Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

‘You could ask Naveen Adair for help,’ I suggested, opening my suggesting mouth. ‘He’s running the Lost Love Bureau from the Amritsar, in the rooms next to me.’

‘Great idea! I’ll ask around, at first, and hand it to Naveen if I can’t find him. We’ll have Scorpio right as rain in no time.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Can I offer you a ride?’

He looked out through the open doorway to my bike, parked illegally at the kerb.

‘No, thanks all the same,’ he smiled. ‘Never was much of a one for motorbikes. I’ll scoot back to the hotel in a taxi. Thanks, Lin. I knew I’d feel better, if I talked to you.’

I rode through the southern boulevards, doing my rounds, being seen, and thinking of the Zodiac Georges and how happy they’d been, before an elegant emissary of Fate in a dark suit made one of them rich.

Like Scorpio, I didn’t have to stay in Bombay. I knew some parts of Africa pretty well, from my passport smuggling missions. I had contacts in Lagos and Kinshasa. They always had room in their operations for a good passport forger.

I had friends in Singapore. They’d invited me to be the white face for an Indo-Chinese currency ring. It was good money, in a safe city, where everyone left you alone if you respected the local rules, and didn’t hurt anybody.

I thought about it, often. But sooner or later, I looked away from every option. And I couldn’t decide if it was the city or the woman who wouldn’t let me go.

Solemn in the saddle, I rode to the Amritsar hotel, hoping that Karla was there. My touts had tipped me off that she’d left the art gallery an hour before. I had a peacemaker present for her.

Some friends who played in a jazz band had told me they were bringing their acoustic instruments for a jam, by the sea, on the Colaba Back Bay. It was a unique experience: her favourite gift.

‘You just missed her,’ Didier said, looking up from his cluttered desk. ‘She was here for a few minutes, only. She was not alone. She was with Taj.’

‘Who the fuck is Taj?’

‘A tall artist, rather good looking, with long black hair. He sculpted the Enkidu that stands in the entrance to Jehangir, this month. He’s very talented.’

‘Artists,’ I said, remembering the sculptor.

‘Indeed,’ Didier agreed. ‘Why do we flock to musicians and painters?’

‘It’s sexy,’ I said. ‘Painters make them take their clothes off, and musicians make them come.’

‘Artist pricks,’ Didier hissed.

‘Indeed. Did she say when she’d be back?’

‘Well… ’

‘What?’

‘Well… ’

‘Why don’t I want to know this, Didier?’

‘She said… that she will return… in two days, Lin. And I think she meant it. She took her gun. And the tall artist, Taj.’

I was quiet for a while, but I must’ve been grinding my teeth, or my knuckles, because Didier stood up and gave me a hug.

‘No matter what happens, Lin, there is always alcohol,’ he said, holding my shoulders in his straight arms. ‘Let us get majestically drunk. Do you have a preferred place of abandon?’

‘You know, Didier, you’re right. We should go anyway.’

‘Go?’

‘To see Aum Azaan, Raghav’s jazz band. They’re playing tonight. It’s an unofficial concert, on the Back Bay. I was hoping Karla would come. But let’s go anyway, and have some fun.’

‘You are singing my song, Lin,’ Didier answered gleefully. ‘But I will take a taxi, if you don’t mind.’

I rode alone to meet him at the jam, but as I cruised past the Colaba police station on my way to Cuffe Parade, I saw Arshan, standing in the middle of the road. He had a long, serrated kitchen knife in his hand. He was shouting.

I pulled the bike to a stop, and walked up to stand beside him. A crowd had begun to gather, but they were at a safe distance. So far, the cops hadn’t seen him, or they’d chosen not to respond.

‘How are you, Uncle?’ I asked, my hand close to his.

‘This coward!’ Arshan shouted. ‘He kicked my boy, and now Farzad’s in the hospital, with blood on his brain! Come out and fight me! Do you hear me, Lightning Dilip!’

‘Whoa, Arshan, take it easy, and keep your voice down.’

Nobody wins, fighting the cops head on. If you’ve got enough fire or firepower to drive some cops off, they always come back with more cops. And if you beat them, too, they come back with more cops, until you’re all dead, or very long gone. That’s what it means, to have a police force: you’ve accepted a group of people who can’t afford not to win.

That’s part of the unspoken deal they make with any city that hires them: cops put their lives on the line every day, like outlaws, and they can’t tolerate a direct attack on themselves. Cops and outlaws bite back, if anything bites them. It’s a rule. And cops always bite last.

Softly, I turned Arshan away from the centre of the road, and back onto the footpath across the street. I slipped the kitchen knife from his hand, and passed it to one of the street boys.

There was a taxi stand around the corner. I tumbled Arshan into a cab, and told the driver to wait. When I’d parked my bike in a safe spot, I called out to another street boy to watch over her until I returned. Arshan was sobbing when I returned to the cab.

I sat next to the driver, directing him to the triple-fronted mansion near Cuffe Parade. Arshan was stretched out on the back seat, his arm flung over his face. As the taxi pulled away I turned to see Lightning Dilip standing under the arch of the police station entrance, his fists on his hips.

Arshan stopped the taxi before we reached his house, saying that he had to talk to me in private. The chai shop where I sat with Concannon after the fight with the Scorpions was nearby. We sat in a sheltered spot beneath a blue plastic awning tied between trees.

Arshan drank a few breathy gulps of his tea.

‘Tell me about Farzad.’

‘He was having these headaches. I was so angry I came up here once before, to challenge Dilip, but you brought me home. The headaches got worse. Finally, we convinced him to have it checked, and they discovered a massive blood clot. It happened, they say, when he was kicked in the head.’

‘That’s tough. I’m sorry, Arshan.’

‘While they were testing him, he collapsed. They took him upstairs to the intensive care, right away. He’s been there ever since. Seventy-two hours, now, unresponsive.’

‘Unresponsive?’

‘He’s in a coma, Lin.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Bhatia hospital.’

‘It’s a good hospital,’ I said. ‘He’ll be okay.’

‘He’ll die,’ Arshan said.

‘He won’t. You won’t let him. But he’ll have nothing to live for when he gets well, if Lightning kills you. Promise me you won’t do anything like that again.’

‘I… I can’t.’

‘You can. And you must. People are depending on you.’

‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I found it.’

‘You found what?’

‘I found the treasure.’

Bells rang somewhere: people were praying at a local temple, and ringing small, hand-held bells.

‘ The treasure?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

He was staring at his own feet in a daze, the empty chai glass slipping through his fingers. I caught it as it fell, and set it on the ground.

‘Two weeks ago.’

‘The families must be thrilled, even at a sad time like this.’

‘I haven’t told them.’

‘What? You’ve gotta tell them.’

‘At first,’ he said quietly, talking to himself, ‘I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to lose what we had. The search was… so much fun, you see. We were all so happy. I know the treasure will change us. It has to. We won’t be able to stop it. So, I kept it a secret.’