Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

We rode together in silence to Leopold’s. Breaking with the discipline that usually kept him out of any place that served alcohol, Abdullah parked his bike next to mine, and walked inside with me.

We found Didier at his usual table near the small northern door, facing the two wide entrance arches, showing the busy causeway.

‘Lin!’ he cried, as we approached. ‘I was so alone here! And drinking alone is like making love alone, don’t you think so?’

‘Don’t take me there, Didier,’ I said.

‘You are an unordained priest of denied pleasures, my friend,’ he laughed.

He gave me a hug, shook hands with Abdullah, and called for the waiter.

‘Beer! Two glasses! And a pomegranate juice, for our Iranian friend! No ice! Hurry!’

‘Oh, yes sir, I’ll rush, and give myself a heart attack just to serve you,’ Sweetie growled, slouching away.

He was on my list of top five waiters, and I knew some good ones. He ran the black market franchise in goods that moved through one door at Leopold’s and went out the other, without the owners knowing. He took franchise fees from every store on the street, hustled a couple of pimps, and ran a small betting ring. And somehow, he drove the whole thing on nothing more than surliness and pessimism.

Didier, Abdullah and I sat side by side with our backs to the wall, watching the wide bar and the crowded street beyond.

‘So, how are you, Abdullah?’ Didier asked. ‘It has been too long since I’ve seen your fearsome, handsome face.’

‘ Alhamdulillah ,’ Abdullah replied, using the expression that meant Thanks and praise to God . ‘And how goes it with you?’

‘I never complain,’ Didier sighed. ‘It is one of my sterling qualities, as the English say. Mind you, if I did complain, I could be a master of the complaining arts.’

‘So… ’ Abdullah frowned. ‘It means… you are well?’

‘Yes, my friend,’ Didier smiled. ‘I am well.’

The drinks arrived. Sweetie slammed the beers in front of us, but carefully wiped every trace of moisture from Abdullah’s glass of juice, placing it in front of him with a generous portion of paper napkins to the side.

As Sweetie backed away from Abdullah he bowed, slightly, with each backward step, as if he were leaving the tomb of a saint.

Didier’s mouth wrinkled with irritation. He caught my eye, and I laughed, spluttering beer foam from the top of my glass.

‘Really, Lin, these people are insupportable ! I sit here every day, and every night, year after year. I have urinated rivers in the lavatories here, and subjected myself to food so miserable, for a Frenchman, that you cannot imagine, and all in the cause of a dedicated, and I think it not too immodest to say, magnificent, decadence. Me, they treat like a tourist. Abdullah comes only once in a year, and they are dying of love for him. It is infuriating!’

‘In the years that you have been here,’ Abdullah said, sipping his fresh juice, ‘they have come to know the limit of your tolerance. They do not know the limit of what I will do. That is the only difference.’

‘And if you stopped coming here, Didier,’ I added, ‘they’d miss you more than anyone else in the place.’

Didier smiled, mollified, and reached for his glass.

‘Well, you are right, of course, Lin. I have been told, more than once, that I have an unforgettable character. Let us make a toast! To those who will weep, when we are gone!’

‘May they laugh instead!’ I said, clinking glasses with him.

As I sipped my beer, a street tout named Saleh flopped into a chair across from me, knocking Abdullah’s glass, and spilling juice on the table.

‘What a fucking idiot that foreign guy is,’ he said.

‘Stand up,’ Abdullah said.

‘What?’

‘Stand up, or I will break your arms.’

Saleh looked at Didier and me. Didier flapped his fingers at him, suggesting that he stand. Saleh looked at Abdullah again, and slowly stood.

‘Who are you?’ Abdullah demanded.

‘Saleh, boss,’ Saleh answered nervously. ‘My name is Saleh.’

‘Are you a Muslim?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Is this how a Muslim greets people?’

‘What?’

‘If you say what again, I will break your arms.’

‘Sorry, boss. Salaam aleikum. My name is Saleh.’

‘ Wa aleikum salaam ,’ Abdullah replied. ‘What is your business here?’

‘I… I… but… ’

He wanted to say what again, and I hoped he wouldn’t.

‘Tell him, Saleh,’ I said.

‘Okay, okay, I’ve got this camera,’ he said, putting an expensive camera on the table.

‘I do not understand,’ Abdullah frowned. ‘We are sitting here to take refreshment. Why do you tell us this?’

‘He wants to sell it, Abdullah,’ I said. ‘Where did you get it, Saleh?’

‘From those fucking idiot backpackers behind me,’ he said. ‘The two skinny blonde guys. I was hoping you’d want to buy it, Lin. I need money quick, you see.’

‘I do not see,’ Abdullah said.

‘He cheated the backpackers out of their camera, and wants to cash in here,’ I said.

‘They totally fell for my story,’ he said. ‘Fucking idiots.’

‘If you swear again in my company,’ Abdullah said. ‘I will throw you into the traffic.’

Saleh, like any street guy in the same circumstances, wanted to escape. He reached out to take the camera, but Abdullah raised a forbidding finger.

‘Leave it there,’ he said, and Saleh withdrew his hand. ‘By what right do you disturb the peace of other men with your commerce?’

‘R-right?’ Saleh stammered, mystified.

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘People come up to me with business all the time, Abdullah.’

‘It is unacceptable,’ he grumbled. ‘How can you do business with men like this, who have no respect, or honour?’

‘Honour?’ Saleh mumbled.

‘See, Saleh, it’s like this,’ I said. ‘ You see backpackers as victims, ripe for victiming, but we don’t see them that way. We see them as emissaries of empathy.’

‘What?’

Abdullah grabbed his wrist.

‘I’m sorry, boss! I didn’t mean to say it!’

Abdullah released him.

‘What’s the furthest you’ve been from Colaba in your life, Saleh?’

‘I went to see Taj Mahal at Agra once,’ he said. ‘That’s far.’

‘Who went with you?’

‘My wife.’

‘Just your wife?’

‘No, Linbaba, my wife’s sister also, and my parents, and my cousin-brother and his wife, and all the children.’

‘See, Saleh, those guys sitting over there, they’ve got more guts than you have. They put their world on their backs, go into wild places alone, and sleep under the protection of people they only met a few hours before.’

‘They’re just backpackers, man. Meat on the hoof.’

‘The Buddha was a backpacker, travelling around with what he carried. Jesus was a backpacker, lost to the world for years in travelling. We’re all backpackers, Saleh. We come in with nothing, carry our stuff for a while, and go out with nothing. And when you kill a backpacker’s happiness, you kill mine.’

‘I’m… I’m a businessman,’ he mumbled.

‘How much did you pay them, Saleh?’

‘I can’t tell you that ,’ Saleh demurred, his face dissolving in sly. ‘But I can say that it wasn’t more than twenty per cent. I’ll take twenty-five, if you’ve got it.’

Abdullah seized him by the wrist again. I knew the grip. It started out bad, and got worse.

‘Are you refusing to tell the truth?’ Abdullah demanded.

He turned to me.

‘Is this how you do your business, Lin brother? With untruthful men? I will give you this man’s tongue, in your hand.’