Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram

"Very well," he yielded with a sigh. "But you must have one drink with me. It would be too uncivilised for you to leave my company without allowing me at least this little corruption of your holy warring self. After all, what is the point of a man returning from the dead, if it is not to drink strong spirits with his friends?"

"Okay," I relented, smiling at him but still standing. "One drink. I'll have a whisky. Make it a double. Is that corrupt enough for you?"

"Ah, Lin," he grinned, "Is there anyone, in this sickly sweet world of ours, who is corrupt enough for me?"

"Where there's a weak will, there's a way, Didier. We live in hope."

"But of course," he said, and we both laughed.

"I'll leave you to it," Kavita announced, leaning over to kiss my cheek. "I've got to get back to the office. Let's get together, Lin. You look... you look pretty wild. You look like a story, yaar, if ever I saw one."

"Sure," I smiled. "There's a story or two. Off the record, of course. Probably keep us going over dinner."

"I look forward to it," she said, holding my eye long enough to make sure I felt it in several places at once. She broke the contact to flash a smile at Didier. "Be nasty to someone for me, Didier. I don't want to hear that you've got all sentimental, yaar, just because Lin is back."

She walked out with my eyes on her, and when the drinks arrived Didier insisted that I sit down with him at last.

"My dear friend, you can stand to eat a meal-if you must-and you can stand to make love-if you are able-but it is impossible to stand and drink whisky. It is the act of a barbarian. A man who stands up to drink a noble alcohol like whisky, in all but a toast to some noble thing or purpose, is a beast-a man who will stop at nothing."

So we sat, and he raised his glass immediately to toast with mine.

"To the living!" he offered.

"And the dead?" I asked, my glass still on the table.

"And the dead!" he replied, his smile wide and warm.

I raised my glass in turn, clinked it against his, and threw back the double.

"Now," he said firmly, the smile discarded as swiftly as it had risen to his eyes. "What is the trouble?" "Where do you want me to start?" I scoffed.

"No, my friend. I am not talking just about the war. There is something else, something very determined in your face, and I want to know the heart of it."

I stared back at him in silence, secretly delighted to be back in the company of someone who knew me well enough to read between the frown lines.

"Come on, Lin. There is too much trouble in your eyes. What is the problem? If you want, if it is easier, you can begin by telling me what happened in Afghanistan."

"Khader's dead," I said flatly, staring at the empty glass in my hand.

"No!" he gasped, fearful and resentful, somehow, in the same quick response.

"Yes."

"No, no, no. I would hear something... The whole city would know it."

"I saw his body. I helped to drag it up the mountain to our camp.

I helped them bury him. He's dead. They're all dead. We're the only ones left from here-Nazeer, Mahmoud, and me."

"Abdel Khader... It can't be..."

Didier was ashen-faced, and the grey seemed to move even into his eyes. Stricken by the news-he looked as though someone had struck him hard on the face-he slumped in his chair and his jaw fell open. He began to slip sideways in the chair, and I was afraid that he would fall to the floor or even suffer a stroke.

"Take it easy," I said softly. "Don't go to fuckin' pieces on me, Didier. You look like shit, man. Snap out of it!"

His weary eyes drifted up to meet mine.

"There are some things, Lin, that simply cannot be. I am twelve, thirteen years in Bombay, and always there is Abdel Khader Khan ..."

He dropped his gaze again, and lapsed into a reverie so rich in thought and feeling that his head twitched and his lower lip trembled in the turbulence of it. I was worried. I'd seen men go under before. In prison, I'd watched men succumb, fragmented by fear and shame, and then slaughtered by solitude. But that was a process: it took weeks, months, or years. Didier's collapse was the work of seconds, and I was watching him crumple and fade from one heartbeat to the next.

I moved around the table and sat beside him, pulling him close to me with an arm around his shoulder.

"Didier!" I hissed in a harsh whisper. "I've got to go. Do you hear me? I came in to find out about my stuff-the stuff I left with you while I was at Nazeer's, getting off the dope. Remember?

I left my bike, my Enfield, with you. I left my passports and my money and some other stuff. Do you remember? It's very important.

I need that stuff, Didier. Do you remember?"

"Yes, but of course," he replied, coming to himself with a grumpy little shake of his jaw. "Your things are all safe. Have no fear of that. I have all your things."

"Do you still have the apartment in Merriweather Road?"

"Yes."

"Is that where my things are? Do you have my things there?"

"What?"

"For God's sake, Didier! Snap out of it! Come on. We're going to get up together and walk to your apartment. I need to shave and shower and get organised. I've got something... something important to do. I need you, man. Don't fuck up on me now!"

He blinked, and turned his head to look at me, his upper lip curling in the familiar sneer.

"What is the meaning of such a remark?" he demanded indignantly.

"Didier Levy does not fuck up on anyone! Unless, of course, it is very, very early in the morning. You know, Lin, how I hate morning people, almost as much as I hate the police. Alors, let's go!"

At Didier's apartment I shaved, showered, and changed into the new clothes. Didier insisted that I eat something. He cooked an omelette while I went through the two boxes of my belongings to find my stash of money-about nine thousand American dollars-the keys to my bike, and my best false passport. It was a Canadian book, with my photo and details inserted in it. The false tourist visa had expired. I had to renew it quickly. If anything went wrong in what I planned to do, I would need plenty of money and a good, clean book.

"Where are you going now?" Didier asked as I pushed the last forkful of food into my mouth, and stood to rinse the dishes in the sink.

"First, I have to fix up my passport," I answered him, still chewing. "Then I'm going to see Madame Zhou."

"You what?" "I'm going to deal with Madame Zhou. I'm going to clear the slate. Khaled gave..." I broke off, the words failing, and the thought of Khaled Ansari momentarily bleaching my mind with the mention of his name. It was a white blizzard of emotion storming from the last memory, the last image of him, walking away into the night and the snow. I pushed past it with an effort of will.

"Khaled gave me your note in Pakistan. Thanks for letting me know, by the way. I still don't really get it. I still don't know how she got so mad that she had to put me in jail. There was never anything personal in it, from my side. But it's personal now. Four months in Arthur Road made it personal. That's why I need the bike. I don't want to use cabs. And that's why I've got to get my passport tidied up. If the cops get in on it, I'll need a clean book to hand over."

"But you don't know? Madame Zhou was attacked last week-no, ten days ago. The mob, a mob of Sena people, they attacked her Palace and destroyed it. There was a great fire. They ran inside the building and they destroyed everything, then they put the place on fire. The building still stands. The staircases and the upstairs rooms still exist. But the place is ruined, and it will never again open. They will pull it down at some time soon. The building is finished, Lin, and so is she, La Madame."

"Is she dead?" I asked through clenched teeth.