Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

Mrs Puri swallowed a yawn.

‘Masterji, you have been talking and talking about these phone calls but no one else can hear them.’

‘Either someone in the building is calling, or someone in here is giving a signal to the callers. Their timing is too good. I’m sure I recognized one of the voices.’

She laughed.

‘Mine? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No… I don’t think so.’

‘I am not making the phone calls. Shall I ask Ramu if he is making the calls?’

She began to close the door: but Masterji pushed it back towards her.

‘What about your sense of shame, Sangeeta? I am your neighbour. Your neighbour of thirty years.’

‘ Our sense of shame? Masterji, you say our …? After the way you behaved at Mr Shah’s house? After the way you lied to your own son about accepting the offer?’

When she closed the door on him, Masterji struck it with his fist.

‘You borrowed money from my wife, and never repaid it. Do you think I didn’t know?’

He walked down into the compound. In the darkness, distances were obscured; masses dissolved; lit window called out to lit window; he saw rhymes in light. One lamp went out in a nearby Society; another came on in Tower B.

Were they doing it?

An autorickshaw drove past the gate, heading towards the slums.

Woken up in his room at the back of the Society, Ram Khare, when the situation was explained to him, pouted his lower lip.

‘Speak to the Secretary. Phones are not the guard’s responsibility.’

He turned on his bedside lamp. His khaki shirt hung on a nail from the wall; old black-and-white photographs in which a bare-chested yoga teacher demonstrated the four stages of the Dhanush-asana were taped above his bed.

‘What does that mean, Ram Khare? We’re being threatened. It’s night-time: you’re the guard.’

A half-bottle of Old Monk rum stood on the only other piece of furniture in the room, a wicker table. Exhaling boozy breath, Ram Khare crossed his arms and scratched his back with long fingernails.

‘I warned you, sir. I warned you.’

He turned in bed, and, showing his visitor his back, bumpy with mosquito-bites, went back to sleep.

‘Why don’t you call Gaurav,’ Mr Pinto asked, when Masterji was back in their flat, the door safely locked behind him.

‘Ask him to come over and spend the night with us. In the morning we’ll go to the police.’

Masterji thought about it, and said: ‘We don’t need anyone’s help. We’re the triumvirate.’

He yanked the Pintos’ telephone cord out of the wall and threw it on the floor.

‘All three of us will sleep right here. First thing in the morning we’ll go to the police.’

Mr Pinto made up the sofa for him; Shelley came from the bedroom with a spare pillow in her blind arms.

Masterji went up to his living room and returned with a smile and a large blue book.

‘What’s that for?’ Mr Pinto asked.

‘It’s my Illustrated History of Science .’ Masterji made a motion of hitting someone on the head with the book. ‘Just in case.’

The produce stalls were now covered with gunny sacks, and the vendors were sleeping beside them. Mani, the assistant, sat outside the glass door of the Renaissance Real-Estate Agency, yawning.

The office was dark, and the broker’s laminated desk was deserted. Yet Mani knew that business was still going on; his boss might need him.

All the children at Vishram Society knew that below the Daisy Duck clock on the wall of Uncle Ajwani’s real-estate office was the door that led into an inner room. None of them had been in there, and it was variously speculated that the broker used the room to sell black-market pharmaceuticals, pornographic magazines, or national secrets.

Shanmugham had just been led through the dark office into the inner room; the broker shut the door behind him.

The inner room had a cot with no cover, and two wicker baskets, one full of coconuts, and the other full of coconut shells. Sawdust, masking tape, nails, a hammer lay on the floor. Avoiding the nails, Shanmugham sat down on the bare cot.

‘What do you use this room for?’

Ajwani pointed to the treasure hoard in the wicker basket. The coconuts were large and green; a curved black knife lay on top of them. ‘I buy them wholesale. Six rupees each. Much better than your Coke or Pepsi. Fresh and tasty.’

‘A room just for coconuts?’ Shanmugham frowned.

The broker slapped the cot. ‘Not just coconuts.’ He winked. ‘Do you want one now, by the way? Full of vitamins. Best thing for the health.’

‘The news, Ajwani. What did you call me here for? Have the old men agreed?’

Ajwani stirred the coconuts with his foot.

‘No, things have become worse. Tinku Kothari, the Secretary’s son — hungry eyes — saw them at the school today. He spoke to the old librarian and got the facts. They were looking up the numbers of Masterji’s old students and calling them from the library phone.’

‘Is this a problem?’

‘No. People respect a man like Masterji. No one loves him. No one will help him.’

‘So why did you call me here, Ajwani?’

‘Because that wasn’t the only thing the librarian told Tinku. He said: they are going to see a lawyer. Tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘That I don’t know. They may bring something back with them. Business card, brochure. It will end up in their rubbish.’

‘Let’s call them right now. You call them. You’re so good at it.’

Ajwani chuckled. He picked up an imaginary phone receiver and lowered his voice an octave. ‘Old man, sign the paper. Or we’ll break your head. We’ll play with your wife. They were more frightened when I spoke to them.’ Ajwani beamed. ‘Admit it.’

Shanmugham picked up a coconut and tapped it with his finger. ‘You’re a natural at this, Ajwani. You should be working for us full-time. You and your wife.’

‘Wife? She just text-messages me when Masterji enters or leaves his room. I’m the one making the calls. It’s good that you’re giving me a sweetener, but I’d do it anyway. I like this work.’

The broker’s face broadened with pleasure. Even though they were alone in the room, he moved closer to the Tamilian, and lowered his voice.

‘Tell me what you’ve done. A few things you’ve done.’

With his fingers poised above the coconut, Shanmugham looked up.

‘What do you mean, done?’

Ajwani winked. ‘You know. For Mr Shah. Things like this. Phone calls, threats, action . Tell me a few stories.’

‘You don’t do these things yourself,’ Shanmugham said. ‘Usually get someone else. Some eager fellow from the slums. No shortage.’

‘Tell me. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.’

A corner of Shanmugham’s lip rose; his tongue cleaned his angular tooth. ‘We’re partners now. Why not?’ He rotated the coconut in his hands.

Three years ago. A tough redevelopment project in Chembur. One old man had refused to sell his flat. Mr Shah said: ‘Get him out of there, Shanmugham.’ He had hired two boys to smash chairs to pieces outside his window. No implements. The old man stared out of his window and watched them break wood with their bare hands and feet all day long. When he looked out, they grinned and showed him their teeth. He sold out after a couple of days.

‘That’s clever,’ Ajwani said. ‘Very clever. The police can’t do a thing to you.’

Shanmugham dropped the coconut on to the pile; then he gave the basket a kick. ‘Always use your brains, the boss says.’

The nuts trembled together.

‘There was once a Muslim man in a chawl, a Khan. This fellow fancied himself tough. Boss made him an offer to leave. Generous offer. “I have no pity for a greedy man,” Boss said. I paid a boy to sit on the steps of a building opposite and watch this Khan. That was all. Just watch him. This Khan who would not have left if threatened by a gang of goondas signed and left the building within a week.’