The Golden House

Every time I heard something about the family’s past, I became aware of the gaps in the Golden family narrative. There were things that were not being told and it was hard to know how to get beyond the veil that fell across the story. Apu seemed frightened of something, but whatever it was, it wasn’t a ghost. Skeletons in the cupboard seemed likelier. I found myself thinking, not for the first or last time, about the story Nero Golden told me in the Russian Tea Room on our first visit there together, the story of “Don Corleone.”

I said to Suchitra later that day, “I wish I was going along with them on their trip. It might be an important part of the story.”

“If it’s a mockumentary you’re making now,” she said, “then make it up.”

I was a little shocked. “Just make it up?”

“You have an imagination,” she said. “Imagine it.”

A golden story, I remembered. For the Romans, a tall tale, a wild conceit. A lie.

It so happened, and it did not so happen, that the great sitarist Ravi Shankar in all his life only ever played on four sitars, and on one of those four he taught the Beatle George Harrison something about the instrument, and those lessons took place in a suite at the grand hotel by the harbor, and now Ravi Shankar was gone but the sitar remained in a glass case, benevolently watching the suite’s guests come and go. The grand hotel had been beautifully restored after the terrorist atrocity, the strength of the old stone building had enabled it to stand firm, and the interior looked better than ever, but half the rooms were empty. Outside the grand hotel there were barriers and metal detectors and all the mournful apparatus of security, and the defenses were a reminder of horror and the opposite of an invitation. Inside the hotel the many celebrated stores in the shopping arcades reported a decrease in sales of fifty percent or more. The consequence of terror was fear and though many people spoke of their determination to support the grand hotel by the harbor in its period of rebirth the tough language of the numbers said, not enough did. Courting couples and ladies of quality no longer splashed out on tea and snacks at the Sea Lounge and many foreigners too went elsewhere. You could repair the fabric of the building but the damage to its magic remained.

What am I here for, the man who now called himself Apuleius Golden said to Ubah Tuur while the sitar of Ravi Shankar listened in. This is the building where my mother died. This is the city I stopped loving. Am I really so crazy that I believe in ghosts and fly across the world for what? Some sort of exorcism? It’s stupid. It’s like I’m waiting for something to happen. What can happen? Nothing. Let’s be tourists and go home. Let’s go to Leopold for coffee and for art to Bhau Daji Lad Museum and also Prince of Wales Museum which I refuse to call Chhatrapati Shivaji Museum because he didn’t give a damn about artworks. Let’s eat street food on Chowpatty Beach and get a stomach upset like real foreigners. Let’s buy some silver bracelets in Chor Bazaar and look at Kipling’s father’s friezes and eat garlic crabs in Kala Ghoda and feel sad that Rhythm House has closed and mourn Café Samovar also. Let’s go to Blue Frog for the music and Aer for the high-rise view and Aurus for the sea and Tryst for the lights and Trilogy for the girls and Hype for the hype. Fuck it. Here we are. Let’s do it.

Calm down, she said. You sound hysterical.

Something’s going to happen, he said. I was pulled across the world for a reason.

In the lobby a glamorous woman flung herself upon him. Groucho! she cried. You’re back! Then she saw the tall Somali beauty watching her. Oh, excuse I, she said. I’ve known this one since he was a boy. We called his older brother Harpo, you know. She tapped her temple. Poor boy. And this one Groucho because he was always grouchy and he chased women.

Tell me about it, said Ubah Tuur.

We have to throw a party! said the glamorous woman. Call me, darling! Call me! I’ll round up everybody. She rushed off, talking into her phone.

Ubah Tuur’s eyebrow interrogated Apu.

I don’t remember her name, he said. It’s like I never saw her before in my life.

Groucho, said Ubah Tuur, amused.

Yes, he replied. And D got called Chico. We were the fucking Marx brothers. Get your tutsi-frutsi ice cream here. I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member. That’s in every contract, that’s what they call a sanity clause. Ha ha ha…you can’t fool me. There ain’t no Santy Claus. How much would you charge to run into an open manhole? Just the cover charge. I’ve had a great evening, but this wasn’t it. I’d kill you for money. Ha ha ha. No, you’re my friend. I’d kill you for nothing. That was worth running halfway around the world to get away from.

It’s already worth the trip here, she said. I’m learning things about you I never knew before, and we haven’t even left the hotel.

I’ve been looking for a girl like you, he said, groucholy. Not you, but a girl like you.

Cut.

They had not walked more than a few steps along Apollo Bunder in the direction of the Gateway before Ubah stopped and drew Apu’s attention to the quartet of almost comically visible men perspiring in black hats and suits, white shirts with narrow black ties, and sunglasses, two walking behind them and two across the street.

Looks like we have some reservoir dogs for company, she said. Or blues brothers, whichever.

When confronted the quartet responded respectfully. Sirji we are associates of some business associates of your great father, said the one who looked most like Quentin Tarantino as “Mr. Brown.” We are tasked precisely with your personal security and instructed to proceed with maximum subtlety and discretion.

Tasked by whom? Apu asked, annoyed, suspicious, still grouchy.

Sirji by your esteemed fatherji, via channels. Your esteemed father was unaware of your decision to return and having learned that you have returned he is concerned for your well-being and wishes all to be well.

Then please inform my esteemed father, via those same channels, that I am not in need of babysitting, and once that is done you gentlemen can kindly take your leave.

Mr. Brown looked more mournful than ever. It is not for us to instruct, he said. It is for us only to obey.

This was an impasse. Finally Apu shrugged and turned away. Just stay back, he said. Keep your distance. I don’t want you in my field of vision. If I turn my head, jump back. Stay out of my eyeline. The same goes for my lady friend. Jump back.

Mr. Brown bowed his head with a kind of gentle grief. Okay, sirji, he said. We will make our effort.

They stood and looked at the boats in the harbor. It’s ridiculous, Apu said. I understand that he had Petya followed on his long walk, because that’s Petya, but he needs to start treating me like an adult.

Ubah began in her unflappable manner to giggle. On the way here, she said, I thought, India, I’m going to be shocked by the poverty, it’s maybe even worse than back home, or as bad but different, anyway it’s going to take an adjustment. I didn’t realize we would be walking into a Bollywood movie the moment we hit town.

Cut.

When they got back to the hotel after dinner there was a gentleman waiting for them in the lobby, silver-haired, aquiline of profile, dressed in a cream suit and cricket club tie, holding a Borsalino hat in his hands. He spoke the English of the English gentleman class though he was not an Englishman.

Excuse me, I’m so sorry. Would you mind awfully if I, I hope you will not think it an intrusion if I make so bold as to request a very few minutes of your time.

What is this about?

Might we, could we possibly, in a more discreet setting, could I make so bold as to request, perhaps? Away from eyes and ears?

Ubah Tuur actually applauded. I think you set all this up, she said to Apu. To entertain me and fool me into thinking that it’s like this all the time. Of course, sir, she said to the man in the cream suit. It will be our pleasure to welcome you into our suite.

Wipe.

In the suite. The man stood awkwardly next to the glass case containing Ravi Shankar’s sitar, fiddling with the brim of his hat and refusing offers to be seated.

I am sure you will not recognize my name, he said. Mastan. I am Mr. Mastan.

No, sorry, don’t know that name, Apu said.

I am not a young man, Mr. Mastan replied. God has granted me over seventy years. But almost half a century ago when I was a young police officer in the CID, I had one might say a relationship with an associate of your father’s.

Another associate of an associate, Apu said. Quite a day for them.

Forgive me for asking, said Mr. Mastan. Did your esteemed father ever tell you about his associate, the man he referred to jokingly as Don Corleone?

Now Apu was very silent, so profoundly silent that the silence was a form of speech. Mr. Mastan nodded deferentially. I have often wondered, he said, how much your father’s sons knew about their father’s business dealings.

I’m an artist, said the artist. I did not concern myself with finances.

Of course, of course. This is only natural. The artist lives on a higher plane and is unimpressed by filthy lucre. I myself have always admired the bohemian spirit though, alas, it is not in my nature.

Ubah noticed that, having digested the words “police officer” and “Don Corleone,” Apu was listening very intently.

May I tell you about my own connection to your father’s associate, the don? Mr. Mastan asked.

Please.

In a phrase, sir, he ruined my life. I was pursuing him, sir, for his various serious crimes and misdemeanors. If I may say so, I was hot on his trail. Also, being young, I had not yet acquired the wisdom of the city. I was unbribable, sir, and incorruptible. No doubt many great men would have described me as a hindrance, an obstacle preventing the wheels of society from being well oiled and running smoothly. And perhaps that is so, but that then is who I was. Incorruptible, unbribable, an obstacle. Your father’s associate spoke to less intransigent persons in the upper echelons and I was removed from the case and banished. You are familiar with the poet Ovid, sir? He displeased Augustus Caesar and was exiled to the Black Sea and never returned to Rome. This also was my fate, to languish for years without hope of preferment in a small town in the mountains, in Himachal Pradesh, known for the mass production of mushrooms and of red gold, which is tomatoes, and for the fact that in mythological times it was the exile place of the Pandavas. I too was a little Pandava in my mushroom and tomato exile. After many years my luck turned. As fate would have it a local gentleman whose name I will not introduce here saw in me an honest man and so I left the police force and began to oversee the mushroom and tomato crop to prevent loss through smuggling. In time, sir, I departed the mountains and became successful in the field of security and investigation. I give thanks to God that I did well. Now I am a retired individual, with sons working in my stead, but I keep my ear to the ground, sir, that I do.

Why have you come here to tell me this story, Apu asked.

No, no, sir, you are mistaken, and it is I who am to blame because I have spoken too much and prolonged what should have been a briefer encounter. I came to tell you two things. The first thing is that although I am no longer a policeman and Don Corleone who ruined my life is no more, I am still one who quests for justice.

What does this have to do with me?

Regarding your great father, sir. He is high, so much higher than I could ever dream of being, but even in my old age, with God’s help and the force of the law I will bring him down. He was the associate of my nemesis the don and complicit in his actions and he is the one who remains and therefore.

You came to threaten me and my family. I think you have outstayed your welcome.

No, sir, again I have said too much and strayed from the point. I did not come to threaten. I came to warn.

Of what?

A family that has been too much involved with the dons, Mr. Mastan said, and then without so much as a word of farewell it ups sticks and departs. Such a family may have left behind, in this town, persons with hurt feelings. With hurt feelings and business that is incomplete. With, perhaps, thoughts of having been left in a bad place owing in part to your esteemed parent’s actions. These persons with hurt feelings are not big men like your father. Or perhaps a little big in their own area but, in the world at large, small. They are not without some force in the locality but it is a local force. He is maybe beyond them now. But you, innocently or foolishly or arrogantly or foolhardily, you have returned.

I think you should go, Ubah Tuur said. And once Mr. Mastan had bowed and taken his leave, she said to Apu, I think we should go too. As soon as we can.

It’s garbage, he said. He’s just a bitter man trying to get his own back. It’s an empty threat. No content.

I want to go anyway. The movie’s over.

And all of a sudden he stopped arguing. Yes, he said. Agreed. Let’s go.

Cut.

George Harrison played sitar on “Within You Without You,” “Tomorrow Never Knows,” “Norwegian Wood,” and “Love You To.” The flights all left in the middle of the night so when they were packed and ready it was dark and they sat in the darkness and imagined George and Ravi Shankar sitting where they were sitting, making music. For a while they didn’t speak to each other but then they did.

I’ll tell you something my father told me when I was a young man, Apu said. My son, he said, the greatest force in the life of this country is not government or religion or the entrepreneurial instinct. It is briberyandcorruption. He said it like one word, like electromagnetism. Without briberyandcorruption nothing would happen. It is briberyandcorruption that oils the wheels of the nation, and it is also the solution to our nation’s problems. If there is terrorism? Sit down across the table with the terrorist boss and sign a blank check and push it across the table and say, put as many zeros as you like. Once he has pocketed the check the problem is over because in our country we understand that there is honor in briberyandcorruption. Once a man has been bought, he stays bought. My father was a realist. When one works at his level then some don or other will inevitably knock on your door, either offering a bribe or requesting one. There is no way of keeping your hands clean. In America it’s not so different, my father told me after the move across the oceans. Here also we have our Chicken Little, our Little Archie, our Crazy Fred, our Fat Frankie. They also believe in honor. So maybe the worlds are less different than we pretend.

He talked to you about this.

Not often, Apu said. But once or twice he made his briberyandcorruption speech. We all heard it a few times and knew it well. Beyond that I did not interfere.

How do you feel now that we’re leaving, so quickly. We met, what, two people. You never showed me where you went to school. We haven’t bought a pirate video. We haven’t been here yet.

I feel relieved.

Why relieved?

I don’t need to be here anymore.

And how do you feel about feeling relieved? That you’re pleased to be leaving? Isn’t that a strange feeling?

Not really.

Why?

Because I’ve come to believe in the total mutability of the self. That under the pressures of one’s life one can simply cease to be who one was and be just the person that one has become.

I don’t agree.

Our whole bodies change all the time. Our hair, our skin, everything. During the course of seven-year cycles every cell that makes us up is replaced by another cell. Every seven years we are one hundred percent not who we were. Why should this not also be the case with the self. It’s pretty much seven years since I left this place. I’m different now.

I’m not sure about the science on that.

I’m not talking about science. I’m talking about the soul. The soul that is not made of cells. The ghost in the machine. I’m saying that in time the old ghost moves out and a new ghost moves in.

So seven years from now I won’t know who you are.

And I won’t know who you are. Maybe we have to start over. Maybe we are inconstant. That’s just how it is.

Maybe.

Cut.

The night was humid. Even the crows were asleep. Sad-faced Mr. Brown and the other reservoir dogs were waiting out front, wearing shades in spite of the darkness.

We dismissed your taxi, Mr. Brown said. It is our duty to bring you to Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, formerly Sahar.

That is annoying of you, Apu said. We don’t need you.

It will be our honor, Mr. Brown said. See, three Mercedes-Benz sedans are waiting. Lead car, your car and backup car. Please. Only the best for you, sirji. S-class Maybach, like a private jet for the road. This is written in the literature. I myself will accompany you in this primo vehicle.

The night city concealed its nature from him as he left it, turned its back on him as he had turned his back on it. The faces of the buildings were grim and closed. They crossed Mahim Bay on the Sea Link but then left the Western Express Highway too early, before the airport exit.

Why are you going this way, Apu Golden asked and then Mr. Brown turned around and took off his sunglasses and no answer was necessary.

It is a business matter, Mr. Brown said. It is not personal. It is a question of one client outbidding another. One client from whom there is no work since a long time versus another, regular customer. Sir, it is to send a message to your esteemed fatherji. He will understand the message, I am certain of it.

I don’t understand, Ubah cried. What message?

Mr. Brown replied gravely: The message says, your actions, sir, made things difficult for us, after we warned you not to act. But after you acted you put continents and oceans between us and we did not have the means or will to follow. But now you have unwisely allowed your son to come. That approximately is the communication. I offer my apologies, madam, you are an innocent bystander, isn’t it, you are collateral damage. It is my great regret.

The cars drove along an unimportant bridge across the Mithi River near the edges of the great Dharavi slum, and in the glistening silver Maybach the music was turned up very loud. Rich people enjoying themselves. What else. Why not. No question of any gunshots being heard. Anyway, the silencer was on.