Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

By the time he passed through Mahim, one question still bit at him: had Papa-ji been afraid, too? Maybe Papa-ji's integrity, and what little of it Sartaj had himself, came really from fear. Maybe they were both not big enough to ask for too much. Small rewards for small hearts. But there was no way around this thorny blockage. Sartaj did not want to deal with Iffat-bibi. He did not want to know more about Parulkar, and that was that. He drove faster, and tried to leave it all behind.

* * *

Sartaj met Kamala Pandey in a coffee shop on S.V. Road. She was going shopping in Bandra that afternoon, she had said, and the coffee shop was a convenient place to meet. She was sitting at the back of the shop, with two full shopping bags and Umesh next to her. Sartaj wasn't expecting Umesh, but he was there, glorious and beautiful in black jeans and a white T-shirt. He was sitting close to Kamala, arm to shoulder, and Sartaj wasn't sure that they weren't secret boyfriend and girlfriend again, but he was certain there had been some haramkhori recently. Some pushing-and-pulling, as Kamble would have put it.

'Hello,' he said.

Sartaj pulled out a chair and sat. He nodded, and said nothing. Kamala shifted about, and then said in a very small, girlish voice, 'I told Umesh to come. I thought he may be able to help.'

Sartaj kept his voice soft, and very neutral. 'If you want to keep this case private, then keep it really private.'

Umesh smiled, and leant forward across the table. 'Inspector saab,' he said, 'you are absolutely correct. But Kamala is alone in this, you see. And she needs some support. I am the only one she can talk to about this. A woman needs support, you see.'

He really was very charming, in a confidentially boyish sort of way. His hair fell over his forehead and he had a very sweet smile, a young one. Sartaj couldn't deny any of this. 'Yes,' Sartaj said. 'But…'

'Will you have a coffee, inspector saab?' Umesh said. 'Do. It's very good here.'

'No,' Sartaj said. 'I'm in a hurry.'

'Try the cappuccino,' Umesh said. He raised a pointing finger, and called to the boy behind the counter. 'Harish. One cappuccino here.'

Sartaj let it go. He had only a vague idea of what a cappuccino was, and he knew he didn't want one. But it wasn't worth the effort to argue with charming Umesh. 'We are making progress on the case,' he said to Kamala. 'There have been some breakthroughs. Let's see if something comes of them.'

'What breakthroughs?' Kamala said. She was eager, excited.

'I can't talk about details, madam. The case is still under investigation.'

'Please,' Kamala said. 'What is it?'

Sartaj shook his head. 'I'll let you know when we have something more concrete. This is just a connection.'

'Is it something to do with Rachel?'

'Perhaps.'

'Surely you can tell Kamala,' Umesh said. 'Given the conditions that exist.'

'What conditions?' Sartaj said.

Umesh shrugged. He tilted his head towards one of Kamala's shopping bags. A brown envelope was sticking out of it, from among the rich squares of boutique tissue paper.

'Ah, those conditions,' Sartaj said. He reached across the table, took the brown envelope between thumb and forefinger. Inside, there was the unmistakable square bulk of money. Sartaj dropped the envelope into its cushion of Kamala's packages and stood up.

'Where are you going?' Kamala said.

'Please understand one thing,' Sartaj said, looking at Umesh. 'I am not your employee. You are not my boss. I do not report to you. Keep your money.' And then, in English, 'Good luck.'

'Wait,' Kamala said, frantic.

'Arre, boss,' Umesh said. 'You took offence. I didn't mean anything like that.' He was on his feet now. 'Sorry, sorry.' He put a hand on Sartaj's arm, then took it away quickly.

Sartaj knew that he had on his fearsome face, and that Kamala was quite afraid. She had never seen his flat policeman's eyes, this jagged promise of violence. Sartaj felt a flicker of regret, for frightening the fair Kamala, but Umesh had withered under this hostility, and Sartaj was enjoying his befuddlement. Then there was someone standing at Sartaj's elbow. 'Cappuccino,' the boy said brightly, quite unaware of the tension at the table. Sartaj looked down at the foamy cup, and when he came back to Umesh, the man's charisma was back in place.

'Inspector saab,' Umesh said. 'Truly, I am sorry. I am a fool. I am a fool. Please. I'm an idiot. Kamala mustn't suffer because of me.'

Harish the cappuccino boy was taking in the drama, wide-eyed. Sartaj felt foolish himself. He had been frightened this morning by Mohit's anger, by his own apprehensions over Mohit's future. Then he had been unsettled by Iffat-bibi. And here he was, taking it all out on Kamala. And Umesh really was drooping with regret and sadness. There was a vulnerability to him that Sartaj hadn't seen before. Sartaj shook his head, and took the cup from Harish. 'Okay,' he said. He sat, and waited until Harish was safely away. 'All right,' he said to Kamala. 'When there is something concrete to tell you, I will tell you.'

Kamala nodded rapidly. 'Yes, yes,' she said. 'That is fine.'

Umesh was sitting back in his chair, far back from Sartaj. 'Try your cappuccino, sir,' he said. 'It is really very good.'

Sartaj took a sip. It was rich and full, like its foreign name. He looked around at the shop, at its glossy pastel walls and pictures of European streets. Harish was serving a gaggle of eighteen-year-olds at the counter. The tables towards the front were all occupied by students, resplendent in their chunky shoes and carefully tousled hair. We never had places like this in college, Sartaj thought. Megha and he had huddled together in Irani restaurants, drinking stale chai, enduring stares from balding businessmen.

'Sugar?' Umesh said.

'It's sweet enough,' Sartaj said. There was a little green car sitting next to Umesh's cup, attached to his keychain. 'What's this one?'

'It's a Ferrari,' Umesh said.

Sartaj turned the car around with the tip of his finger, moved it back and forth on the table. It was a perfect little working model, with a steering wheel and little letters and numbers on the sides. 'Wasn't it a different one last time? A red one?'

'Yes. That was a Porsche.'

Sartaj nodded. 'So you like the Ferrari better now?'

Umesh raised both his hands, miming a baffled astonishment. 'Arre, inspector saab,' he said. 'What, a man should have only one gaddi? A man needs more than that.' The irony was as heavy as the innuendo. But he was very aware that he was being the naughty boy, and he was very beautiful, so it was impossible to be annoyed with him. Even for Kamala, who rolled her eyes but couldn't keep the amusement from her eyes.

'So you actually have these cars?' Sartaj said. It was a mean question, but Sartaj had to ask it. Umesh made him feel old. Once there had been a Sartaj who had wanted flashy women and flashy cars, many of them, and thought he deserved them.

'You see,' Umesh said. 'Actually…'

Kamala slapped Umesh's shoulder. 'Shut up,' she said. And then, to Sartaj, 'In his dreams he owns them. He buys six car magazines every month. He has posters on his wall.'

'It's my hobby,' Umesh said, quite pious. 'They are amazing machines.' There was a low-slung fervour in his voice, the hushed kinetic energy of the true fanatic. 'And anyway, you are quite wrong. On my wall there are no posters any more. There is a screen.'

'Oh, yes,' Kamala laughed. 'The new film theatre.'

'You have a film theatre in your house?' Sartaj said. 'With a projector and everything?'

'No, not a film projector,' Umesh said, with a tolerant smile for Sartaj's ignorance of the new. 'It's a very high quality Sony DVD player, attached to an LCD projector. You get an image that is about fourteen feet across.' Umesh held his arms out wide. 'And it's a better image than most of the cinemas have in this country. I also put in a new Sanyo amplifier, and Bose speakers. You turn up the sound on that, you can feel it here.' His hand thumped on his chest, and his eyes were soggy with passion. 'You should come over some time, watch a movie.'