicycle clips. The water ran off his umbrella ferrule as it leaned against the pillar. He pinched each trouser leg at the knee and cuff, to restore the crease, then shook water off the umbrella. Someone touched his elbow from behind.

‘Good-morning, Mr. Noble,’ said Laurie Coutino, with a hint of singsong. The way convent schoolgirls rise and greet the teacher. Roshan also had the habit.

‘Good-morning, Miss Coutino.’

‘Mr. Noble, may I talk to you sometime today?’

He noted with approval her use of ‘may’ instead of ‘can’. But the request surprised him. ‘Sure. Eleven o’clock, after I finish checking the ledger?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d prefer privately.’

His surprise grew, he looked at his watch. ‘Still ten minutes to ten. We can talk now. Or lunch-time.’

‘Lunch-time, yes.’

‘Good, I’ll meet you in the canteen. One o’clock.’

‘Not in the canteen, please. Maybe somewhere outside.’

She brought her head close, speaking softly. Whiff of some nice perfume. What is she up to? ‘Meet me here at one o’clock.’

‘Thank you so much, Mr. Noble,’ she whispered, and went inside. He watched her receding form appreciatively, puzzled but flattered, and followed.

Since it was not yet ten, the tellers’ cages were unoccupied. Some early customers waited, moving their eyes rapidly from clock to counter to idle employees, as though sufficient repetitions of their visual cycles would hasten the conjunction of the three. Behind the counters, not oblivious of the restless customers but sharply aware the time was still their own, a few clerks were reading newspapers; others were lounging with their feet on a desk or file cabinet. Dinshawji was describing something animatedly to an avid group of listeners.

Gustad could hear his voice: ‘…and then the second fellow said, “Changing gears? That’s nothing,
yaar.
” ’ He broke off when he saw Gustad: ‘Come quick! This is a good one.’

Gustad had heard the story before, but listened patiently as Dinshawji started again. ‘The first man says, “
Yaar,
ever since my wife started driving lessons, new-new things she does in her sleep. Grabs my
lorri
and says, first gear, second gear, reverse—this way and that way she keeps twisting it.” Then the second fellow says, “Changing gears? That’s nothing. My wife, in the middle of the night, catches my
lorri,
puts it in, and says, twenty litres petrol, please.” ’

Roars of laughter filled the space behind the counter. The men slapped Dinshawji on the back. ‘One more, one more,’ said someone, but the clock’s slow, solemn bonging dispersed them.

Gustad opened his briefcase and casually handed over the bundle of money. ‘Won’t meet you for lunch, Dinshu. Going out for some work.’ He closed and opened his eyes slowly. Dinshawji understood: explanations not possible, others present. He assumed it concerned the secret mission, as he liked to call it.

At eleven, Gustad left his desk for a cup of tea, then changed direction and went the long way, past Laurie Coutino’s desk. He was not sure why he did that, but after this morning, he wanted to look at her again. Their eyes met in passing, and she smiled. He felt foolish at the quickening of his heartbeat. Like a schoolboy.

ii

He waited under the portico. No danger of being observed, everyone busy with lunch. There she is. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr. Noble.’

‘My pleasure, Miss Coutino. Where would you like to go?’

‘Please call me Laurie.’ He smiled, nodded. ‘Anywhere, Mr. Noble, as long as it’s private. I don’t want people to see us together and get the wrong idea.’

‘Quite right. There is a nice restaurant at the corner.’

‘I’ve seen it from outside,’ said Laurie.

‘They have private rooms, maybe we can talk there.’

They walked to the corner, stepping carefully. The rain had left fresh, deep puddles. ‘Mr. Noble, were you in the army?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I’ve seen you limping. I wondered if that’s what it was. Somehow, the way you walk, your shoulders, your moustache, make you look like a military man.’

Flattered, he modestly laughed away what he assumed was a compliment, in the manner that an army man would. ‘No. This injury was not received in the service of my country. It was in the service of my family.’

Intrigued by his way of putting it, she asked how. ‘To save the life of my eldest,’ he said, ‘nine years ago I jumped from a moving bus in the path of a car.’ He told her about the rainy morning, the bus conductor, Sohrab’s fall, the visit to Madhiwalla Bonesetter.

‘Does this bonesetter still practise?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. But he is very old now, he does not hold his clinics as often as before.’

‘I must remember his name, in case I ever break a bone.’

‘You must take good care of them.’ He felt bold enough to add, ‘They are too beautiful to break.’

She blushed and smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr. Noble.’ The convent-girl lilt in her voice again. They walked silently past the great traffic circle. He thought of the last time he had been at the restaurant. Just over three months ago. With Dinshawji. But it seems like years. Time’s tricks. And Ghulam Mohammed’s accident. Wish the bastard had died. Those heads neatly sliced…Like a
goaswalla
’s knife—bhup! And Tehmul trying to pick up the cat. And Jimmy’s bloody letter.

The restaurant was crowded downstairs, the waiters spreading the usual odours and noises as they dashed back and forth. Fried samosas, overboiled tea, pungent
rugdaa.
Clatter of plates and glasses slammed before customers. Orders yelled to the kitchen. Kitchen yelling back. ‘Three teas,
paani-kum,
one paneer mattar! Idli dosa, sambhar, lassi!’ And over the cashier’s head, two more handwritten signs had been added, beneath the
Rice Plate Always Ready
sign. One said,
No Combing Hair In Restaurant.
The other injunction was sterner, and more sweeping:
Don’t Discuss God & Politics.

Upstairs, the private rooms were empty. A flight of stairs steep as a ladder led to the mezzanine. He followed Laurie, her bottom undulating at his eye-level, ascending at the same rate as his eyes. Dinshawji should be watching. Bum within nibbling range. Omelette sandwich, and Laurie’s bum for dessert.

The stairs gave on to a very small landing that led to six doors. He opened the nearest one. Another sign greeted them:
Please Ring Bell For Waiter Under Table.
‘Now why would they put the waiter under the table?’ said Gustad.

‘You have a sense of humour just like your friend Mr. Dinshawji,’ she said, laughing appreciatively. It was the first time he had heard her laugh. Started with a snort, segued into a bray. Such a pretty girl, but the ugliest laugh I ever heard.

The room contained four bentwood chairs and a glass-covered wooden table identical to the ones downstairs. The menu was under the dirty glass. The extras, for the five-rupee minimum charge, were air-conditioned privacy and a worn, beaten sofa with stains on the covers. The room spoke blatantly of the single sordid purpose it was meant for. He saw her eyes examining the well-used sofa. ‘I’m sorry about this place. I have never been here. Upstairs, I mean. Didn’t know it was like this.’

‘That’s all right. At least we can talk privately.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We better order something. Then you can tell me what the problem is.’

‘It’s not really a…yes, it is a problem.’

Their heads converged to share the menu. Pretending to read, he watched her from the corner of his eye. Dinshu was right, very attractive girl. Her upper lip had an exquisite curve, the hint of a pout that accounted for her sexiness.

‘Ready?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘Now where’s the bell for the waiter?’ He groped under the table. She felt around too, and their hands met. He pulled away quickly, as though jolted by electricity. ‘Sorry,’ he said awkwardly.

‘It’s all right,’ she smiled. The bell button was located on the leg at the far side, and she rang. Moments later, the waiter knocked discreetly, not to endanger his tip. He knew from experience that anything could develop in these rooms between the bell and his arrival.

‘Yes, yes, come in,’ said Gustad irritatedly, to show Laurie that he was offended at the waiter’s assumptions. They sat erect, very formal, with arms folded.

The waiter took the order, fearing that things were not passionate enough. No pre-luncheon concupiscence here. Unhappy men gave small tips. Perhaps they needed reassuring. ‘Please sir, in exactly five minutes with the food I will return. I will be knocking, then afterwards you will have complete privacy.’

Gustad shook his head as the door shut. ‘One-track mind.’

‘Not his fault,’ said Laurie. ‘It’s a one-track room.’

An audacious remark, he thought. ‘Now tell me why you wanted to see me.’

‘Yes.’ She passed a hand over her hair, and adjusted her collar. ‘It’s difficult to talk about it, but I think the best thing is to tell you rather than the manager.’

‘Mr. Madon? What’s wrong?’

She took a deep breath. ‘It’s your friend, Mr. Dinshawji.’

Oh no, thought Gustad.

She continued, ‘You know how he carries on all the time, playing the fool.’

‘Sure. Dinshawji does that with everyone.’

‘I know. That’s why I did not mind it. Joking, dancing, singing, all that is OK.’ She inspected her nails. ‘I don’t know if you heard, but one day he began telling me he wants me to meet his
lorri.
’ She bit her lower lip, hesitating. ‘ “You can play with my little
lorri,
” he said, “such fun two of you will have together.” ’ Now she looked him in the eye. ‘You know, at first I thought it was his daughter or niece, or something like that, and I would smile and say, “Sure, I would love to.” ’

Gustad coloured. It was difficult to continue meeting her eye. But he said nothing, let her go on.

‘Then recently, I found out what it really means. Can you imagine how I felt?’

Gustad searched desperately for words. Embarrassed before Laurie, furious at Dinshawji, fearful about Madon, he could only say: ‘I am so sorry about it. I did try to make him stop.’

‘You know how I feel when I think of those men laughing every time he said it? It’s so difficult to come to work, I want to resign and tell Mr. Madon why.’ Her tone, even and controlled so far, grew emotional. ‘If someone speaks my name now, no matter who, I feel bad. It reminds me of the dirty meaning. Mr. Dinshawji has ruined my own name for me.’ She touched her hanky to the corner of one eye.

She is really upset, Dinshu’s had it. Gone too far this time. And if it reaches Mr. Madon’s ears…Casanova of Flora Fountain castrated. He leaned forward earnestly. ‘Please don’t say that. Laurie is a beautiful name. That will never ever change just because of some silly slang word.’

‘You know, I don’t mind his jokes and all his acting. I used to think it was so sweet. A cute old man, trying to impress me. The things he says. He was telling me he works for the secret service, that he is in charge of ten lakh rupees, to fully equip the Mukti Bahini guerrillas. Can you imagine that? Mr. Dinshawji in the secret service?’ She laughed a little.

‘Ha! Ha! Ha! In the secret service? Too much!’ said Gustad, restraining his urge to slam his fist on the table and scream, or do something to Dinshawji that would make him scream with pain. The stupid idiot! Absolutely brainless and…! After I told him how quiet the whole thing has to be kept! What a complete, what a total—!

‘Isn’t it funny?’ said Laurie.

‘Ha! Ha! Ha! I don’t think the secret service would hire him to clean their toilets even.’

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I was so upset about the dirty joke, I wanted to go and tell Mr. Madon.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Then I thought Mr. Dinshawji would get into serious trouble, and I didn’t want that. Is he close to retirement?’

‘Very,’ said Gustad. ‘Just two years left. He’s also very sick, though you wouldn’t think so from his jovial attitude.’

‘I didn’t know that.’ She paused, fingering a tiny paper-cut on her left hand. ‘I decided to tell you all this because you are his best friend. But if you already tried to stop him—’

‘I’ll convince him. Just leave it to me.’ But right now, I have to convince her, or he and I will both get buggered. ‘This evening after work. I will make sure he never upsets you again.’

‘Thanks, Mr. Noble. I knew talking to you would help.’

Just wait till I see him. The stupid fool. With all his idiotic-lunatic nonsense. The bloody fool.