Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

Several waiters smiled and nodded as I made my way to her table. Kayani’s was one of our places: in the two years since we’d been a couple, we’d had lunch or afternoon tea there every couple of weeks.

I kissed her, and sat close to her on a corner of the table, our legs touching.

‘ Bun musca ?’ I asked her, not looking at the menu.

It was her favourite snack at Kayani’s: a freshly made buttered bun, cut into three slices that can be neatly dunked into a cup of hot, sweet tea. She nodded.

‘ Do bun musca, do chai ,’ I said to the waiter. Two buttered buns, and two cups of tea.

The waiter, named Atif, collected the unused menus and shuffled away toward the serving counter, shouting the order.

‘Sorry I’m late, Lisa. I got this message about Vikram, so I went to Dennis’s place, and took him home.’

‘Dennis? Is that the Sleeping Baba?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’d like to meet him. I’ve heard a lot about him. He’s getting kind of a cult status. Rish was talking about making an installation, based around his trance.’

‘I can take you there, but you don’t actually meet him, unless you’re lucky. You sort of stand there, trying not to kill his high.’

‘Not killing his high?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘I like this guy,’ she laughed.

I knew her sense of humour, and her quick love for unusual people who did unusual things.

‘Oh, yeah. Dennis is a very Lisa kind of guy.’

‘If you’re gonna do something, make an art of it,’ she replied.

The tea and buttered buns arrived. We took chunks of the bread, dipped them into our tea until the butter began to run, and ate them hungrily.

‘So, how was Vikram?’

‘He’s not good.’

‘ That not good?’

‘ That not good.’

She frowned. We both knew addiction, and its python grip.

‘D’you think we should do an intervention?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. I told his parents they should pay for him to stay at a private clinic for a while. They’re gonna try it.’

‘Can they afford it?’

‘Can they afford not to?’

‘Point,’ she agreed.

‘Problem is, even if he goes there, he’s not ready for help yet. Not even close.’

She thought for a moment.

‘We’re not good, you and me, are we?’

‘Where did that come from?’

‘You and me,’ she repeated softly. ‘We’re not good, are we?’

‘Define good.’

I tried smiling, but it didn’t work.

‘Good is more,’ she said.

‘Okay,’ I said softly. ‘Let’s do more.’

‘You’re nuts, you know that?’

I was lost, and not sure I wanted to know where we were going.

‘When I was arrested,’ I said, ‘I had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. So, I’ve actually been certified sane enough to stand trial, which is more than I can say for most of the people I know, including the psychiatrist who certified me. In fact, to get convicted in a court of law, you’ve gotta be declared sane. Which means that every convict in the world, in a jail cell, is sane, A-Grade and Certified. And with so many people on the outside seeing therapists and counsellors and all, pretty soon the only people who’ll be able to prove they’re sane will be the people behind bars.’

She looked up at me. The searchlight smile in her eyes tried to cut through.

‘Pretty heavy conversation,’ she said, ‘with a buttered bun in your hand.’

‘These days, Lisa, even when I try to make you laugh, it’s a heavy conversation.’

‘Are you saying it’s my fault?’ she demanded fiercely.

‘No. I was just -’

‘It’s not always about you ,’ she snapped.

‘Okay. Okay.’

Atif arrived to clear the dishes and take the next order. When we had a lot to discuss, we had two or even three buns with tea, but I told him just to bring the tea.

‘No bun musca ?’ Atif asked.

‘No bun musca . Sirf chai .’ Only tea.

‘Maybe, you’ll be having, just one bun musca ?’ Atif tempted, waggling his shaggy eyebrows. ‘ To be sharing? ’

‘No bun musca . Just chai.’

‘ Thik ,’ he mumbled, deeply concerned.

He took a deep breath, and shouted to the staff in the kitchen.

‘ Do chai! Do chai lao! No bun musca ! Repeating, no bun musca! ’

‘No bun musca ?’ a voice called back from the kitchen.

I looked at Lisa, and then at Atif, then at Vishal the fast-food cook, glowering from the serving window. I raised my hand, one finger extended.

‘One bun musca !’ I shouted.

‘Yes!’ Atif shouted triumphantly. ‘ Ek bun musca, do chai! ’

Vishal wagged his head in the serving widow enthusiastically, his wide grin revealing pearl-white teeth.

‘ Ek bun musca, do chai! ’ he shouted happily, banging his saucepan of boiling chai on its gas-ring fire.

‘I’m glad we got that settled,’ I said, trying to shake Lisa happy.

It was the kind of silly, lovely thing that Bombay does every day, and normally we would’ve enjoyed it together.

‘You know, it’s kinda weird,’ Lisa said.

‘Not really. Atif is -’

‘I was here yesterday,’ she said. ‘With Karla.’

‘You… what?’

‘And exactly the same thing happened with that waiter.’

‘Wait a minute. You were here with Karla, yesterday, and you didn’t say anything?’

‘Why would I? Do you tell me who you see, and who you fight with?’

‘There’s a reason for that, and you know it.’

‘Anyway, when I was here with Karla, the same thing happened with that waiter -’

‘Atif?’

‘See? She knew his name, too.’

‘He’s my favourite waiter here. Not surprised she likes him. He should be running the place.’

‘No, you’re not getting me.’

‘Do we have to talk about Karla?’

‘Talk about her,’ she said quietly, ‘or think about her?’

‘Are you thinking about her? Because I’m not. I’m thinking about you, and us. What there is of us.’

She flicked a frown at me, and then went back to folding and refolding the napkin.

The bun musca and chai arrived at the table. I ignored it for a moment, but Atif lingered near my elbow, watching me, so I picked up a piece of the bread and took a bite. He wagged his head approvingly, and walked away.

‘I guess it’s just my busted-up life, you know?’ Lisa said, creasing lines in the napkin with her fingers.

I did know. I’d heard her story many times. It was always differently the same, and I always wanted her to tell it again.

‘I wasn’t, you know, mistreated , or anything. It wasn’t anything like that. My parents are kinda great, you know. They really are. The fault is in me. You know that.’

‘There’s no fault in you, Lisa.’

‘Yes, there is.’

‘Even if there was, there’s no fault that can’t be loved away.’

She paused, sipped at the chai, and found another way into whatever it was she was trying to tell me.

‘Did I ever tell you about the parade?’

‘Not at Kayani’s,’ I smiled. ‘Tell me again.’

‘We used to have this Founders’ Day Parade every year, right down the whole of Main Street. Everybody for fifty miles around got involved, or came to watch the show. My high school band marched in the parade, and we had this big barge -’

‘A float.’

‘Yeah, the school had this big float that the parents’ committee made, with a different theme every year. One year, they picked me to be the one sitting high up on a kind of throne, as the central attraction. The theme that year was The Fruits of Liberty , and the barge -’