Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

It was back to swatting and slapping, back to Odomos.

Gustad went to the bed-with-the-door with the new mixture and pills. Dr. Paymaster had changed Roshan’s prescriptions four times in the last fortnight, and ordered blood tests, stool tests, and barium X-rays. Last week, Gustad had sold his camera to pay the bills.

When Roshan sat up to take the medicine, he wanted to hold her for ever in the safety of his arms. Instead he stroked her forehead and rubbed her back gently. But she already knew that her strong and broad-shouldered Daddy (with his big biceps which he could wriggle up and down like living creatures) was scared, helpless in the face of her illness. Sometimes, when he came to look at her in the morning, she thought he was going to cry, and it ushered the beginning of tears into her own eyes. Then she forced herself to think of nice things, like Major Uncle visiting on Sundays for Mummy’s delicious dhansak, when Daddy and he, with Sohrab and Darius cheering them on, would place their elbows on the table and try to push down each other’s hand. Their muscles swelled so big, it seemed they would burst. It was such fun to watch them sweating and struggling and laughing at the same time. Major Uncle was also a very strong man, even taller than Daddy, but Daddy usually won, he was so tough.

‘How is the injection, my little bakulyoo ?’ said Gustad. ‘Still paining?’

‘Aches a little.’

He went to the sideboard and got the tube of Hirudoid ointment. ‘This will dissolve the swelling.’ He rubbed it over the spot. ‘Now. What else would you like? Would you like your big Italian doll to come out of the cupboard?’

‘Oh yes.’ Her eyes brightened at the prospect.

‘When I come home this evening, we’ll take all her clothes from the suitcase and dress her up. Then she can sit with you on the sofa. Or sleep here beside you. OK?’

‘Yes, but don’t be late, Daddy.’

‘No, I promise. Now go to sleep. Lots of rest. Come on, close your eyes. Or shall I sing for you, like a little baby?’ Teasing her, he began, to the tune of ‘Ta ra ra boom dee-ay’ the song she used to hear as an infant:

Roshan is a good girl,

A very, very good girl,

See how well she goes to sleep—

‘No, no! Not that song!’ Roshan protested. ‘Sing my favourite.’ So he sang a verse of the ‘Donkey Serenade’, then kissed her cheek and said goodbye.

‘Goodnight-Godblessyou,’ she said.

‘But it’s not night now.’

‘I am always sleeping. For me it’s always night,’ she said, and they both laughed.

He collected the thirty-ninth bundle from the kitchen. Will soon be halfway there, he thought. The sky clouded while he rode the bus, and the rain commenced when he reached Flora Fountain. The final rallies of a departing season. The monsoon was over the hump. He debated: bicycle clips or not? Air-raid siren not yet gone off — enough time. Hate sitting all day with damp trousers clutching my calves. He fished inside the briefcase for the clips, and raised a foot to the bus shelter’s bottom stile. The trouser cuff was wrapped tightly round his shin and the clip snapped on: first one leg, then the other.

From the bus stop he could see the dome of the bank building. How whitely it gleams, against the grey sky. Rain washing it clean, day by day. He reached the bank portico and snapped off the bicycle clips. The water ran off his umbrella ferrule as it leaned against the pillar. He pinched each trouser leg at the knee and cuff, to restore the crease, then shook water off the umbrella. Someone touched his elbow from behind.

‘Good-morning, Mr. Noble,’ said Laurie Coutino, with a hint of singsong. The way convent schoolgirls rise and greet the teacher. Roshan also had the habit.

‘Good-morning, Miss Coutino.’

‘Mr. Noble, may I talk to you sometime today?’

He noted with approval her use of ‘may’ instead of ‘can’. But the request surprised him. ‘Sure. Eleven o’clock, after I finish checking the ledger?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d prefer privately.’

His surprise grew, he looked at his watch. ‘Still ten minutes to ten. We can talk now. Or lunch-time.’

‘Lunch-time, yes.’

‘Good, I’ll meet you in the canteen. One o’clock.’

‘Not in the canteen, please. Maybe somewhere outside.’

She brought her head close, speaking softly. Whiff of some nice perfume. What is she up to? ‘Meet me here at one o’clock.’

‘Thank you so much, Mr. Noble,’ she whispered, and went inside. He watched her receding form appreciatively, puzzled but flattered, and followed.

Since it was not yet ten, the tellers’ cages were unoccupied. Some early customers waited, moving their eyes rapidly from clock to counter to idle employees, as though sufficient repetitions of their visual cycles would hasten the conjunction of the three. Behind the counters, not oblivious of the restless customers but sharply aware the time was still their own, a few clerks were reading newspapers; others were lounging with their feet on a desk or file cabinet. Dinshawji was describing something animatedly to an avid group of listeners.

Gustad could hear his voice: ‘…and then the second fellow said, “Changing gears? That’s nothing, yaar. ” ’ He broke off when he saw Gustad: ‘Come quick! This is a good one.’

Gustad had heard the story before, but listened patiently as Dinshawji started again. ‘The first man says, “ Yaar, ever since my wife started driving lessons, new-new things she does in her sleep. Grabs my lorri and says, first gear, second gear, reverse — this way and that way she keeps twisting it.” Then the second fellow says, “Changing gears? That’s nothing. My wife, in the middle of the night, catches my lorri, puts it in, and says, twenty litres petrol, please.” ’

Roars of laughter filled the space behind the counter. The men slapped Dinshawji on the back. ‘One more, one more,’ said someone, but the clock’s slow, solemn bonging dispersed them.

Gustad opened his briefcase and casually handed over the bundle of money. ‘Won’t meet you for lunch, Dinshu. Going out for some work.’ He closed and opened his eyes slowly. Dinshawji understood: explanations not possible, others present. He assumed it concerned the secret mission, as he liked to call it.

At eleven, Gustad left his desk for a cup of tea, then changed direction and went the long way, past Laurie Coutino’s desk. He was not sure why he did that, but after this morning, he wanted to look at her again. Their eyes met in passing, and she smiled. He felt foolish at the quickening of his heartbeat. Like a schoolboy.

He waited under the portico. No danger of being observed, everyone busy with lunch. There she is. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr. Noble.’

‘My pleasure, Miss Coutino. Where would you like to go?’

‘Please call me Laurie.’ He smiled, nodded. ‘Anywhere, Mr. Noble, as long as it’s private. I don’t want people to see us together and get the wrong idea.’

‘Quite right. There is a nice restaurant at the corner.’

‘I’ve seen it from outside,’ said Laurie.

‘They have private rooms, maybe we can talk there.’

They walked to the corner, stepping carefully. The rain had left fresh, deep puddles. ‘Mr. Noble, were you in the army?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I’ve seen you limping. I wondered if that’s what it was. Somehow, the way you walk, your shoulders, your moustache, make you look like a military man.’

Flattered, he modestly laughed away what he assumed was a compliment, in the manner that an army man would. ‘No. This injury was not received in the service of my country. It was in the service of my family.’