Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Lal frowned at the road, his mouth a thin white line. Yes, thought Das, there wasn’t any need at all. You could have sent in a few reports; your uncles in the Ministry would have made sure everyone saw them; you’d have got a couple of quick promotions and an ‘A’-class posting — Bonn or Brussels or something. No need at all for anyone else to come along.

Aloud he said: What happened?

Oh, just an accident really, said Lal. The chap was working with some kind of construction gang. They used to do distempering and whitewashing and things like that. They were working in a building when it collapsed. It happened about four days ago. The collapse was in all the newspapers, because the building was meant to be a real showpiece. They called it the Star. These collapses happen all the time here. The contractors save money on material and so the buildings fall down. There was nothing in the newspapers about a death. Apparently your man was the only one, and even the authorities probably don’t know. My source says the gang he was working with wants to keep it quiet, because he was here illegally, and they could all have got into trouble. Anyway, you can hear all about it yourself; we’ll go and see my source this evening and find out if there’s anything to clear up.

Lal looked at Das, and saw him staring out of the window in silent disappointment. He gave him a consoling slap on the shoulder. Never mind, yar , he said. You’ve had a good ride on a plane, you’ll get to see al-Ghazira and buy a few nice things and, besides, you’ve got your travel allowance and foreign allowance for a week, so you’ll get something out of it. Don’t feel too bad about the whole thing.

Certainly not, thought Das. A week’s travel allowance and foreign allowance for me and an Italian car for you. Clearing his throat, he said: Yes, that’s true. When do we go to meet your source?

This evening, said Lal. I’ll pick you up from your hotel. You must have dinner with us afterwards.

They drove in silence for a while, past fountained roundabouts, and vast pitted construction sites and jungles of steel scaffolding. Soon they were caught in snarling traffic and Lal’s little car was lost among sports cars, and limousines with heavily curtained windows, and dust-spattered articulated trucks as long as trains, come all the way from Europe. Then, frowning thoughtfully, Lal asked: Who did you say your DIG is?

Das told him.

And what’s your replacement’s name?

Das told him, a little puzzled by his curiosity. Lal smiled when he heard the name: Let me see … I think they’re related; uncle and nephew in fact. Yes, I seem to remember hearing that. I suppose he couldn’t think of any way of getting him into the Secretariat without shifting you from your post for a bit.

Das felt as though he had been hit in the stomach. He propped himself upright with an outstretched arm, resisting the temptation to double up.

He had known but he had not noticed.

Oh, he said, I didn’t know. What else was there to say?

No, Lal said kindly, I suppose you didn’t. I remember hearing that you’re always very busy with birds and painting and things.

Jyoti sat out the rest of the drive in silence. He could not bring himself to ask Lal about the Barbary falcon, as he had meant to.

His name’s Jeevanbhai Patel, Lal said, hurrying Das through the Bab al-Asli, past the evening crowds strolling through the Souq’s main passageway. Das looked around him at the robes and headcloths of the Ghaziri men, at the black masks of the women, at gold watches and silver calculators, jewelled belts and silk shirts. He wanted to stop and look at everything properly, but Lal was ushering him rapidly along.

My predecessor passed him on to me, Lal said. He came here years ago — God knows when — long before the oil anyway. They say that once upon a time nothing happened in al-Ghazira that he didn’t know about. He’s a businessman. I believe he was quite successful once, but he got involved in something and lost all his money. That’s the odd thing about him. Your usual Indian bania’s first instinct is to stick to his shop or his trade and not get involved in anything, whichever part of the world he may be in. He knows he can make more money that way. But this man’s different: he jumps into things. That was his undoing. He’s an old man now of course, and his life’s behind him, but he still keeps his ears open. He drinks too much nowadays but, still, I must say we’ve had some very useful material from him.

They stopped at a shop — the Durban Tailoring House, Das read, on a board hanging askew over the door. It was a very dilapidated shop, in sharp contrast with its glittering neighbours. A figure materialized somewhere in the murky interior and advanced towards them: a man well past middle age, thin and slightly stooped, his face delicately lined, like a walnut, but nondescript except for large, decaying teeth that stuck almost horizontally out of his mouth.

Jeevanbhai led them through the shop to a room at the back. As Das entered the room, he faltered, for the reek of whisky clouded the room like a fog. It was a small room made even smaller by two large steel cabinets. There was a desk in the middle of the room, marooned among scattered files and stacks of paper weighed down by cracked saucers and chipped cups. Bits of paper blew around the room chased by half-hearted gusts from an ancient table-fan. It was very dim; the only light came from a single, dusty table-lamp that had been placed on the floor.

Jeevanbhai cleared piles of paper off two steel folding chairs, wiped them with a duster and hesitantly pushed them forward.

Patel sahb , Lal said, I hope we haven’t come too early?

No, no, said Jeevanbhai, not at all, never. No formalities. The man who works here leaves early nowadays. I let him go; he’s growing old. This is the best place and time to meet.

Lowering himself into a chair behind the desk, he pulled a drawer open and took out three glasses, one of them half-full, and a bottle of cheap Scotch whisky. A little bit? he said, turning a raised eyebrow from Jai Lal to Das.

Jai Lal glanced at Das and nodded. Jeevanbhai drained his glass and poured whisky into the glasses. Splashing a little water into them, he handed them out. Cheers! he said, knocking his glass against theirs.

So, Patel sahb , Lal said, sipping his warm whisky fastidiously, how are you?

Not bad; growing older.

Lal laughed: We’re all growing older.

Yes, said Jeevanbhai. We’re all growing older. He drained his glass and poured himself another drink.

Lal cleared his throat: Patel sahb , this is a friend of mine, Mr Das, who is also interested in what we were talking about yesterday. Could you tell him what you told me — about how this young man died?

Died? Jeevanbhai ran his tongue over his teeth. Who said he died?

Lal raised a quick eyebrow at Das. Didn’t you say he died? he said smoothly.

No, said Jeevanbhai, I just said the building fell on him, and that nobody could have survived it. That is not the same thing as saying nobody did survive it. No, no.

I see, I see, said Lal. What happened?

What happened? Who knows what happened?

What do you think happened?

Who am I to think anything happened, Mr Lal? Who are you?

Lal half-rose from his chair. Perhaps, Patel sahb , we could come back later, when you feel like talking? Or when your head is clearer?

Later, earlier, how does it matter? Jeevanbhai said softly. Whatever it is, whether it’s happened or not, it’s a little difficult — to use simple words — a little difficult to understand.

Lal shot a glance at Das and motioned to him to keep quiet and sit back. But Das could not keep himself from straining forward to look into Jeevanbhai’s face. Abruptly the bulb went out. Jeevanbhai rummaged among some papers on the floor, pulled out a bent candle and struck a match. When the flame spluttered Das noticed that Jeevanbhai’s hands were shaking, but he could not tell whether it was drunkenness or only an old man’s tremor. Jeevanbhai’s eyes glowed momentarily in the candlelight. Then he put the candle on the floor, beside his chair, to shield it from the fan, and at once his face disappeared into pools of shadow, and all Das could see were the enigmatic red teeth.