Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

They picked him up near an old disused gate at the back which they hadn’t bothered to guard all these years. He was horribly drunk, and more or less raving (must have been drinking that whisky I gave him). They questioned him a bit last night and again at dawn today. Apparently he raved on and on. They couldn’t make sense of everything he said, but the gist of it was this: a massive procession led by your old friend is going to march out of the Ras tomorrow — sorry, today — in the evening. They might even be armed. They plan to march to the Star. The Star is the building which collapsed and buried your Suspect — you remember? The security people aren’t quite sure why they’re going there; maybe it’s some kind of demonstration. Whatever it is, that alone is a serious business. Demonstrations and processions are as forbidden as forbidden can be here, and have been ever since this regime came into power. But, it seems, Jeevanbhai had even grander plans for them and himself. He had some wild idea of getting the old Malik to take advantage of the demonstration and make a show of force at the same time. Perhaps even …

A coup?

Maybe that’s not the right word, but something like that, I think. You know, he still has a lot of support among some people here. But the whole idea was crazy of course. The Malik’s bedridden and ill. He’d probably have thrown Jeevanbhai out, or handed him to security himself. Jeevanbhai must have been very, very drunk to think of something like that.

Maybe he wasn’t, said Das. I told you — that man was living in a dream. There was no telling what he might do.

Maybe you were right, Jai Lal said.

So what happens now?

Well, they’re very concerned. A demonstration by migrant labourers could be quite dangerous. They’re going to deal with it very firmly.

You mean they’ll go into the Ras al-Maktoo and arrest them?

No, that would take a lot of preparation, and there isn’t enough time now. And, in any case, that place is a labyrinth; half of them would be gone before the security people got within a mile of the place. No; they’re going to wait for them near the Star, and they’re going to take the whole lot in over there.

Oh, said Das. So what happens to our Suspect?

Jai Lal coughed into his fist. Well, he said, I was able to work out an agreement. It’s very lucky I happen to know this chap. They’re willing to take us along as observers. They’ll hand over your Suspect once they’ve got him, and you can take him back. They have no interest in keeping him of course but, still, it’s very generous, you know, because we don’t have an extradition agreement with them. Anyway, be ready at four today. I’ll pick you up.

Jai Lal sat back and lit a cigarette. He said: Personal contacts help, you know. No one can work without contacts. That’s the only talent a good officer needs, I always say.

But won’t you need clearance from your ambassador?

No, not strictly. He doesn’t really have jurisdiction over what I do or don’t do. It’s a matter of courtesy really. But I thought something like this might crop up sooner or later, so only last week I put up a note. HE sent it back marked ‘urge fullest co-operation’ or something like that. So that’s OK.

He looked at Das expectantly. Das inclined his head. That was very far-sighted, he said. Good work. You’ll probably get a promotion for this, Jai. Or at least an increment.

Jai Lal shook his head: Oh, I’m not expecting anything like that. It’s much too early yet. Let’s see how the reports and things turn out first. But it’s turned out well for you, hasn’t it? You can go back now, with your friend all tied up. I’ll send a telex so that they’ll be ready for you.

God, yes, said Das. I’ll be glad to get back.

Jai Lal got up to go. Jyoti Das was staring at the streets below the hotel and the expanse of white sand beyond the city. He turned suddenly. Listen, he said on an impulse, couldn’t we meet Jeevanbhai Patel again before I leave? I’d like to ask him a few things — just personal things. How he ended up here, what he did and suchlike. Meeting him was the only worthwhile thing that happened to me here. Is it possible?

No.

But couldn’t you ask this chap in security, since you know him so well? Or else couldn’t we visit him in gaol, like ordinary visitors?

Lal shuffled his feet uncomfortably. No, he said, it’s not possible. You see, Jeevanbhai hanged himself this morning. With his belt. He was dead when I got there. Must have done it as soon as he sobered up. That’s why I took so long. They needed someone to identify the body and sign papers and all that. He had no relatives.

There was no sleep for Zindi that night. When she got back to her house, she lay on her mattress with Boss beside her and tried to still her pounding pulse and shut her eyes. But it was no use; the metallic sharpness of her excitement worried at her tongue like a brass shaving. Soon she gave up and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, and to the tune of the snores in the next room she filled the darkness with her plans for the Durban Tailoring House.

She rose a little before dawn, alerted by the stirring of the geese in the courtyard. That was when, she knew, sleep is at its deepest; she could have knocked down a wall without waking anyone in the house. But, still, her every instinct cried to her to be careful. She found her torch, and stealthily, crouching on the floor, she cleared a pile of mats, mattresses and cooking-pots from a corner of the room. Once, a tin tray dropped from her hands. She froze as the clattering echoed through the house. But there was no break in the steady rhythm of snores in the next room. She went back to work, biting her lip fiercely.

When she had laid the floor bare, she counted four handspans from the corner towards the centre of the room, and marked the place with a matchstick. Then she sat back, closed an eye and examined the angle again. She had to get it just right. When she was sure, she removed, very carefully, a section of the thin, cracked layer of cement which served as the floor. There were bricks underneath. She shone her torch over them, squinting hard, until she found the brick she wanted: one with a tiny daub of white paint in a corner. That brick had an almost invisible dent in one side, which provided a grip of sorts for a fingertip. But the bricks were wedged firmly together and it took her a long time and a broken fingernail to pull it out. After that, the four bricks around the empty space of the first came away easily, exposing a large patch of loose soil.

Zindi bent down and dug her hands into the soil. She scrabbled about for a moment, and then, sucking in a long breath, she drew out a large aluminium cooking-pot. Inside, wrapped in cellophane, was a heavy iron box. It was fastened with a huge padlock. She drew her handkerchief-wrapped bunch of keys out of the neck of her dress, found the right key and opened the box.

It was all there, all the money she had saved in her decades in al-Ghazira: the measure of her life. It was a lot of money: dirhams and dollars and sterling in yellowing cash. Enough to pay for the shop and lay in an entire range of new stocks.

She shut her eyes and breathed the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.

It took only a few minutes after that to stuff the money into her dress, to put the empty box back, and rearrange the bricks and the cement and the mats and mattresses. Then she stood back and looked at it, pleased with herself; even she wouldn’t have known whether anything had been moved.

It was dawn now, and the wads of notes rustling against her skin charged her with an unbearable impatience. But before leaving she had to talk to Kulfi, and Kulfi was still asleep in the women’s room. If she went in there to wake her up she might wake the others as well. So instead she decided to wait in the courtyard, for Kulfi was always the first one up in the morning.