Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

‘I give Vikram money, too. But I always ask myself if I just gave him the shot that kills him.’

‘It could also be the one that saves him,’ Didier responded just as quietly. ‘Vikram is sick, Lin. But sick is just another way of saying still alive , and still possible to save. Without help from someone, he might not survive the night. While he’s alive, there’s always a chance for him. Let it go, and relax with us.’

I glanced around at the others, and shrugged myself into their game.

‘So, what about you , Kavita?’ I asked. ‘What’s your favourite crime?’

‘Lust,’ she said forcefully.

‘Lust is a sin,’ I said. ‘It isn’t a crime.’

‘I told her that,’ Naveen said.

‘It is the way I do it,’ she retorted.

Divya broke into helpless giggles, setting the table to laughing with her.

‘What about you, Didier?’

‘Perjury is the most likeable crime, of course,’ he said, with finality.

‘Can I believe you?’ I asked.

‘Do you swear?’ Naveen added.

‘Because,’ Didier continued, ‘it’s only lying that saves the world from being permanently miserable.’

‘But isn’t honesty just spoken truth?’ Naveen goaded.

‘No, no! Honesty is a choice about the truth. There is nothing in the world more destructive to truth, or infuriating to the intellect, than a person who insists on being completely and entirely honest about everything.’

‘I completely and entirely agree with you,’ Divya said, raising her glass in salute. ‘When I want honesty, I see my doctor.’

Didier warmed with the encouragement.

‘They slink up beside you, and whisper I thought you should know . Then they proceed to destroy your confidence, and trust, and even the quality of your life with their disgusting fragment of the truth. Some scrap of repugnant knowledge that they insist on being honest with you about. Something you’d rather not know. Something you could hate them for telling you. Something you actually do hate them for telling you. And why do they do it? Honesty! Their poisonous honesty makes them do it! No! Give me creative lying, any day, over the ugliness of honesty.’

‘Honestly, Didier!’ Kavita mocked.

‘You, Kavita, of all people, should see the wisdom of what I am saying. Journalists, lawyers and politicians are people whose professions demand that they almost never tell the whole of the truth. If they did, if they were completely honest about every secret thing they know, civilisation would collapse in a month. Day after day, drink after drink, program after program, it is the lie that keeps us going, not the truth.’

‘I love you, Didier!’ Divya shouted. ‘You’re my hero!’

‘I’d like to believe you, Didier,’ Naveen remarked, straight-faced. ‘But that perjury thing, it kinda kicks the stool out from under your credibility, you know?’

‘Perjury is being honest with your heart,’ Didier responded.

‘So, honesty’s a good thing,’ Kavita observed, her finger aimed at Didier’s heart.

‘Alas, even Didier is not immune,’ Didier sighed. ‘I am heroic, in the matter of lying. Just ask any policeman in South Bombay. But I am only human, after all, and from time to time I lapse into appalling acts of honesty. I am being honest with you now, and I am ashamed to admit it, by advising you to lie as often as you can, until you can lie with complete honesty, as I do.’

‘You love the truth,’ Kavita observed. ‘It’s honesty you hate.’

‘You are quite right,’ Didier agreed. ‘Believe me, if you honestly tell the whole of the truth, about anyone at all, someone will want to harm you for it.’

The group broke up into smaller conversations, Didier agreeing with Kavita, and Naveen arguing with Divya. I spoke to the young woman sitting near me.

‘We haven’t met. My name’s Lin.’

‘I know,’ she answered shyly. ‘I’m Sunita. I’m a friend of Kavita. Well, actually, I’m working with Kavita. I’m a cadet journalist.’

‘How do you like it, so far?’

‘It’s great. I mean, it’s a really great opportunity and all. But I’m hoping to be a writer, like you.’

‘Like me?’ I laughed, bewildered.

‘I’ve read your short stories.’

‘My stories?’

‘All five of them. I really like them, but I was too shy to tell you.’

‘Just how did you get hold of these stories?’

‘Well,’ she faltered, confused. ‘Ranjit gave me – I mean, Mr Ranjit – he gave me your stories to proofread. I searched them for typos, and such.’

I stared, not wanting to take it out on her, but too angry and confused to hide my feelings. Ranjit had my stories? How? Had Lisa given them to him, behind my back, and against my wishes? I couldn’t understand it.

‘I’ve got them right here,’ Sunita said. ‘I was going to have my lunch alone today, and continue proofing, but Miss Kavita asked me to join her.’

‘Give them to me, please.’

She fished around in a large cloth bag, and gave me a folder.

It was red. I’d filed all of my stories by coloured theme. Red was the file colour I’d chosen for some short stories about urban holy men.

‘I didn’t give permission for these stories to be printed,’ I said, checking to see that all five stories were included in the file.

‘But -’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I said softly, ‘and nothing will happen to you. I’ll write a note for Ranjit, and you’ll give it to him, and everything will be okay.’

‘But -’

‘Got a pen?’

‘I -’

‘Just kidding,’ I said, pulling a pen from my vest pocket.

The last page, on the last story, had only two lines on it.

Arrogance is pride’s calling card, and crowds everything with Self. Gratitude is humility’s calling card, and is the space left inside for love.

It seemed appropriate, as notepaper for Ranjit. I pulled the typed page from the story, wrote the lines again in hand on the new last page, and closed the file.

‘Lin!’ Didier cantankered. ‘You are not drinking! Put down that pen at once.’

‘What are you doing?’ Kavita asked.

‘If it’s a will,’ Naveen said, ‘there’s probably a way.’

‘If you must know,’ I said, glancing at Kavita, ‘I’m writing a note, to your boss.’

‘A love letter?’ Kavita asked, sitting up straight.

‘Kinda.’

I wrote the note, folded it, and gave it to Sunita.

‘But no , Lin!’ Didier protested. ‘It is insupportable! You simply must read the note out loud.’

‘What?’

‘There are rules, Lin,’ Didier riposted. ‘And we must break them at every opportunity.’

‘That’s crazier than I am, Didier.’

‘You must read it to us, Lin.’

‘It’s a private note, man.’

‘Written in a public place,’ Kavita said, snatching the note from Sunita.

‘Hey,’ I said, trying to grab the note back.

Kavita jumped up quickly and stood a table-width away. She had a raspy voice, the kind of voice that’s interesting because of how much it keeps inside, as it speaks.

She spoke my note.

Let me be clear, Ranjit. I think your tycoon model of media baron is an insult to the Fourth Estate, and I wouldn’t let you publish my death notice.

If you touch any of my work again I’ll visit you, and rearrange you.

The girl who’s bringing this note has my number. If you take this out on her, if you fire her, or in any way hurt the messenger, she’ll call me, and I’ll visit you, and rearrange you. Stay away from me.

‘I love it!’ Kavita laughed. ‘I want to be the one who passes it on.’