Bombay Monsoon, page 10
“Really? You voted for Nixon—twice, no three times—and I voted for McGovern. My parents voted for Humphrey, Johnson, Kennedy, Stevenson—twice—Truman, and Roosevelt before that. I’d say we’re quite different.”
Harlan chuckled. “My folks threw a party when Roosevelt died. So don’t you think it’s remarkable that we’re sitting here together in this back-of-beyond, godforsaken country, visiting so amiably?”
Surely he couldn’t fail to notice the disbelief on my face. He lit a cigarette.
“That’s why I worry about you, Dan. That German girl, Birgit. Now there’s a filly worth your wild oats.”
“Birgit? She’s not even in the country. And we’re just friends.”
“Well, if I were a young man and hadn’t met Barb, that cute German girl—Christian, too, mind you—she’d be on my radar.”
I sighed. “The Christian thing isn’t necessarily a plus in her column for me.”
He thought it over for a bit. Then he suggested I might want to reconsider that, as well.
“So if Sushmita were a Christian,” I said, “you wouldn’t object? They have those here, you know. Indian Christians.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t condone it. Nothing against her kind. There’s six hundred million of them, after all. But I believe God intended for the races to remain separate.”
“Russ,” I said, blinking as slowly as I could manage. “You’ve somehow worn me down. Yesterday, I would’ve thrown my plate in your face and stormed off. I hate everything you say. But right now, I just want to pick at this food.”
He smiled, then asked if Sushmita wasn’t Christian, what about her boyfriend? Was he a Hindu or a Muslim?
I dashed back across the marg around seven, skipping over the puddles and through the rain. Once again, I marveled that the road didn’t have a name. At least not that anyone knew. I’d asked plenty of times. It was often that way in India, at least for smaller streets. People navigated using landmarks instead of addresses.
I figured I’d read a book or listen to the radio until Sushmita contacted me. But my exciting plans for the evening were ruined when I found Inspector Lokhande waiting for me at Sagar Darshan. Sitting in the chair usually occupied by the liftman, he was frowning straight ahead at the wall.
He rose to meet me. “I’ve been waiting for you, Dan,” he called, his strangled, high-pitched voice sounding all the more menacing due to his use of my first name. He’d never called me that before.
I approached, glancing to the corners and the side entrance, looking for other policemen. He was alone. And he seemed different that night. Friendly.
“Hello, Inspector,” I said. “How can I help you?”
He fixed me with his stare for a brief moment, then smiled, baring the white teeth behind his bristly mustache. “I think you might want to offer me a tipple,” he said.
“A tipple? Really?” I’d never heard that word actually spoken. “Sure. Why don’t you come up and have a … tipple … with me?”
Lokhande shuffled into my flat and helped himself to a seat before the television. I broke out the Chivas Sushmita had sent and asked him if whisky was all right. He nodded and told me he took it neat.
“Fine stuff,” he said once he’d taken a sip.
We sat there in silence for a minute or so. He appeared perfectly at ease as he swirled the whisky in his glass and examined the color and legs like a connoisseur.
“Why do you add ice to your drink?” he asked, gazing at his scotch. “You’ll ruin it.”
“Isn’t it too strong neat?”
He frowned. “The sting tells you you’re alive. Do you drink like a woman?”
Lokhande took a swig and grinned his self-satisfied smile. He held the power in our relationship, after all, whether I was serving the booze or not. He might just as easily have commandeered my stash for himself and arrested me for smuggling. Still, I felt we were nearing some kind of equilibrium. I could stand my ground with him.
“I don’t have anything to offer you to eat,” I said. “Nothing but some chakli.”
“Chakli? I love chakli.”
I went to the kitchen, dumped what was left in the bag into a bowl, and served it up to the cop. He broke off a piece of one of the rounds with his right hand and chomped away, orange crumbs collecting in his mustache as he did.
“A little stale,” he said. “I’ll tell you where to get the best chakli in Colaba Causeway.”
Then he waggled his glass to indicate he was ready for a refill.
“How can I help you, Inspector?” I asked once I’d poured him another.
“You don’t think I might make a social call? You and I are getting to be old friends, Dan.”
“You must want something besides a drink and Ramu’s stale chakli.”
“Kya? This is Ramu’s chakli?”
I nodded.
“You serve me your servant’s food? Are you mad?”
He would have spat out the snack if he hadn’t already chewed and swallowed it. Instead, he went to the kitchen and rinsed his mouth out with water. Once he’d returned, he lectured me on serving guests the food servants ate. It wasn’t hygienic, he said. After several minutes and a couple of swigs of whisky to kill the germs, he regained his calm.
“Speaking of Ramu,” I said, “I could have sworn I saw him the other night. Near the President Hotel.”
“Could be. He comes and goes.”
“So when can he come back to work for me?”
“Araamse,” he said, then translated. “Not so fast. He’s still of use to us. Remarkable fellow, that Ramu. Smart, nice-looking, and fair. You don’t see that often in a servant.”
“But you still won’t eat his food.”
He softened a bit. “You’re new here, Dan. You don’t understand how things work. The servants have their place for a reason. And we don’t mix things up by sharing food and friendly chats with them.”
I let his comment slide, then noted that I could offer him more than stale snacks if I had Ramu back. He scowled and said he’d see.
“Where did you get this whisky?” he asked, changing course. “I don’t see any tax strip on the bottle. You’re not buying from smugglers, are you?”
“Me? Smugglers? I wouldn’t know where to find them. This was a gift from a friend.”
He finished the last of his drink, wiped his mouth and mustache with his fingers, and stood to leave. “Thanks for the whisky, Dan. I’ll send the bhoot back to you tomorrow. If you’re feeling grateful, a bottle of that imported booze would be nice.”
I saw him to the door, where he paused and asked me if I’d managed to recall anything else about Bikas the bomber. I offered a helpless shrug as an answer. Then I asked him how he’d found out about my meeting with Bikas in the first place.
“I had a nice talk with a fellow named Gopal at the university,” he said. “He was very helpful.”
He pulled his cap on, then opened the door to leave. Sushmita was just exiting the lift. Shit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SUNDAY, JULY 6, 1975, 8:22 P.M.
“Why do you have policemen visiting you?” asked Sushmita once we were safely alone inside my flat.
“He’s been harassing me about that bomber story. This cop wants to find him. But now he’s taken to making social calls.”
“You’re a man of mystery, Danny,” she said.
“Has he … Has Willy left?”
“Yes, several hours ago.”
“He’s going back to Poona, then?”
“I have no idea. He doesn’t tell me about his business.”
“If he left hours ago, why didn’t you come see me earlier?”
She snorted a short laugh. “What rubbish, Danny. Don’t you think I have things to do?”
“Of course. But I thought after last night …”
“You thought what?”
“Nothing.”
I tried to let it go, but I was mixed up. It seemed she’d been inviting me up to the penthouse for something more than a drink on the sofa. But she’d reacted so coolly to Willy’s surprise return. Maybe I was seeing interest where there was none.
She wanted to sit, so we watched the rain through the veranda windows. A terrific storm was rolling in, with great booming claps of thunder and bolts of lightning overhead. The glass shook and the lights dimmed a few times before Sushmita suggested we switch them off altogether.
“It’s more dramatic this way,” she said, hooking her right arm around my elbow and drawing me closer. “I’ve always loved the rain. Thunderstorms, especially. They’re terribly romantic.”
She couldn’t possibly see my expression in the dark, unless she happened to glance my way as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky. But I must have looked like Hamlet, hesitant and indecisive. Would she find that endearing, sexy, or lame? I was overthinking everything. She was clutching me tight, pressing herself against me, talking of romance and rainstorms.
I closed my eyes and breathed in her scent. Sandalwood. So close and enticing in the darkness. I needed to do something. Take charge of the situation. Kiss her. Lift her in my arms and carry her to the bedroom, where I’d lay her gently on the sheets and …
Jesus, listen to me. I wasn’t Hamlet or Casanova. I was Walter Mitty.
“Look,” she said, interrupting my fantasies of seduction. She released my arm, pushed off the sofa, and stepped onto the veranda. “The Parsees across the way. Their grandson is finally walking.”
Beyond our compound, the neighboring building presented fifteen floors of viewing pleasure when there was nothing to watch on television. I joined Sushmita—and my missed chance—at the window. She pointed to a flat a floor or two below mine. I could see an elderly man in white pajamas hovering over a toddler, ready to catch him if he stumbled. The child took palsied steps toward an old woman a few feet away. Sushmita cheered him on as he neared his grandmother’s outstretched arms. Then he fell into her warm hug. They looked so happy, the three of them. Sushmita, too, was overjoyed. Me? I was pissed off. Stymied by a baby and his grandparents a hundred feet away.
“Isn’t he adorable?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you love to have one of those?”
“Of course,” I lied. The last thing I wanted at twenty-six was a little crumb-cruncher.
Another bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating the thick clouds and loosing a window-rattling boom. Sushmita practically leapt into my arms, grabbing me around the waist. This time I was determined not to miss my chance.
“Let’s go into the other room,” I whispered in her ear.
She continued to hold me tight and seemed to give a curt nod. Was that her way of saying yes? Maybe I hadn’t been clear enough. What the hell did I mean by “the other room”?
She released me from her embrace and stared into my eyes. “No, Danny. Let’s go up to the penthouse instead.”
More lightning lit up the night and the side of her face. My patience wouldn’t last long enough to climb three flights of stairs, and forget about waiting for the lift. That sometimes took three or four minutes to arrive.
“We don’t need to go to Willy’s flat. We can stay here,” I said.
She pinched her lips together and drew a sharp breath through her nose. “Why do you say Willy’s flat?”
I didn’t understand. “It’s his place, isn’t it?”
“Don’t you think it might belong to both of us? Or to me?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is … is it yours?”
She stepped away from the window and me. “Now you think to ask? A moment ago, you were happy to assume the worst about me.”
“No, really. I apologize. Please, don’t be angry.”
“It’s none of your business anyway,” she said, heading for the door.
“Sush, wait. Where are you going?”
“To Willy’s flat!”
I wondered how I’d managed it. How had I blown a sure thing? I thought about going after her, begging her to calm down and listen to my apology, but I sensed that would make matters worse. Sometimes you have to accept you’ve screwed up and leave it. Better to let the anger cool and try again another day.
I dragged myself into the “other room,” the bedroom, and tore off my clothes. Lying flat on my back, I gazed up at the clicking ceiling fan and cursed out loud. It wasn’t only that I hadn’t gotten laid. My frustration ran much deeper than that. I couldn’t stop thinking of her. I was fucking crazy about her.
MONDAY, JULY 7, 1975, 10:57 A.M.
With Vikky’s tea for my breakfast, I perused the news coming off the wire. In Pakistan, more than fifty people had been killed when their bus tumbled down a ravine. I couldn’t imagine the terror, given my acrophobia.
I thought I might propose a story on bus safety to Frank. Willy had told me trucks and buses sometimes took the hairpin turns in the Western Ghats too quickly and ended up plunging down the mountain. Maybe Frank would spring for the cost of a government tourist vehicle to take me there.
Thinking of Willy reminded me of Sushmita and the crappy end to our evening. Served me right, I supposed, for trying to steal a friend’s girl. And yet I wondered if I was in love with her. Obsessed, for sure. Love was too soon, wasn’t it? Hell, no. I’d fallen in love faster than that plenty of times.
She was wittier and more beguiling than any woman I’d ever met. Our ages were well suited and, while I was aware of the race difference, it didn’t matter to me. Nothing prevented us from falling in love and making a go of things. Nothing at all. If you didn’t count Willy Smets. And I was counting him.
My fear of heights convinced me to chuck the idea about bus safety, and I went to work on the latest Emergency news. Not sure it would pass the censor, I nevertheless wrote an article profiling the most prominent figures who’d been arrested, including JP Narayan, Morarji Desai, and Raj Narain, the guy who’d lit the fuse leading to the Emergency in the first place. He’d opposed Mrs. Gandhi for her seat in parliament in ’71 and lost by a mile. But he’d sued over her election victory, charging irregularities and abuses—minor though they were—of governmental power. When he won the case, it forced the PM’s hand. And now Raj Narain and the opposition were in the shit, along with Indian democracy.
After he’d waved a reproachful finger at me, Onkar tore up my story and deposited it in the dustbin.
Janice joined me for our afternoon tea. She said I’d received a strange phone call when I was out to lunch. Someone named Bikas wanted to talk to me urgently.
“Did he say what about?” I asked.
“No. Just that he’d call again.”
MONDAY, JULY 7, 1975, 8:25 P.M.
It took a couple of beats before I realized the smell of food cooking was coming not through the open window, but from my own flat. I noticed a pair of chappals against the wall in the entryway, and went to investigate. Ramu was in the kitchen, preparing dinner in his bare feet. He’d also had the foresight to pour me a glass of whisky, which he’d covered with a small saucer to keep dust and flying bugs away. He shooed me back into the drawing room.
“Come, sir. Aapka drink. Khana soon.”
“But how?” I asked. “How did you get in here?”
“Inspector, sir. Take your drink,” he repeated.
Khana, I assumed, was dinner. It smelled delicious, and I was starving. Somehow, Lokhande had opened my door and let Ramu in. He must have given him money to buy food, too, as I doubted Ramu had two paise to rub together.
I settled on the sofa and watched as Ramu placed my whisky before me. He mimed a question to ask how much ice I wanted. I held up two fingers, and he fulfilled the request.
“Now sit,” he said. “Take rest. Khana, bis minnit,” and he showed ten fingers twice. Twenty minutes.
I resolved to put myself in his capable hands and enjoy the drink he’d poured me. If I’d been able to listen to some Oscar Peterson—maybe with some air-conditioning—the tableau would have been perfect. I tried to avoid thinking of Sushmita, three floors above, probably still stewing at me for my remarks about her flat. What a jerk I’d been. And yet, I can’t deny, I still wondered whose place it was. She hadn’t exactly cleared up the mystery. And the residents’ board in the lobby listed Willy Smets, not Sushmita Deshpande, as the owner.
Twenty minutes later, more or less, Ramu delivered on his promise of khana. He brought out the dishes one after the other and placed them on the Formica dining table. There was pulao—rice and peas—dal, chole, and bhindi—okra—and a salad of onion, tomato, and cucumber. He laid out a variety of pickle, a sort of spicy relish. As I dug in, the bhoot reappeared with, of all things, a bottle of wine. Who knew if it was any good, given the heat and the wretched storage conditions? I gave it a try and was not disappointed. Not the best thing that had ever passed my lips, but it tasted like wine.
“Tell me, Ramu,” I said, as he cleared the dishes onto a platter. “Where did you get all this food and wine?”
He didn’t seem to understand, claiming—I believe—that it had come from the kitchen. He’d cooked it.
“No, I mean the money. Paise. Where did you get the money to buy everything? Surely I owe you.”
“Money?” he asked. “Sir has gave. No issues.”
Sir was Lokhande, I figured, and let it drop. I’d pay back the cop the next time I saw him. He’d named his price, after all. A bottle of Chivas Regal.
I tried to relax on one of the sofas. But, feeling no small measure of discomfort, I realized the scene reminded me of the first words Willy Smets had said to me. Indians could be the means to my happiness or the obstacle to it. Despite the inconvenience this memory caused me, I had to admit he was right. It was powerfully tempting to let someone take care of you, even when it stank of exploitation. At the same time, I felt like a shit. There I was, enjoying the fruits of low-cost labor, all the while indifferent to the challenges Ramu might have been facing. Far from his family and friends, he was from some forsaken corner in the North of India, earning a pittance from a gora who barely appreciated him. Surely he was sending his entire salary back to his family. I was ashamed to think I’d been seduced. I was a convert. A believer in what Willy had told me. That the hardships of the Indian lower classes, to me, amounted to little more than a convenience. A means to achieve my own happiness.
