Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram

They were the new blood, the new mafia dons, the new lords of the city: Sanjay, the efficient killer with the movie-star looks;

Andrew, the genial Goan who dreamed of taking his seat on the mafia council; Amir, the grizzled veteran with the story-teller's gift; Faisal, the cold-hearted enforcer who only asked one question-Finger, arm, leg, or neck?-when he was given an assignment; Farid, known as the Fixer, who solved problems with fire and fear, and who'd raised six much younger brothers and sisters, alone, when his parents died in a cholera-infested slum; and Salman, the quiet one, the humble one, the natural leader, who controlled the lives of hundreds in the little empire that he'd inherited and held by force.

And they were my friends. More than friends, they were my brothers in their brotherhood of crime. We were bonded to one another in blood-not all of it other people's-and boundless obligation. If I needed them, no matter what I'd done, no matter what I wanted them to do, they would come. If they needed me, I was there, without cavil or regret. They knew they could count on me. They knew that when Khader had asked me to join him in his war I'd gone with him, and I'd put my life on the line. I knew I could count on them. When I'd needed him, Abdullah had been there to help me deal with Maurizio's body. It's a significant test, asking someone to help you dispose of a murdered man's body. Not many pass it. Every man at the table had passed that test; some of them more than once. They were a solid crew, to use the Australian prison slang. They were the perfect crew for me, an outlaw with a price on my head. I'd never felt so safe-not even with Khaderbhai's protection-and I never should've felt alone.

But I was alone, and for two reasons. The mafia was theirs, not mine. For them, the organisation always came first. But I was loyal to the men, not the mafia; to the brothers, not the brotherhood. I worked for the mafia, but I didn't join it. I'm not a joiner. I never found a club or clan or idea that was more important to me than the men and women who believed in it.

And there was another difference between the men in that group and me-a difference so profound that friendship, on its own, couldn't surmount it. I was the only man at that table who hadn't killed a human being, in hot blood or cold. Even Andrew, amiable and garrulous young Andrew, had fired his Beretta at a cornered enemy-one of the Sapna killers-and emptied all seven rounds of the magazine into the man's chest until he was, as Sanjay would've said, two or three times dead.

Just at that moment the differences suddenly seemed immense and unconquerable to me-far greater and more significant than the hundred talents, desires, and tendencies that we had in common. I was slipping away from them, right there and then, at the long table in the Taj. While Amir told his stories and I tried to nod and smile and laugh with the others, grief came to claim me. The day that had started well, and should've been like any other, had spun askew with Salman's little words. The room was warm, but I was cold. My belly hungered, but I couldn't eat. I was surrounded by friends, in a vast, crowded restaurant, but I was lonelier than a mujaheddin sentry on the night before battle.

And then I looked up to see Lisa Carter walk into the restaurant.

Her long, blonde hair had been cut. The new short style suited her open, honest, pretty face. She was dressed in pale blue-her favourite colour-a loose shirt and pants, with matching blue sunglasses propped in her thick hair. She looked like a creature of light, a creature made out of sky and clean, white light.

Without considering what I was doing, I stood and excused myself, and left my friends. She saw me as I approached her. A smile as big as a gambler's promise unveiled her face as she opened her arms to hug me. And then she knew. One hand reached up to touch my face, her fingertips reading the braille of scars, while the other hand took my arm to lead me out of the restaurant and into the foyer.

"I haven't seen you for weeks," she said as we sat together in a quiet corner. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I lied. "Were you going in to have some lunch?"

"No. Just coffee. I've got a room here, in the old part, looking out over the Gateway. It's a million-dollar view, and a great room. I've got it for three days while Lettie sews up a deal with a big producer. This is one of the fringe benefits she managed to squeeze out of him. The movie business-what can I say?"

"How's it going?"

"Great," she smiled. "Lettie loves every minute of it. She deals with all the studios and the booking agents now. She's better at it than me. She drives a better deal for us every time. And I do the tourists. I like that part better. I like meeting them and working with them."

"And you like it that sooner or later, no matter how nice they are, they always go away?"

"Yeah. That, too."

"How's Vikram? I haven't seen him since-since the last time I saw you and Lettie."

"He's cool. You know Vikram. He's got a lot more time on his hands now. He misses the stunt thing. He was really big on that, and he was great at it. But it drove Lettie crazy. He was always jumping off moving trucks and crashing through windows and stuff.

And she worried a lot. So she made him give it up."

"What's he doing now?"

"He's kind of the boss, you know? Like the executive vice president of the company-the one Lettie started, with Kavita and Karla and Jeet. And me." She paused, on the verge of saying something, and then plunged on. "She was asking after you."

I stared back at her, saying nothing. "Karla," she explained. "She wants to see you, I think."

I held the silence. I was enjoying it, a little, that so many emotions were chasing one another across the soft, unblemished landscape of her face.

"Have you seen any of his stunts?" she asked.

"Vikram's?"

"Yeah. He did a whole lot before Lettie made him stop."

"I've been busy. But I really want to catch up with Vikram."

"Why don't you?"

"I will. I heard he's hanging out at the Colaba Market every day, and I've been wanting to see him. I'm working a lot of nights, so I haven't been to Leopold's lately. It's just... I've been... busy."

"I know," she said softly. "Maybe too busy, Lin. You don't look too good."

"Gimme a break," I sighed, trying to laugh. "I work out every day. I do boxing or karate every other day. I can't get any fitter than this."

"You know what I mean," she insisted.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Listen, I should let you go..."

"No. You shouldn't."

"I shouldn't?" I asked, faking a smile.

"No. You should come with me, now, to my room. We can have coffee sent up. Come on. Let's go."

And she was right: it was a spectacular view. Tourist ferries bound for the caves on Elephanta Island, or returning to shore, rose up the wavelets and rolled over them in proud, practised glissades. Hundreds of smaller craft dipped and nodded like preening birds in the shallow water while huge cargo vessels, anchored to the horizon, lay motionless on that cusp of calm where the ocean became the bay. On the street below us, parading tourists wove coloured garlands with their movements through and around the tall, stony gallery of the Gateway Monument.

She kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed. I sat near her on the edge of the bed. I stared at the floor near the door. We were quiet for a while, listening to the noises that pushed their way into the room with a breeze that caused the curtains to riffle, swell, and fall.

"I think," she began, taking a deep breath, "you should come and live with me."

"Well, that's-"

"Hear me out," she cut in, raising both palms to silence me.

"Please."

"I just don't think-"

"Please."