The Mountain Shadow

Chapter Seventy-Two

I let Oleg have my rooms for a while. The rent was paid out for a year, and I was happy for him to have a home. Oleg was happier. He hugged me off the ground and kissed me. It’s a Russian thing, he said.

Karla went everywhere with me, even on my black market rounds, and I went everywhere with Karla. We rode together, with Randall always following discreetly in the car.

My round of the money changers was dangerous, but some of what Karla did was almost as dangerous. Her round of art and business contacts was disturbing, but some of what I did was almost as disturbing.

People took a little while to get used to us as a double act, and they reacted in different ways. As it turned out, my friends in the Underworld took it better than her friends in the Overworld.

‘You’ll have tea with us, Miss Karla,’ my black market dealers said to her at every stop. ‘Please, have tea with us.’

‘No entry,’ her white market dealers said to me at every security desk. ‘Passes required, beyond this point.’

Karla got me a security pass, and insisted that I sit by her side, everywhere. I got to attend meetings with powerful financial figures, in chambers and panelled rooms that all looked like the inside of the same coffin.

A business suit, Didier once said to me, is nothing but a military uniform, stripped of its honour. And it seemed that honour was a word rarely heard in those boardrooms and exclusive club lounges: when Karla spoke it, insisting that her proxy would only be used to support honourable causes, the same waves of distress always passed through the room, puffer-fish faces gasping, and coloured ties flashing in revolving chairs like weeds in a dissonant sea.

The artists were a different story, told by a tall, handsome sculptor, gathering fuel in vacant lots of millionaires.

The gallery had flourished. Scandal is always a seller’s market. The scent of it, attached to works that fanatics had attacked, works that had been banned or threatened with bans, seared the sated senses of a wealthy clique of buyers. People with enough money not to queue anywhere waited for appointments, and paid in black market rupees. Taj, the sculptor, was managing the gallery, and making money faster than he could swing a mallet.

He was talking to a ledger of patrons when I walked in with Karla one day, a few weeks after the lockdown. Rosanna was at a desk, working phones.

Taj nodded to Karla, and continued his discourse to the patrons. We walked through to the back room. It had been transformed from motorcycle lights to red fluorescents, a dozen of them, strewn around the room.

We sat on a black silk couch. There were paintings leaning against the walls, a sleeve of one becoming a frame for the other. Anushka brought us chai and biscuits.

When she wasn’t in character as a body-language artist, Anushka was a shy young woman, eager to please, and the gallery was a second home for her.

‘What’s happening, Anush?’ Karla asked her, when she sat down on the carpet beside us.

‘Same old same old,’ she smiled.

‘Three days ago you said that the new show of Marathi artists was ready,’ Karla said. ‘And I don’t see it being prepped.’

‘There’s… there’s been some argument.’

‘Ar… gu… ment?’ Karla said, growling syllables.

Taj walked in and sat down next to Anushka, folding his long legs under him elegantly.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I had to finish with those clients. Big sale. How are you, Karla?’

‘I’m hearing about some argument,’ she said, staring him down. ‘And feeling argumentative.’

Taj looked away from her quickly.

‘How are you, Lin?’ he asked.

Every time I looked at Taj, I thought of the two mysterious days he’d spent with Karla, somewhere outside Bombay: the days she’d never told me about, because I wouldn’t ask her about them.

He was the kind of tall, dark, and handsome that makes the rest of us think jealous thoughts. It’s not their fault, the handsome guys. I’ve known quite a few handsome guys who were great guys, and great friends, and we ugly guys loved them, but even then we were still a little jealous of them, because they were so damn good looking.

It’s our fault, of course, not theirs, and it was my fault with Taj, but every time I looked at him, I wanted to interrogate him.

‘I’m fine, Taj. How you doin’?’

‘Oh… great,’ he said uncertainly.

‘Argue me, Taj,’ Karla said, pulling his attention. ‘What’s the problem with the exhibition?’

‘Can we get stoned first?’ Taj asked, gesturing to Anushka, who rose immediately in search of psychic sustenance. ‘I’ve had back-to-back buyers for the last four hours, and my head is just spinning numbers.’

‘Where is it?’ Karla asked him.

‘Anushka’s bringing it,’ Taj said, pointing helplessly at the door.

‘Not the dope,’ Karla said. ‘The Marathi artists exhibition. Where is it?’

‘Still in storage,’ Taj said, looking at the door, and calling Anushka with his mind.

‘In storage?’

Anushka returned, smoking a very large joint, which she passed to Taj urgently. The sculptor held his hand out to Karla, pleading with her to wait while he smoked his way into a small cloud, and finally offered the joint to me.

‘You know I don’t smoke with Karla on the bike,’ I said, not moving to take it. ‘I’ve told you that before. Stop offering it to me.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Karla said, swiping the joint from his hand. ‘And I’ll take that explanation, Taj.’

‘Look,’ Taj said, stoned enough to pretend well again. ‘People feel that devoting an exhibition to one group of artists, from one language group, is not the direction they want to go.’

‘People?’

‘People here at the gallery,’ Taj said. ‘They like the Marathi artists exhibition, but they’re just not comfortable with it.’

‘You’ve been running a Bengali artists exhibition here for the last two weeks,’ Karla said.

‘That’s a different context,’ Taj struggled.

‘Explain me the difference.’

‘Well, I, that is… ’

‘I love this city, and I’m damn glad to live here,’ Karla said, leaning toward him. ‘We’re on Marathi land, living in a Marathi city, by the grace of the Marathi people, who’ve given us a pretty fine place to live in. The exhibition is for them, Taj, not you.’

‘It’s so political,’ Taj replied.

‘No, it’s not. All of these artists are good, and some of them are terrific,’ she insisted. ‘You said so yourself. I hand-picked them, with Lisa.’

‘They’re good, of course, but that’s not really the point here.’

‘The point for you, and me, and Rosanna, and Anushka,’ she said, ‘and all the others in the team who weren’t born here in Bombay, is that it’s simply the right and grateful thing to showcase talent from the city that sustains us.’

‘Karla, you’re asking too much,’ Taj pleaded.

‘I want this show, Taj,’ Karla said. ‘It was my last project with Lisa.’

‘And I’d love to give it to you,’ Taj moaned. ‘But it’s just impossible.’

‘Where’s the art?’ Karla asked.

‘I told you. It’s still in the warehouse.’

‘Send it to the Jehangir gallery,’ she said.

‘The whole exhibition?’ he asked, stricken. ‘There are some fine paintings in there, Karla, and if they were put on the market, in the right way, one at a time -’

‘Send it to the Jehangir gallery,’ she said. ‘They’ve got the integrity to run it, and they deserve it more than you do.’

‘But, Karla,’ he pleaded.

‘I think we’re done here,’ she said to me, standing up.

Taj unfolded his tall frame to stand in front of her.

‘Please reconsider this, Karla,’ he said.

He grabbed her arm.

I shoved him away.

‘Stay back, Taj,’ I said quietly.

‘You’re making a mistake, Karla,’ he said. ‘We’re really moving into big money, here at the gallery.’

‘I’ve got money,’ Karla said. ‘What I want is respect. I’m done here, Taj. The gallery is yours, from now on. Be as apolitical as you like. I’m walking out. The exhibition insurance is on you, while you send the Marathi show to me, so make sure nothing happens before it reaches the Jehangir. Good luck, and goodbye.’

We rode away, switching to one of my rounds.

‘You know he’s gay, right?’ Karla asked as we rode, her arm over my shoulder.

‘I know who’s gay?’

‘Taj.’

‘Taj is gay?’

‘You didn’t know, did you?’

‘Unless people tell me, I almost never know.’

‘And you were jealous, right?’

I thought about it for a kilometre or so.

‘Are you saying you can’t be attracted to a gay man?’

She thought about it, for a kilometre or so.

‘Good point,’ she said. ‘But not that gay man.’

‘But you went away with him for two days.’

‘To a spa,’ she said. ‘To drink juices, and get myself recharged for the fight. Taj just came along for company, to work out gallery stuff.’

‘And I couldn’t have come along for company, to work out stuff?’

‘I was protecting you from my schemes, remember?’ she said, whispering into my ear. ‘And anyway, Didier likes him.’

‘Didier and the sculptor?’

‘Taj has already done some nude studies of Didier. They’re pretty good.’

‘He’s going to make a statue of Didier?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll never hear the end of this.’

‘Oh, yeah. I promised we’d be there for the unveiling.’

‘I might pass. I’ve already seen Didier unveiled.’

‘He’s doing Didier as Michelangelo’s David, at forty-nine years old.’

‘I’m definitely not going.’

I slowed the bike and stopped at the kerb of a wide, relatively empty boulevard. When you ride the Island City’s streets for long enough, you get to feel them.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘The traffic’s not right,’ I said, looking around.

‘What’s not right about it?’

‘There isn’t any. The cops are holding it back for some reason.’

A fleet of cars passed us at speed, lights flashing red as new blood. A second cavalcade followed, and a third. We watched them rush lines of light into the night until the street was quiet again, and the normal traffic resumed.

‘They’re heading to Bandra in a hurry,’ I said, as I put the bike into gear, and rode away slowly. ‘Cops and journalists. Must be something big.’

‘Do you care?’ she said, her arm around my shoulder.

‘No,’ I called back. ‘Come and meet somebody cool. I have to drop some money off at a bank.’

Half-Moon Auntie excelled herself for Karla. At one point she sent me away, telling me that the next portion of her performance was for women only.

I slipped and slid away at slow speed on the fish-oil floor, resisting the impulse to glance back.

‘Nice,’ Karla said, when she joined me in the Colaba market. ‘That’s some serious yoga. Someone absolutely has to paint that woman.’

‘Maybe one of your young painters?’

‘Good idea,’ she laughed. ‘I think we’re going to do some pretty interesting stuff together, Shantaram.’

‘You got that right.’

A young prostitute, from the Regal Circle sex roundabout, was returning home through the market to her hut in the fishermen’s slum. Her name was Circe, and she was a handful.

Her bing, if she hadn’t made enough money, was to pester men to have sex with her until they did, or until they paid her to stop pestering.

‘Hey, Shantaram,’ she said. ‘Fuck me long, double price.’

‘Hi, Circe,’ I said, trying to pass her, but she scampered into my path, her hands on her hips.

‘Fuck me quick, fuck me long, you shit!’

‘Bye, Circe,’ I said, dodging away again, but she grabbed her yellow sari in her hands, and ran around to face me again.

‘You fuck, or you pay,’ she said, seizing my arm mid-pester, and trying to rub against me.

Karla shoved her in the chest with both hands, sending her reeling away.

‘Stay back, Circe,’ she growled in Hindi, her fists raised.

Circe brushed her sari into place and walked away, avoiding Karla’s eyes.

‘Oh, so that’s how it’s done,’ I said.

‘Cute girl,’ Karla said. ‘Ever since the fetish party, all I’ve met are people I would’ve added to the list.’

‘I’ll bet. I’ve finished my rounds. Where to next, Miss Karla?’

‘Now, my love, we rise all the way to the bottom of the pork barrel.’

Chapter Seventy-Three

We rode south to the Taj Mahal hotel, where Karla had a meeting with stockholders of Ranjit’s media conglomerate.

Early evening was still gold in the eyes of the Sikh security team that greeted Karla at the hotel. She was wearing clear plastic sandals and a grey boilermaker suit she’d cut up, leaving wide, open shoulders, and roped in with a belt made of black plaited hemp. Her hair was styled by the wind, on the back of my motorcycle, and looked pretty good.

I was wearing black jeans, my denim vest and a Keith Richards T-shirt I’d bartered off Oleg, and looked not so pretty good for a business meeting. But I didn’t care: they weren’t dressed for my world, either.

The meeting was in the business clubrooms. We stepped into a tiny elevator. As the doors closed, I offered Karla my flask. She sipped it and passed it back as the elevator opened on a narrow corridor, leading to a treasure room of affluently understated decadence.

Leather chairs and couches, each one the price of a family car, were parked against wide mahogany panels, imported from faraway countries where mahogany trees are murdered for their flesh. Crystal glasses stung the eyes with glittering reflections, carpets surrendered like sponges, expensive paintings of expansive business leaders enriched the walls, and white-gloved waiters waited patiently on every unfulfilled need.

There were six businessmen in the room, all of them well dressed and well preserved. When we entered the clubroom they froze, staring at Karla.

‘I am so very sorry for your loss, Karla-Madame,’ one of the businessmen said.

‘So very sorry, Madame,’ others said.

I looked at Karla. She was reading their eyes and faces. Wherever it led, she didn’t like it.

‘Something happened to Ranjit,’ she said.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Know what?’ Karla asked quietly.

‘Ranjit has expired, Karla-Madame,’ the businessman said. ‘He was shot by someone, tonight, in Bandra. Just now. It is on the news.’

I realised that the red cavalcades of police cars and press cars we’d seen, rushing toward Bandra, were racing to the scene of Ranjit’s shooting. Karla had the same idea. She looked at me.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

She nodded, her lips taut.

‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘I will ask you to adjourn this meeting for forty-eight hours, if that is suitable.’

‘Of course, Karla-Madame.’

‘Anything you say, Karla-Madame.’

‘Take all the time you need, Karla-Madame.’

‘So sorry for your loss.’

In the elevator she clung to me, her face in my chest, and cried. Then the elevator jammed to a halt, stuck between floors.

She stopped crying, wiped her eyes, and looked around with a widening smile.

‘Hello, Ranjit,’ she said. ‘Come out and fight me like a ghost.’

The elevator started again, and began to descend.

‘Goodbye, Ranjit,’ I said.

On the street, beside the bike, I held her hand.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘If I could, if he’s still there,’ she said, ‘I’d like to identify him. I don’t want to do it in the morgue.’

I took her to Bandra, riding fast, Randall following behind. We pulled up at a press cordon, established near the dance bar where Ranjit’s silver bullet had found him.

His body was still inside the nightclub. The police were waiting to remove the corpse of the famous tycoon, we heard, because one of the major television reporters hadn’t arrived. Karla, Randall and I took up a position in the crowd with a view of the arc lights trained by local camera crews on the entrance to the nightclub.

I didn’t feel good about it. I didn’t want to see Ranjit’s body being carried out on a gurney. And there were a lot of cops standing around.

I looked at Karla. She was blazing queens, scanning the scene, taking in the large broadcast vans, the arc lights, and the lines of cops.

‘You sure you want to do this?’

‘I have to do it,’ she said. ‘It’s my last job for Ranjit’s family. My way to make it up to them for playing Ranjit’s game, I guess.’

Karla lurched forward through the press cordon. Cameras flashed. I was half a pace behind her, and Randall was at my side.

‘Stand aside,’ Randall said calmly in Marathi and Hindi, passing through the ranks of the cops and journalists. ‘Please, show respect. Please, show respect.’

The press and the cops let Karla into the club, but stopped Randall and me at the door. We waited for ten long minutes until she came back to us. Her head was high, her eyes staring straight ahead, but she was resting on the arm of a senior officer.

‘It is a terrible business, Madame,’ the officer said. ‘We have not completed our enquiries, but it seems that your husband was shot by a young man, who -’

‘I can’t discuss this now,’ Karla said.

‘Of course not, Madame,’ the OIC said quickly.

‘Please, excuse my rudeness,’ Karla said, stopping him with a raised hand. ‘I simply wanted you to attest that I have identified Ranjit’s body. His family must be informed, quickly, and with my positive identification you can now perform that onerous task, isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Then, do you attest my identification, and will you inform Ranjit’s family?’

‘I attest it, Madame,’ the officer said, saluting. ‘And I will perform that duty.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Karla said, shaking his hand. ‘You no doubt have questions you would like to ask me. I’ll visit your office at any time that you require me.’

‘Yes, Madame. Please, take my card. And may I express my sorrow, for your loss.’

‘Thank you again, sir,’ Karla said.

When we left the cordon of cops to walk back to the bike, some photographers tried to take Karla’s picture. Randall held them back, and paid them to stop shouting for the freedom of the press.

We rode back to the south, and she cried, her cheek pressed against my back. When we stopped at a traffic light, Randall jumped from the car and offered her tissues from a red ceramic box. Karla accepted them, before the signal changed. And I think that little, thoughtful act saved her, because she stopped crying after that, and simply clung to me, and never cried for Ranjit again.

Chapter Seventy-Four

I took her back to the Amritsar hotel, and the Bedouin tent. She let me undress her and put her to bed: one of a lover’s treasures. And she slept through dawn and daylight, and violet evening, and woke under an exile moon.

She stretched, saw me, and looked around her.

‘How long have I been out?’

‘A day,’ I said. ‘It’s nearly midnight. You missed tomorrow.’

She sat upright quickly, messing her hair perfect.

‘Midnight?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Were you watching me, while I slept?’

‘I was too busy. I wrote out a pretty eloquent statement for the cops, and signed it for you, and delivered it. They liked it. You don’t have to go back.’

‘You did all that?’

‘How you feeling?’ I smiled.

‘I’m good,’ she said, wriggling off the bed. ‘I’m good. And I gotta pee.’

She came back showered, in a white silk robe, and I was trying to think of a way to let her talk about Ranjit, dead Ranjit, and what it felt like, seeing his body, when there was a knock on the door.

‘That’s Naveen’s knock,’ Karla said. ‘You wanna let him in?’

‘You know his knock?’

I opened the door and welcomed the young detective into the tent.

‘What’s up, kid?’ I asked.

‘I’m so sorry about Ranjit, Karla,’ he said.

‘Someone had to kill him,’ Karla replied, lighting a small joint. ‘I’m just glad it wasn’t me. It’s okay, Naveen. I slept it off, and I’m okay.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you’re still punching.’

He stared at me, then at Karla, then at me again.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just getting my head around the two of you being together all the time.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘There’s a hotel pool, you know,’ he said happily, ‘on how long Oleg gets to keep your rooms. Oleg picked three -’

‘Any other news, Naveen?’ I asked, pulling on jeans.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Dennis is ending his trance, tonight. There’s gonna be a lot of people there. I thought… maybe… you need to get out in the air, Karla.’

Karla looked interested in seeing Dennis rise from his two-year sleep, but I wasn’t sure if she was ready for distraction. I wasn’t sure I was ready for it myself. I’d stayed up most of the night and day, watching over Karla and paying the cops to leave her alone. And the whole time I’d asked myself again and again the questions about Ranjit and Lisa, that only Ranjit, dead Ranjit, could answer.

‘You wanna go out, or stay in, girl?’

‘And miss a resurrection? I’ll be ready in five,’ she said.

‘Okay, I’m in,’ I said, pulling on a shirt. ‘It’s not every day someone rises from the dead.’

We walked down to the arch beneath the hotel and found Randall sitting in the back of the car. He was reading a copy of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, the interior lights a blue-white blush on his face.

Karla had given him the car, because he refused to stop following her while she rode with me, just in case she needed him. He’d accepted the gift, and transformed the capacious rear seats into a sleeping lounge, complete with a small refrigerator running on battery power, and a sound system that was better than mine.

He was barefoot, in black trousers and a white, open-necked shirt. His bronze, Goan eyes, faded by generations of sun and sea, were filled with happy light. He stepped from the car, and slipped into his sandals.

He was handsome, tall, smart and brave. As he came to greet Karla, smiling teeth at her like shells on a perfect shore, I could see why Diva liked him so much.

‘How are you, Miss Karla?’ Randall asked, taking her hand for a moment.

‘I’m fine, Randall,’ she said. ‘Got a nip you can give me, from your well-stocked bar? I had a bad dream last night, and I’m thirsty.’

‘Coming up,’ Randall replied, opening the door of the car and fetching a small bottle of vodka.

‘To the spirits of the departed,’ Karla said, throwing it back in two gulps. ‘Now, let’s go raise the dead.’

‘Would this be the rise of Dennis the Sleeping Baba, Miss Karla?’

‘Indeed it is, Randall,’ she replied wistfully. ‘Instead of a wake, let’s have an awake, shall we?’

‘With unadulterated pleasure,’ he smiled, sad for what she’d been through, but glad that she was up and out again. ‘To the psychic resuscitation it is.’

‘And not a death certificate too soon,’ Naveen added.

I looked at the Indian-Irish detective, who was talking to Randall while he prepared the car, and wondered what thoughts roamed his mind: for three weeks, Randall had been dating the woman Naveen loved. I liked Randall, and I liked Naveen, almost as much as they seemed to like each other. Naveen hugged Randall, and Randall hugged Naveen. It looked genuine, and it was confusing: if things got ugly, I wouldn’t know which one to hit.

‘I’ll leave my bike, and ride with Randall,’ Naveen said, as Karla and I saddled up the bike.

We rode between satin banners of traffic to the Colaban hive of ancient housing, near Sassoon Dock. The night smell of dead and dying sea things followed us past the dock, and lingered to the colony of verandas where Dennis reposed.

There was a crowd on the street. Huge buses on the regular route ploughed fields of penitents, who moved aside in waves of heads and shoulders to let the metal whales swim through.

We worked our way to a place near the front with a view of the veranda where Dennis, it was expected, would emerge from his long self-induced coma.

People were holding candles and oil lamps. Some were holding bunches of incense. Others were chanting.

Dennis appeared, standing in the doorway of his rooms. He looked at the wide veranda for a moment as if it was a red-tiled river, and then looked up at the crowd of supplicants gathered on the street a few steps below.

‘Hello, all and everyone, here and there,’ he said. ‘It is quiet in death. I have been there, and I can tell you that it is very quiet, unless someone kills your high.’

People shouted and cheered, calling out names for the Divine. Dennis took tentative steps. The crowd screamed and chanted. He walked across the balcony, down the steps, onto the road, and then collapsed in the centre of the crowd.

‘Now, this is entertainment,’ Karla said.

‘You figure?’ I asked, watching believers rain tears on Dennis, who was horizontal again.

‘Oh, he’ll get up again,’ Karla replied, leaning against me. ‘I think the show only just started.’

Dennis sat up suddenly, scattering the crowd awaiting his blessing.

‘I have it,’ he said. ‘I know what I must do.’

‘What is it?’ several voices asked.

‘The dead,’ Dennis said, his deep voice clear in the hush. ‘I must serve them. They, too, need ministry.’

‘The dead, Dennis?’ someone asked.

‘Exclusively the dead,’ he replied.

‘But how to serve them?’ another voice asked.

‘First of all,’ Dennis appealed to them, ‘do you think I could smoke a very strong chillum? Being alive again is killing my high. Will someone prepare a chillum, please?’

Dozens attended to that, making the task more complex than required, until Billy Bhasu finally squatted beside the stricken monk of sleeping, and offered him a chillum.

Dennis smoked. People prayed. Someone rang temple bells. Someone else clanged finger cymbals, while a faint voice recited Sanskrit mantras.

‘This guy is a movie,’ Karla said.

She cocked her head over my shoulder to look at Randall, half a pace behind us.

‘Are you clocking this, Randall?’

‘Quite a spectacle, Miss Karla,’ Randall said. ‘Spontaneous canonisation.’

‘You’ve got to give it to Dennis,’ Naveen added. ‘He’s his own universe.’

Dennis struggled to his feet. A palanquin arrived, borne by sturdy young men threading their way through the crowd with shouts and grunts. It was the same bier that carried the dead to the burning ghats, but it had been modified to accommodate a chair, covered with silver imitation leather.

The young men put the palanquin on the ground, helped Dennis into the chair, then raised it to their shoulders and carried Dennis away on their long march to the Gateway of India monument.

Dennis smiled benevolently, blessing upturned faces with the chillum in his hand.

‘I love this guy,’ Karla said. ‘Let’s follow the parade.’

We rode beside and around the procession, winding through leafy streets to the Gateway monument. The crowd of people grew, as drummers and dancers and trumpet players left their homes to join the march. By the end of the procession there were more people who had no idea what it was all about than people who started the parade.

And by the time we rode to a vantage point, Dennis was in the centre of a frenzy that welcomed him home, whether they knew it or not, from years of silent penance.

A hundred metres away in the chambers of the Taj Mahal hotel, men who ruled the Overworld were networking: a pro-business government had been selected by them, and elected by the poor, and successful men were throwing nets into a new sea of commercial corruption.

Five hundred metres away, Vishnu, the head of the newly named 307 Company, after the number in the Indian penal code covering attempted murder, ruled the Underworld in a ruthless purge of Muslims from his gang. The only ones allowed to stay were the ones who told him about Pakistan, and everything else they knew about fallen Sanjay’s schemes.

Abdullah vanished, after the fire, and no-one knew where he was, or what he was planning. The other Muslims from the original Company broke away, gathered again in the heart of the Muslim bazaars in Dongri, and opened closer ties with gun suppliers from Pakistan.

The riots had scarred the city, as they always do: calls for calm from leaders high and low couldn’t still the rills of fear. Beyond the horror of communal violence itself, there was the cold realisation that such a thing can happen at all, even in a city as beautiful and loving as the Island City.

Karla clapped in time with the chanting. Randall and Naveen wagged their heads from side to side, going with the beat. And hundreds of the poor and the sick struggled and pressed through the thickening throng to touch the palanquin carrying Dennis, risen in glory.

Lights shone on the huge Gateway Monument, but from where we stood, the wide archway was just a slender thread: the eye of the needle that the camel of the British Raj couldn’t pass through.

The sea beyond was a black mirror, scattering lights from hundreds of small boats in jagged waves: fingerprints of light pressed on a pane of the sea.

And desperate prayers echoed from the Trojan tower that the British left in the Island City: sounds that moved away, like every sound, eternally.

Every sound we utter goes on forever, continuing through space and time until long after we’re gone. Our home, our Earth, transmits to the universe whatever we shout, or scream, or pray, or sing. The listening universe, that night, in that somehow sacred space, heard prayers and cries of pain, raised by hope.

‘Let’s ride,’ Karla said, swinging onto the back of my bike.

We swung away from the Gateway area slowly, giving Randall and Naveen time. And the crowd chanted louder, cleansing the conflicted signals in the Island City’s air, for a while, with the purity of their plea.

Chapter Seventy-Five

Happiness abhors a vacuum. Because I was so happy with Karla, the sadness in Naveen’s eyes reached deeper into the pool of empathy than it might’ve done, if sadness was still a vacuum in my own heart, as well. The brave love in his affection seemed to have retreated, and I wanted to know if it was recovering, or defeated.

When we returned to the Amritsar hotel, I got a moment to pull Naveen’s sleeve in the corridor behind Jaswant’s desk.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked him.

‘Going on?’

‘Randall is dating the woman you love, and you’re huggin’ him like a brother. I don’t get it.’

He bristled, in the way that dangerous young animals bristle, more from reflex than rage.

‘You know, Lin, there are things that are private, for a reason.’

‘Fuck that, you Irish-Indian. What’s going on?’

He relaxed, sure that I cared, and leaned against the wall.

‘I can’t do that world,’ he said. ‘I can’t even be in that world, unless I’m asking uncomfortable questions, or helping to arrest someone.’

‘What world?’

‘Her world,’ he said, as if they were his words for hell.

‘You don’t have to join her world, to be her boyfriend,’ I said. ‘Randall is dating her, and he lives in his car.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel good?’

‘It’s supposed to make you realise that when you went on that more-than-a-date with Benicia, you messed it up. You gotta make it right. You earn the love you feel, man.’

He hung his head as if it was the third round of a six-round fight he couldn’t win. I felt bad. I didn’t want to depress him: I wanted him to know that he was Randall, and then some. And I wanted to remind him that Diva knew it, too.

‘Look, kid -’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s okay. I hear what you say, but I’m not fighting this, and I never will.’

‘If you don’t get it out in the open now, it’ll come out with someone else, later on. And that’ll be on you, because you can fix this now.’

He smiled, and stood up straight, his eyes on mine.

‘You’re a good friend, Lin,’ he said. ‘But you’re shaking the wrong bush. I’m a free man, and Diva’s a free woman, and that’s the way it should be.’

‘I said my piece,’ I said, still saying my piece, ‘but I don’t see you quitting.’

‘Every peace is made by somebody quitting,’ he shrugged.

I looked at him, squinting the truth out of him.

‘You practised that for Karla, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ he confessed, smiling. ‘But it’s true, in this case. I’m not going there, Lin, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t go there again either, after this. I really mean it. And I’ve got nothing against Randall. He’s a good guy. Better him than a bad guy.’

‘You got it,’ I said, sadder than he was, it seemed. ‘Let’s go see what Karla is doing.’

Karla was on the carpeted floor with Didier, doing a séance with a ouija board.

‘Oh, no, I cannot continue,’ Didier said, when we walked in. ‘Your energy is so disruptive, Lin.’

‘One of your finest qualities,’ Karla said. ‘Come sit here, Shantaram, and see if we can disrupt the spirits of the Amritsar hotel.’

‘There’s too many spirits in this town that I knew in person,’ I said, smiling. ‘And speaking of spirits, Didier, that box of wine you ordered is sitting on Jaswant’s desk. You’d better get on it, before he taxes it. He loves red wine.’

Didier scrambled upright and hurled himself through the door.

‘My wine!’ he said, as he fled. ‘Jaswant!’

Naveen walked out after him to help. I walked over to Karla, pushed her back on the carpet, lay down beside her, and kissed her.

‘See how tricky I am?’ I said, when our lips parted.

‘I know exactly how tricky you are,’ she laughed, ‘because I’m trickier.’

Kisses without consequence or expectation: kisses as gifts, feeding her, feeding me with love.

There was a knock on the open door. It was Jaswant, and Jaswant wasn’t a go-away guy.

‘Yes, Jaswant?’ I said, leaning away from Karla to look at him, framing the doorway.

‘There are some people to see you,’ he whispered. ‘Hello, Miss Karla.’

‘Hello, Jaswant,’ she said. ‘Have you lost weight? You look so fit.’

‘Well, I try to keep -’

‘What people, Jaswant?’ I asked.

‘People. To see you. Scary people. At least, the woman is scary.’

Madame Zhou, I thought. Karla and I were on our feet at the same time. I was reaching for weapons. Karla was putting on lipstick.

‘Lipstick?’

‘If you think I’ll see that woman without lipstick,’ she said, ruffling her hair in the mirror, ‘you just don’t get it.’

‘You’re so… right. I don’t get it.’

‘I have to kill her, before I kill her,’ she said, turning to me. ‘So, let’s go kill her, twice.’

We slipped from her rooms to Jaswant’s foyer, Karla beside me.

Acid. Karla. Acid. Karla.

I had my knife in my hand. Karla had a gun, and knew how to use it. We edged around the partition wall to see the desk area clearly, and saw two people standing in front of Jaswant’s desk. Jaswant looked worried.

I edged around further. I couldn’t see the man, but the woman was short, thirty and chunky. She was wearing a menacing stare and a blue hijab.

‘It’s okay,’ I said to Karla, walking into view. ‘We’re old friends.’

‘That’s stretching it,’ Blue Hijab said, still menacing Jaswant into his swanky chair.

‘Identity approved,’ Jaswant said. ‘Please go through, Madame.’

She was with Ankit, the concierge of the hotel in Sri Lanka. He smiled and saluted, two fingers against his brow.

I waved back. Blue Hijab had her arms folded. She kept them folded as she scowled Jaswant deeper into his seat, then came to greet me. Ankit was a step behind.

‘Salaam aleikum, soldier,’ I said.

‘Wa aleikum salaam,’ she said, unfolding her arms to show the very small automatic pistol she had in her hand. ‘We have unfinished business.’

‘Salaam aleikum,’ Karla said. ‘And that’s my boyfriend you’re talking to with a gun in your hand.’

‘Wa aleikum salaam,’ Blue Hijab said, staring back at the queens. ‘The gun is a gift. And it’s still loaded.’

‘Just like mine,’ Karla smiled, and Blue Hijab smiled back.

‘Blue Hijab,’ I said, ‘meet Karla. Karla, meet Blue Hijab.’

The women stared at one another, saying nothing.

‘And this is Ankit,’ I added.

‘A distinct privilege to meet you, Miss Karla,’ Ankit said.

‘Hi, Ankit,’ Karla said, her eyes on Blue Hijab.

‘Ankit makes a drink that’s gonna make Randall absinthe with envy. It’s like a liquid portal between dimensions. You’ve gotta try it.’

‘Always a pleasure to prepare the portal for you, sir.’

‘You girls have got so much in common,’ I said, and thought to say more, but Blue Hijab and Karla looked at me in exactly the same not very flattering way, and I unthought it.

‘You marry them,’ Blue Hijab said, ‘hoping they’ll change, and grow. And they marry us, hoping that we won’t.’

‘The connubial Catch 22,’ Karla said, taking Blue Hijab by the arm and leading her back to the Bedouin tent. ‘Come with me, you poor girl, and freshen up. You look very tired. How far have you come today?’

‘Not so far, today, but twenty-one hours yesterday, and the day before that,’ Blue Hijab said before her voice faded, and Karla shut the door.

Jaswant, Ankit and I were staring at the closed door.

‘That’s one very scary woman,’ Jaswant said, wiping sweat from his neck. ‘I thought Miss Karla was scary, no offence, baba, but I swear, if I’d seen that woman in the blue hijab coming up the stairs in time, I’d have been in the tunnel.’

‘She’s okay,’ I said. ‘She’s more than okay, in fact. She’s damn cool.’

‘I noticed a liquor store not far from here on our arrival, sir,’ Ankit said. ‘Might I presume to buy the ingredients for your special cocktail, and prepare a portal or two for you, while we await the ladies?’

‘Buy?’ Jaswant said, throwing the switch and opening the panel to his survival store.

He threw the next switch, and the lights began to flash. His finger hovered over the third switch.

‘You know, Jaswant -’ I tried, but I was too late.

The stomp and shake jive music of Bhangra banged from the desk speakers.

I looked at Ankit as he inspected the goods in Jaswant’s secret store. His grey hair had been cut to Cary Grant sleekness, and he’d grown a thin moustache. A thigh-length, navy blue tunic with high collars and matching serge trousers replaced his hotel service uniform.

He looked over Jaswant’s goods with a scholarly eye: a debonair affair examining baubles in adultery’s window.

‘I think we can work with this,’ he said.

Then the Bhangra got to Ankit, and he backed away from the coloured window and started to dance. He wasn’t bad: good enough to get Jaswant out of the chair and dancing with him until the end of the song.

‘Want to hear it again?’ Jaswant puffed, his finger over the switch.

‘Yes!’ Ankit said.

‘Business before pleasure,’ I essayed.

‘That’s true,’ Jaswant conceded, coming around to the secret window. ‘Let me know what you want.’

‘I need to do a little chemistry,’ Ankit said. ‘And I believe that you have all the right chemicals.’

‘Alright,’ I said. ‘Let’s get these drinks under way. We’re in for the night. Karla and I have nowhere to go, and all the time in the world to get there. Do your stuff, Ankit.’

Bottles poured, lime juice filled a beaker, coconut dessicated, bitter chocolate was grated into powdered flakes, glasses appeared, and we three men were just about to test the first batch of Ankit’s alchemy when Karla called out to me.

‘Start without me, guys,’ I said, putting my glass down.

‘You’re leaving the cocktail party before it starts?’ Jaswant objected.

‘Save my glass,’ I said. ‘If you hear gunplay while I’m in there, come and rescue me.’

Chapter Seventy-Six

I found Blue Hijab and Karla sitting cross-legged on the floor near the balcony, the carpets around them a pond of knotted meditations. There was a silver tray with rose and mint flavoured almonds, slivers of dark chocolate and chips of glazed ginger, beside half-drunk glasses of lime juice. Red and yellow lights flashing at the signals below blushed their faces softly in the darkened room. The slow overhead fan fretted incense smoke into scrolls, and a slow breeze reminded us that the night, outside, was vast.

‘Sit here, Shantaram,’ Karla said, pulling me down beside her. ‘Blue Hijab has to go soon. But before she does, she’s got some good news, and some not so good news.’

‘How are you?’ I asked. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, Alhamdulillah. Do you want the good first, or the not so good?’

‘Let’s have the not so good,’ I said.

‘Madame Zhou is still alive,’ Blue Hijab said. ‘And still free.’

‘And the good news?’

‘Her acid throwers are finished, and the twins are dead.’

‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Can we back this up? How come you know about Madame Zhou? And how come you’re here?’

‘I didn’t know about Madame Zhou,’ she said. ‘And I wasn’t interested in her. I wanted the acid throwers. We’ve been hunting them for a year.’

‘They burned someone you know,’ I realised. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘She was a good fighter, and she’s still a good comrade and a good friend. She was on leave in India, from the war. Somebody hired those two acid throwers, and they made her face into a mask. A protest mask, I suppose you could say.’

‘Is she still alive?’ Karla asked.

‘She is.’

‘Is there anything we can do?’

‘I don’t think so, Karla,’ Blue Hijab said. ‘Unless you’d like to help her punish the acid throwers, which she’s doing now, as we speak. It will go on for some time, yet.’

‘You caught the acid throwers?’ Karla asked. ‘Did anyone get burned?’

‘We threw blankets on them, and kicked them until they shoved their acid bottles out from under the blankets, and then we dragged them away.’

‘And the twins jumped in to help them,’ I said, ‘thinking you were a threat to Madame Zhou.’

‘They did. We didn’t realise they were protecting Madame Zhou. We didn’t care. We wanted the acid throwers. Madame Zhou ran away, and we let her run. We stopped the twins, and grabbed the acid throwers.’

‘You stopped the twins for good?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do with them?’

‘We left them there. That’s why I have to leave soon, Inshallah.’

‘Whatever you need, it’s yours,’ I said. ‘How did you think to tell me about this?’

‘We took the acid throwers to a slum. Four brothers and twenty-four cousins of the girl they burned are all living there. And the girl is living there, with a lot of other people who love her. We questioned the acid throwers. We wanted a list of every girl they’ve ever burned.’

‘Why?’

‘So we could visit the families, later, one by one, and tell that them those men are dead, and will never do it to another girl. And then to visit every one of the clients who paid them to burn girls, and make them pay in cash for the hell they spat on them, and give the money to the girls they ordered burned, Inshallah.’

‘Blue Hijab,’ Karla said, ‘I know we only just met, but I love you.’

She put her hand on Karla’s wrist.

‘When the acid throwers started talking,’ she said, turning to me, ‘we heard your name on their list. They told me they’d been following you for the Madame, that woman in black who ran away. I got the acid throwers to tell me where you live, and I came to warn you about the woman.’

It was a shock, a lot of shocks, and one of them was the thought of the acid throwers, being tortured to death by people they’d tortured. It was too much to think about.

‘Thanks for the heads-up, Blue Hijab,’ I said. ‘You’re leaving tonight. How can we help you?’

‘I have everything I need for myself,’ Blue Hijab said, ‘but I must be far away from here, by morning. My problem is Ankit. I can’t go on with him, because the sudden change in plans allows for only one of us to be smuggled at a time. I know he will insist on staying, and letting me go on, and that is what I have to do, but I’m afraid to leave him.’

‘No-one will harm him if he stays here with us,’ I said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid to leave him, because he’s so violent.’

I thought of the amiable night porter with the delicate anticipation of others’ needs, the debonair moustache and the perfect cocktail, and I couldn’t put it together.

‘Ankit?’

‘He’s a very capable agent,’ Blue Hijab said. ‘One of the best, and most dangerous. Not many made it to grey hair in this war. But it’s time for him to retire. His last assignment was almost three years as the night porter in a hotel, where every journalist enjoyed a drink, and liked to talk. But he’s too well known now. That was his last assignment. I was supposed to take him to contacts in Delhi, where he can find a new life, but shooting the twins changed the plan.’

‘Is he wanted?’ I asked. ‘Should we hide him?’

‘No,’ she frowned. ‘Why would he be wanted?’

‘Two dead twins come to mind.’

‘My comrades and I shot the twins. He’s not involved at all.’

‘The twins were hard men to stop. You shot them with that little gun?’

‘Of course not,’ she said, taking the small automatic from the pocket of her skirt and holding it in her palm. ‘I only shoot my husband with this gun. That’s why he stole it from me.’

‘But you had it in your hand when you said hello,’ I smiled.

‘For a different reason,’ she said, her thoughts dreaming into the pistol in her hand.

‘Can I see it?’ Karla asked.

Blue Hijab passed the small pistol to her. Karla looked it over, finding the place in her palm where lines of intent meet the power of consequence. She allowed her eyes to drift slowly upward until they met mine.

‘Nice,’ she said, passing the gun back to Blue Hijab. ‘Wanna see mine?’

‘Of course,’ Blue Hijab replied. ‘But I want you to keep this pistol. I’m going to meet my Mehmu soon, Inshallah, and I know I won’t need it this time, or ever again. We’ve been talking, and things are very good now, Alhamdulillah.’

‘You want me to have it?’ Karla asked, taking the small automatic back.

‘Yes, I was planning to give it to Shantaram, but now that I met you, I think it should go to you. Do you accept my gift?’

‘I do.’

‘Good. Then I would like to see your gun.’

Karla had a matt black snub-nosed five-shot.38 revolver. She took it from beneath a flap of carpet beside her, flipped the chamber open, let the cartridges fall into her lap, and snapped the empty chamber back in place.

‘No offence,’ she said, handing the gun to Blue Hijab. ‘Hair trigger.’

Blue Hijab examined the small, deadly weapon expertly, and handed it back. She felt the heft of her own gun again reassuringly, closing palm to fingers, while Karla reloaded the snub-nosed pistol.

For a few seconds they both looked up at me, guns in hand, their expressions thoughtful, but strangely blank at the same time. For me, it was a wall of womanness in their eyes, and I had no idea what was going on. I was just glad to be a witness; to see two wild, strong-minded women meet.

‘Blue Hijab,’ Karla said, after a while, ‘please let me give you a gift in return.’

She pulled the long spike from the curl at the back of her head, shaking panther-paws of black hair free to prowl.

‘For when you’re not wearing a hijab,’ she said, offering the hairpin. ‘Be very careful. Only ever hold it by the jewel, as I am. Hair trigger.’

It was a blowpipe dart. There was a small ruby fixed into a brass collar at the blunt end.

Karla stood up quickly, skipped to her bedroom, and returned with a long, thin bottle in red glass. There was a Mayan design set into the screw cap.

‘Curare,’ she said. ‘I won the dart and the bottle in a word game with an anthropologist.’

‘You won this playing Scrabble?’ Blue Hijab asked, holding the bottle in one hand and the dart in the other.

‘Something like that,’ Karla replied. ‘You leave the dart soaking in the Curare overnight, once every full moon. And hey, wear it carefully, I scratched myself once and had wide-awake dreams for a couple of hours.’

‘Wonderful,’ Blue Hijab said. ‘Is it so fast acting?’

‘Jab it into a man’s neck and he’ll only follow you six or seven steps. Overcomes the disadvantage of high heels.’

‘I love it,’ Blue Hijab said. ‘Can I really keep it?’

‘You must.’

‘Thank you,’ Blue Hijab said shyly. ‘I’m very pleased with your gift.’

‘What do you and Mehmu fight about, when you’re duelling at dawn?’ Karla asked.

‘The hijab,’ Blue Hijab said, sighing memories of past fights.

‘He thinks it’s too orthodox?’

‘No, Karla, he doesn’t think it’s cool enough. He’s so much into fashion. He has twelve pairs of jeans, and fights for the poor in all of them. He wants me to take the hijab off, and look as cool as the others, who come from Europe, and have long blonde hair.’

‘You do look cool,’ Karla said. ‘That’s a great blue, by the way.’

‘But not as cool as the other comrades,’ she growled.

‘The other comrades?’

Blue Hijab looked at me, then back at Karla.

‘Shantaram didn’t tell you anything about me, did he?’

‘I don’t know anything,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what colour your flag is, and I didn’t ask.’

‘You don’t have loyalty to a flag?’ Blue Hijab asked, frowning.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘But very often to the person holding one.’

‘Mehmu, Ankit and I are communists,’ she said, turning to Karla again. ‘We were with the Habash group. We trained with Palestinians from the PFLP in Libya, but we had to break away. They got too… emotional, in what they were doing.’

‘What’s a Tamil girl from Sri Lanka doing in Libya, with Palestinians?’ Karla asked. ‘If I can ask it without stepping into your garden.’

‘Learning to defend our people.’

‘Did it have to be you?’ Karla said softly.

‘Who will take up the guns, if we all lay them down?’ Blue Hijab replied bitterly, trapped on a wheel designed by revenge to keep rage rotating.

‘You and Mehmu really fight about the hijab?’ Karla asked, changing the mood with a smile.

‘All the time,’ Blue Hijab smiled back, covering her girl-mouth with her soldier-hand. ‘The first time I shot him, it was because he said that the hijab put ten pounds on me.’

‘Walked into that one,’ Karla laughed.

‘You don’t think it does, do you?’

‘Your hijab has a slimming effect,’ Karla said. ‘And you have a lovely face.’

‘You think so?’

‘Wait a minute,’ Karla said, springing up quickly and skipping to the bedroom.

‘You’re a lucky man,’ Blue Hijab said.

‘I know,’ I smiled, my eyes waiting for Karla to come back. ‘And so is Mehmu.’

‘No,’ Blue Hijab said. ‘I mean, you’re a lucky man because your name was the next on the acid throwers’ list.’

I turned to face her, reading dark things in her eyes that she knew darkly.

Karla padded back to sit with us. She had a small blue velvet pouch with her, and she pressed it into Blue Hijab’s hands.

‘Lipstick, eye make-up, nail polish, hashish, chocolate, and a little book of poems by Seferis,’ Karla said. ‘For when you get wherever you get, and can close the door.’

‘Thank you so much,’ Blue Hijab said, blushing.

‘We girls have gotta stick together,’ Karla said. ‘Who else is gonna save our men? Tell me about the second time you shot your husband.’

‘The second time was because he said that one of the girls from the East German delegation insisted that he touch her long, silky hair, and that he liked it, and wanted me to take off the hijab and show my hair.’

‘I might’ve shot her,’ Karla smiled.

‘I can’t shoot her for suggesting it,’ Blue Hijab said seriously, ‘Mehmu is a handsome man. But I justifiably shot him for doing it.’

‘Where did you shoot him?’ Karla asked, hazardously.

‘In the bicep. Men hate losing their big muscles for six months, and it doesn’t do much permanent damage. You use the small-calibre pistol, press it against the inner side of the bicep, aim outwards, and let one go. All you need is a good wall on the other side to stop the bullet.’

‘Have you thought of marriage counselling?’ Karla asked thoughtfully.

‘We’ve tried everything -’

‘No, I mean, have you thought about becoming a marriage counsellor,’ Karla said. ‘I think you’re a natural, and there’s another office free, downstairs, in this building. We could link it to my business.’

‘Which is what?’ Blue Hijab asked. ‘If I can ask it without stepping into your garden.’

‘I’m a partner in a company called the Lost Love Bureau. We find lost loved ones, and reunite them with their families. Sometimes, finding is as strange as losing, and reunited lovers need counselling. It’s a good fit, and you’re welcome to fit in.’

‘I like this idea,’ Blue Hijab said shyly. ‘I’ve been looking for a new window, one that isn’t covered with newspapers. I’m… very tired, and so is Mehmu. When it’s safe to return, I will visit with you and discuss it again, Karla, Inshallah.’

I was trying not to be noticed, and doing a good job. Their secret women’s business was being acted out in front of me, and men don’t get to see that, unless invited. Then they noticed me, and kind of uninvited me. Karla was smiling, but Blue Hijab was scowling, the poisoned dart in her hand.

‘You, ah, you said you had a problem with Ankit?’ I asked.

‘The escape route is only for me, now that the plan has changed,’ Blue Hijab said, softening a little, and turning to Karla. ‘I can’t take him with me. But I can’t just abandon him. He’s a good comrade. A good man.’

‘I’ll find him a job in the black market, if you like,’ I suggested. ‘He’ll be okay, until you come back for him.’

‘I’ll hire him,’ Karla said. ‘He was the night porter of a large hotel for three years. Those talents are always needed.’

‘Or, he could work in the black market, with me,’ I repeated, defending my gutter.

‘Or not,’ Karla countered, smiling at me. ‘Under any circumstances.’

‘Either way he’ll be okay with us,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’

Blue Hijab fixed the jewelled hairpin into the cap of the long thin bottle, and screwed the deadly thorn shut. She slipped it into another invisible pocket in her skirt.

‘I have to go,’ she said, standing up a little unsteadily.

Karla and I rushed to help her but she held us away, her hands like anemones.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘I’m fine, Alhamdulillah.’

She straightened up, patted her skirts into place, and walked out with us to Jaswant’s desk.

Ankit was nowhere in sight. Jaswant wasn’t at the desk: he was eating snacks from his own survival stash. He turned to face me, crumbs in his beard, biscuits in his hands.

‘Where’s Ankit?’ I asked him.

‘Ankit?’ he gasped, as if I was accusing him of eating him.

‘The cocktail captain. Where is he?’

‘Oh, him. Nice fella. A bit shy.’

He drifted off, shaking biscuits from his beard, and staring at the pattern they made on the floor.

‘How many cocktails did you have, Jaswant?’

‘Three,’ he said, four fingers in the air.

‘Hang up the Closed sign,’ I said. ‘You’re on the chemical ride. Where’s Ankit?’

‘Randall came up here, had a couple of drinks, and took him downstairs to show him the car. Why?’

‘Where’s Naveen? And Didier?’

‘Who?’

I turned to Blue Hijab and Karla.

‘I can take you to Ankit on your way out,’ I said.

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I can’t say goodbye. Too many times I said goodbye, and never got to say anything else. Is there another way out of this hotel?’

‘Take your pick,’ I said. ‘There are several ways out.’

‘I’ll escort the lady myself,’ Jaswant said, cocktailed enough not to be scared of Blue Hijab. ‘I need to take a walk to get my head clear.’

‘Would you like us to come with you, Blue Hijab?’ Karla asked.

‘No, please, it’s better when I’m alone. I’m safer when I only have to fight for me, Alhamdulillah.’

‘Until you join your husband,’ Karla said. ‘And then you’ll be together, and maybe you’ll do something happier, like marriage counselling. Have you got money?’

‘All I need, Alhamdulillah,’ she said. ‘I will see you again, Karla, Inshallah.’

‘Inshallah,’ Karla smiled, hugging her.

Blue Hijab faced me, a smile glowering in a frown.

‘I cried for my Mehmu and me, that day in the car,’ she said. ‘But I also cried for you. I’m sorry that the girl died while you were away, and I couldn’t tell you. I liked you. I still do. And I’m happy for you. Allah hafiz.’

‘Allah hafiz,’ I replied. ‘Take care, Jaswant, okay? Look sharp. You’re three sheets to the wind, man.’

‘No problem,’ he smiled back. ‘Security guaranteed. I’ll put it on your bill.’

When we were alone, Karla sat behind Jaswant’s desk. Her finger hovered over the third button.

‘You wouldn’t,’ I said.

‘You so know I would,’ she laughed, throwing the switch.

Bhangra rumbled from the speakers, shoulder-shaking loud.

‘Jaswant’s gonna hear that, and charge me for it,’ I shouted.

‘I hope so,’ she shouted back.

‘Okay, you asked for it,’ I said, pulling her up from Jaswant’s chair. ‘Time to dance, Karla.’

She eased up out of the chair, but leaned against me.

‘You know bad girls don’t dance,’ she said. ‘You don’t wanna make me dance, Shantaram.’

‘You don’t have to dance,’ I shouted over the music, dancing away from her a few steps. ‘That’s okay. That’s fine. But I’m dancing, right over here, and you can join me, any time you get the urge.’

She smiled at me and watched for a while, but then she began to move, and she let it loose.

Her hands and arms were seaweed, surfing waves made by hips. She danced over to me and around me in circles of temptation, then the wave lapped against me, and she was all black cats and green fire.

Bad girls do dance, just like bad guys.

She was dreaming the music at me, and I was thinking that I definitely had to get this music from Jaswant, and maybe his sound system as well, when I danced into a postman, standing in the doorway.

Karla threw the switch and the music stopped, leaving us with the hissing echo of sudden silence.

‘Letter, sir,’ the postman said, offering me his clipboard to sign.

It was still night-dark, and wasn’t far from dawn, but it was India.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘A letter for me, is it?’

‘You are Mr Shantaram, and this is for Mr Shantaram,’ he said patiently. ‘So, yes, sir, this is for you.’

‘Okay,’ I said, signing for the letter. ‘Kinda late to be on your rounds, isn’t it?’

‘Or, very early,’ Karla said, standing next to me and leaning against my shoulder. ‘What brings you out at this time of not-working, postman-ji?’

‘It is my penance, Madame,’ the postman said, stowing the clipboard in his shoulder sack.

‘Penance,’ Karla smiled. ‘The innocence of adults. What’s your name, postman-ji?’

‘Hitesh, Madame,’ he said.

‘A Good Person,’ she said, translating the name.

‘Unfortunately not, Madame,’ he replied, handing me the letter.

I stuffed it into my pocket.

‘Why are you doing penance, may I ask?’ Karla asked.

‘I became a drunkard, Madame.’

‘But you’re not a drunkard now.’

‘No, Madame, I am not. But I was, and I neglected my duty.’

‘How?’

‘I was so drunk, sometimes,’ he said, speaking quietly, ‘that I hid a few sacks of letters, because I could not deliver them. The postal department made me enter a program, and after I completed it, they offered me my job back if I deliver all of the undelivered letters on my own time, and with an apology to the people I betrayed.’

‘And that brings you here,’ she said.

‘Yes, Madame. I start with the hotels, because they are open at this hour. So, please accept my apology, Mr Shantaram, for delivering your letter so late.’

‘Apology accepted, Hitesh,’ we said, at the same time.

‘Thank you. Good night and good morning to you,’ he said, a sombre look pulling him down the stairs to his next appointment.

‘India,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I love you.’

‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ Karla asked. ‘A letter delivered by Fate, in the person of a reformed man?’

‘You mean, aren’t you going to read it, right?’

‘Curiosity is its own reward,’ she said.

‘I don’t want to read it.’

‘Why not?’

‘A letter is just Fate, nagging. I don’t have great luck with letters.’

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘You wrote me two letters, and they’re the two best letters I ever got.’

‘I don’t mind writing them, now and then, but I don’t like getting them. One of my ideas of hell is a world where you don’t just get a letter every week or so, but you get one every minute, of every day, forever. It’s the stuff of nightmares.’

She looked at me, and then at the corner of the letter, poking from my pocket, and back at me.

‘You can read it, Karla, if you want to,’ I said, giving her the letter. ‘Please do. If there’s anything I need to know, you’ll tell me. If there’s not, tear it up.’

‘You don’t even know who sent it,’ she said, reading the envelope.

‘I don’t care who it’s from. I have bad luck with letters. Just tell me if there’s something I should know.’

She tapped the envelope against her cheek thoughtfully.

‘It’s already out of date, so I think I’ll read this later,’ she said, sliding it inside her shirt. ‘After we find Ankit, and make sure he’s okay.’

‘Ankit’s fine. He can take care of himself. He’s a dangerous communist, trained by Palestinians in Libya. I’d rather go into your tent, and make sure everything’s okay up here.’

‘Let’s go down there first,’ she smiled, ‘before we come up here.’

Chapter Seventy-Seven

We went down, thinking of up, and heard Randall and Ankit laughing before we turned into the archway, behind the façade of the hotel.

When we reached the converted limousine, parked against the wall, we found Randall and Ankit stretched out in the back, Vinson sitting on the mattress between them, and Naveen in the driver’s cabin with Didier.

‘Nice,’ Karla said, smiling wide. ‘How you doin’, guys?’

‘Karla!’ Didier shouted. ‘You must come and join us!’

‘Hi, Karla!’ other voices called.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Karla asked, leaning on the open rear door of the car.

‘We are commiserating,’ Didier said. ‘We are all abandoned men, or tragically separated men, and you will enjoy our masculine misery immensely.’

‘Abandoned?’ Karla scoffed. ‘Et tu, Didier?’

‘Taj broke it off with me, tonight,’ he sobbed.

‘Imagine,’ Karla replied. ‘Chiselled out of love by a sculptor.’

‘Miss Diva broke it off with me, too,’ Randall added.

‘And with me,’ Naveen said. ‘Strictly friends, from now on, she told me.’

‘I have never found love,’ Ankit said. ‘My search has not yet ended, but I have been alone in it for a very long time, and have my own bubbles of sorrow in the glass we raise.’

‘Rannveig kicked me out of the ashram,’ Vinson said. ‘I found her, and I lost her again. She said I had to stay there with her for like another month. A whole month. My business would go to hell, man, if I did that. She didn’t get it. She kicked me out. Lucky I found these guys.’

They were drinking Ankit’s anaesthetic in cocktail glasses. Vinson was loading the bowl of a bong. The glass reservoir was shaped like a skull. A small mother-of-pearl snake emblem was swimming in it.

He offered it to me, but I deflected it to Karla.

‘If I’m gonna do that, and try Ankit’s famous cocktails,’ she said, waving it away, ‘I’ve gotta sit inside that car, guys.’

‘Sit here between us, Karla,’ Didier pleaded.

‘Come on, Lin,’ she asked me. ‘Where do you want to sit?’

‘I’m gonna wipe the bike down,’ I said, knowing that she’d find the limousine full of masculine lament finer entertainment than I would. ‘You go ahead, and I’ll join you guys later.’

She kissed me. Naveen got out of the car and held the door for her. She crawled into the front seat beside Didier, but backwards. She propped a cushion against the dashboard and sat comfortably, looking into the back of the car, her legs crossed on the seat.

Naveen gave me a smile as he got in the car, and shut the door. Randall switched on some flashing Jaswant survival store lights, and passed Karla one of Ankit’s cocktails. She raised the glass.

‘Gentlemen!’ She said. ‘To the Lost Love Bureau!’

‘The Lost Love Bureau!’ they shouted.

On cue, Oleg strolled into the alley, his perpetual smile struggling a little. He brightened when he saw the party in the car.

‘Kruto! So glad to see you, Lin.’

‘Where have you been, man?’

‘Those girls,’ he said. ‘Those Divas. They wrung me out like a wrestler’s towel, man, then they threw me out. I’m feeling totally -’

‘Razbit?’ I offered.

‘Razbit,’ he repeated. ‘What’s the party about?’

‘It’s the annual meeting for lost lovers, and it started without you. Get in there, man.’

They shouted and hooted and dragged Oleg into the lounge in the back, where he lounged beside Randall, cocktail in hand.

Waiting for my love, I walked to my bike, parked near the best exit from the alleyway. I took cleaning rags from under the seat, and wiped her down tenderly.

While Karla roared and Didier shrieked with laughter, I talked to my bike and reassured her that she wasn’t alone.

I was worried about Madame Zhou. I didn’t know her well enough to know if she loved the twins, or loved anything at all. But she’d been inseparable from them for many years. She was already deranged, and prone to revenge. I wanted to know if she was angry and defeated, or just angry.

And the shadow that she seemed to prefer materialising from, every now and then, was the shadow in the archway under our hotel, where Karla was having so much fun.

Dawn was an hour away, and that sacred sun would sear the vampire, I hoped. I sat on the polished bike and smoked a joint, watching both entrances to the alley, and turning at every footstep, or sound of a vehicle.

Some thinking and worrying time later, the front door of the car laughed open. A tipsy Naveen shuffled out of the car, holding the door with exaggerated chivalry.

Karla stepped out quickly, and strolled to join me, doing very good languid.

Naveen called farewell, and the boys in the stretch-bed car shouted goodnight. Randall lowered the shutters on the windows of the car, preparing for daybreak.

‘Do you mind if we sit here, until dawn is up and running?’ I asked.

‘Not at all,’ she said, sitting beside me on the bike. ‘You’re on guard duty, aren’t you?’

‘Madame Zhou gives me the creeps. And she was attached to those twins.’

‘She’ll get hers,’ she said. ‘She already got some, from Blue Hijab. Karma’s a hammer, not a feather.’

‘I love you,’ I said, watching dawn’s pale shadows light her face, wanting to kiss her, but enjoying the thought of it so much that I didn’t kiss her. ‘How was it in the car?’

‘Damn good,’ she said. ‘I’ve got so much stuff to work with, in the next aphorism contest. It was like an acupuncture map of male insecurity.’

‘Give me one,’ I said.

‘No way,’ she laughed. ‘It’s not refined yet.’

‘Just one,’ I begged.

‘No.’

‘Just one,’ I double-begged.

‘Okay, okay,’ she surrendered. ‘Here’s one. Men are wishes wrapped in secrets, and women are secrets wrapped in wishes.’

‘Damn nice.’

‘You like it?’

‘I do.’

‘It was fun seeing the men unwrapped, so to speak. It was Didier, of course. None of them would’ve been so open, without him letting them do it.’

‘Did you tell Ankit about Blue Hijab?’

‘Yeah,’ she smiled. ‘I managed to slip it into the general consternation. He took it well.’

‘Good.’

‘And I offered him a job. He took that well, too.’

‘Smart man. And fast work, on your part. What else do you do fast, Karla Madame?’

The morning was awake enough to leave the boys to themselves, and I wanted to go back to the tent. I took a step to walk us away, but Karla stopped me.

‘Will you do something with me?’ she asked.

‘Now you’re talking,’ I smiled. ‘That’s just what I had in mind.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, will you go somewhere with me?’

‘Is it upstairs, to your tent?’

‘After the tent.’

‘Sure,’ I laughed, just as laughter cackled from the men in the darkened limousine. ‘But only if you stop stealing my characters.’

‘Your characters?’

‘Ankit, and Randall, and Naveen,’ I smiled, knowing that she’d understand.

She laughed.

‘You’re one of my characters,’ she said. ‘And don’t ever forget it.’

‘Well, since you’re writing it, where do I want to go with you?’

‘To the mountain,’ she said. ‘To see Idriss.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘We can make a long weekend of it.’

‘I was thinking longer than that,’ she said.

‘How much longer?’

‘Until the rain starts,’ she said softly. ‘And maybe until it stops.’

Two months?

It wasn’t a simple thing: not when your business is black.

There was a kid I knew, a young soldier named Jagat, who’d fallen through the cracks in Vishnu’s purge: he was a Hindu who didn’t agree with throwing Muslims out simply because of their religion. Vishnu couldn’t hurt him, because he was a Hindu, but he threw him out with the Muslims.

The kid was capable, still on talking terms with the 307 Company, and could keep the money changers in line if I stepped away.

It was possible to take a break, and possible that young Jagat, the Ronin cut off from his Company, could keep the business running for me.

It was also possible that I’d return from such a long break to the ruin of all I had, and the young Ronin dead, or gone.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll go anywhere with you, Karla. I can get away that long, but can you?’

‘I signed Ranjit’s proxy shares over to his unfavourite sister,’ she said, taking my arm as we walked back to the stairway. ‘I gave Taj and the gallery committee my shares in the gallery. I signed over everything I might inherit from Ranjit, after probate, to his unfavourite brother. He was the one who bribed Ranjit’s chauffeur to put the fake bomb in Ranjit’s car. It seemed fitting.’

‘Washing Ranjit’s liquid assets out of your hair.’

‘I kept some liquid,’ she said, ‘to rebaptise myself, from time to time.’

‘You really want to stay on the mountain for a couple of months?’

‘I do. I know it’s not easy up there, and you’ve got your stuff going on here, but I want us to have some fresh air, and fresh ideas, for a while. I need to scrub the ghosts off, and make a clean start with you. Do you think you could do it? For me, and for us?’

I’m a city boy, who loves nature, but I like my city comforts. It wasn’t a first choice to spend months with lots of other people in a close community, having cold showers and sleeping on a thin mattress on the ground. But she wanted it, and needed it. And the city was still tense, after the riots and the lockdown, and hadn’t fully settled into its usual semi-strange. It was as good a time as any to be somewhere else.

‘Alright,’ I said, making her smile. ‘Let’s see what the mountain does to us.’