‘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, l
aughing 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.
iii
The dubbawalla had departed with the lunch-boxes. To let Dilnavaz know he would be late, he telephoned Miss Kutpitia. The connection was bad. ‘Hallo! Hallo, Miss Kutpitia! This is Gustad Noble!’ No one paid any attention to the bellowing. With the roulette wheel of the telephone exchange, the odds of getting a bad connection were as good as they were bad for getting a good connection. He hung up, then remembered his promise to Roshan about dressing the doll. Now I am going to be late, and she will think I forgot. Which I did. His head began to hurt, a sharp pain, as though something was trying to break through the skull. He realized what Mrs Pastakia meant when she described her migraine for all and sundry: like someone poking about inside with knitting needles.
He returned to his desk, kneading his forehead. It was becoming too much to bear, Roshan’s sickness, Dilnavaz blaming him for potassium permanganate, Jimmy’s treachery, Dinshawji’s stupidity, Laurie’s complaint, Sohrab’s betrayal, nothing but worry and sorrow and disappointment piling up around him, walling him in, threatening to crush him. He moved his massaging hand from the forehead to his nape and closed his eyes.
When he reopened them, rubbing them like a sleepy, tired child, Dinshawji was leaning against the desk. The fist he had wanted to slam on the restaurant table, he indulged now, upon the desk. Bhum! it came down, and Dinshawji took a great leap backwards, alarmed. ‘Easy, boy, easy!’ His sudden movement was painful. He clutched his sides and winced.
Gustad put his elbows on the desk, face resting in his hands. At least the danger of bursting a blood vessel had been averted, he thought. He spoke softly, and Dinshawji had to draw close again in order to hear. ‘You make the blood in my brain start to boil, you stupid fool.’
Dinshawji was hurt. ‘How are you talking, yaar. What’s wrong? First at least tell me my crime.’
‘I will. I promise you I will. Meet me under the portico at six.’ He turned his chair away, kneading his forehead again. Dinshawji waited a few moments, quite forlorn, then left. r />
For the rest of the day Gustad could do no work. Having enumerated his worries, disappointments, and betrayals, he was tormented by them. When he thought of Roshan, his heart went cold: for a second, he imagined the worst, then mentally performed Dilnavaz’s owaaryoo gesture which he had often ridiculed. How can she blame me, potassium permanganate worked so well all these years. Jimmy said they always used it in the army. Damn Jimmy, the bastard. Once like a brother … and now? Those Bible stories, that Malcolm used to tell me. When we went to Crawford Market. One about Cain and Abel … Fairy tales, I used to think. But from the distance of years, how true. My own father’s case. His drunken, gambling brother who destroyed him as surely as crushing his skull. And Jimmy, another kind of Cain. Killed trust, love, respect, everything. And that other story, about Absalom, son of David. By now Sohrab would have been finishing his first term at IIT, if only …
What was left, he asked himself, after the very purpose he had struggled and worked and waited for all these years – after that very purpose was callously shattered by his own son, and the shards kicked aside, dropped clattering in the rubbish-pail, like his application forms. All I wanted was for him to have a chance at a good career. The chance wrenched away from me. Now what is left? What is left in life? Tell me, Dada Ormuzd, what?
And so it went all afternoon: from Sohrab to Roshan, then back to Jimmy, and Dilnavaz, and Laurie, and Dinshawji. Circles, U-turns, reverse circles, till he was dizzy with thought, exhausted from anxiety, and close to being broken by despair.
But at six o’clock he was saved by anger. He saw Dinshawji under the portico, and his fury returned. The stench from Dinshawji’s mouth was unbearable. Good. Serves him right if he has been fretting and agonizing, now he will come to his senses.
Dinshawji smiled weakly. ‘Your smiles will vacate the premises,’ said Gustad, ‘when you hear what I have to tell you.’
‘You keep shouting at me,’ he complained. ‘All afternoon you have been drowning yourself in anger. But why not say what has left its sting poking in your heart?’