Hari Kunzru - Transmission

‘Miss Zahir is recovering, and won’t be giving interviews.’

‘But I’m from Fox,’ said Fox incredulously.

‘Are you saying definitively that the producers are not responsible for the computer virus?’ asked the man from the West Highland Advertiser, who knew a conspiracy when he saw one.

‘Of course they aren’t.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Ms Film Buzz . ‘This kind of thing is always happening in Mumbai.’ Several of the other reporters started quizzing her about the link between computer crime and Indian film marketing. The situation was heading in an uncomfortable direction. Gaby was trying to get things back on track when her voice was drowned out by the rumble of a V12 engine and a burst of high-pitched hormonal squealing. Turning round, she saw a sight so macho it was almost a period piece, a poster memory of the moneyed eighties. The Ferrari Testarossa throbbed like an engorged metal penis, its bright red paintwork glinting unironic-ally in the sunlight. Its driver, a man in his forties, wore aviator sunglasses, a black leather biker jacket and a tight white t-shirt. His straight black hair was slicked back from his forehead with quantities of gel, a few strands artfully curling over one mirror-shaded eye. He waved and signed autographs, his empty passenger seat filling up with teddy bears and home-made greetings cards. Rajiv Rana made (no, surely not) a pistol shape with his fingers and fired it off at a couple of simpering girls, then pulled down his glasses, looked directly at Gaby and grinned. He gave her a little wave all of her own, then gunned the engine and screamed up the hotel driveway.

For reasons known only to himself, the policeman actually applauded. ‘Did ye see that?’ he asked. ‘Did ye bloody well see that?’

That afternoon it started to rain. Gaby had a meeting with Iqbal. As his hands slithered obscenely around his lap, she emphasized again that his best chance of being left in peace was for Leela to appear for photos. He just shrugged gloomily and asked whether the press would be diverted by meeting Rajiv. She explained that most of them were news people, and had no interest in Rajiv or the production. Leela was the story. Only she would do.

At front desk the manager was swearing at his computer, which was displaying an animation of his guest. Rob D. was propping up the bar, watching the dancers play squealing argumentative hands of cards. To Gaby’s surprise every one of them was blonde and English. ‘This,’ one of them confided, ‘is brilliant. We get paid to stay here and we’ve had to do bugger all for days.’ Gaby agreed it was a good deal. ‘The actual producer wants us to go to the Gulf with him later in the year,’ explained another. ‘To give a performance.’

That evening she went down to the restaurant for dinner and was asked to join a large but subdued crew table. Avoiding the empty seat next to Iqbal, she was settling herself next to Vivek when Rajiv Rana strode in and pulled up a chair between them. His entrance sent a ripple of little glances, facial touching and adjusted clothing through the Indian crew, the involuntary self-consciousness generated by the presence of fame. Among the British the only reaction came from a couple of the dancers, who idly checked him out, as they would have any other presentable man. It was bizarre. To half the people in the room Rajiv was a superstar. To the others he was unremarkable.

‘Hi,’ he said, loading the syllable with meaning.

‘Hello,’ said Gaby.

‘Rajiv,’ he said.

‘Gabriella Caro from Bridgeman & Hart.’

He had taken his sunglasses off, and in place of the cheesy leather jacket was wearing a plain blue Oxford cotton shirt. She was forced to admit it suited him. He was tall, conspicuously worked-out, and had the kind of clean good looks she liked. During the meal he focused almost entirely on her, and though he talked mostly about himself it was not the testosterone-testarossa monologue she was expecting. There was a sincerity in the way he told his story, which, as narrated by its principal character, was a classic rags-to-riches tale. He had grown up in a poor family in a small town in the Punjab and run away to Mumbai at the age of twelve. After working at a chai stall and a bicycle-repair shop, he had found a job fetching and carrying for one of the big studios. By watching the stars rehearse and perform he taught himself to dance, and started to attend cattle-call auditions for extras. When he began to get work he was able to afford acting and dance lessons, and eventually was cast in a small role in The Chain, an action movie. ‘And that, Miss Caro,’ he concluded, ‘was how I made myself famous.’ As he said it, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and fixed her with a direct look. She found herself distracted by the musculature of his forearms, their light dusting of hair.

‘Call me Gaby,’ she said.

In her room she looked at her phone, which was charging on the bedside table. There was a text from Guy: miss u ring me? Also two voicemails. He wondered where she was, sorry not to have made contact. Then he was on his way to Dubai to make a key pitch. He would see her when he got back. Guy’s pitches were always key, or vital, or essential. She deleted the messages.

She took off her shoes and lay on her bed, watching a Rita Hayworth film. Some time after midnight she went to the window to smoke and watch the castle lights. At the very edge of the loch, where the lawn dipped down to the water, stood the woman in the white nightdress. Tonight there was nothing ghostly about her. She was wearing a dark-coloured coat which came down to her knees and some kind of headscarf over her hair. She looked human, mundane; an insomniac hotel guest wrapped up against the chill.

On a whim Gaby pulled on a jacket and stepped out into the corridor. From beneath one of the neighbouring doors seeped the faint sound of a television. She skirted the front desk, where the night porter was sleepily picking his nose over a paperback novel, and tiptoed through the darkened dining room, which was already laid for breakfast, elaborately folded napkins and teacups and silver cutlery formally arranged on the tables. A pair of French doors looked out on to a small terrace. They were, as she expected, unlocked. Outside, the air cut through her clothes and a wave of dampness rose up from the lawn against her face and hands. The sky over the hills was a rich purple, the not-quite-blackness of the northern summer night.

She walked over the lawn towards the loch, keeping some distance between herself and the figure staring at the castle. Even so, she managed to startle her. As Gaby drew level, the woman gasped and took a couple of steps backwards, half turning as if to run. Gaby waved at her and spoke, her voice sounding painfully loud in the silence.

‘I couldn’t sleep. Sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’ The voice was Indian accented. Soft and girlish. Gaby walked closer and found herself face to face, as she expected, with Leela Zahir. India’s dreamgirl was smoking a Β & H Gold, the shiny pack clutched in her free hand like a talisman. Even under the moonlight Gaby could see that she was not quite the double of the dancing girl in the film clips. This Leela’s hair was unwashed, lank strands of it sticking out from beneath the shawl round her head. There were dark shadows under her eyes and what might have been a cold sore on her top lip.

‘Got a light?’

Leela Zahir nodded and handed her a box of matches. As Gaby lit a cigarette, she flicked hers into the water. Then, without hesitating, she took another from the pack.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Gabriella. You must be Leela.’

‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I must be.’ She smoked with the cigarette pressed between middle and index fingers, which she held very straight, pursing her lips as she took a drag, like a child imitating the grown-ups.