The Tax Inspector

51

Ghopal’s was hot and busy when Govinda-dasa took the call. When he heard the old woman’s voice he had a mental picture of a demon with tusks, one of the servants of Yamaraja, the lord of death, who came to claim the soul of Ajamila.

‘O.K.,’ he said to Vishnabarnu. ‘It’s her.’

Vish picked up the phone and cradled it between his big smooth chin and yellow cotton shoulder.

‘Hi, Gran.’ He continued to ladle out the Sweet and Sour tofu. He passed the plate to Ramesvara and then began to fill a blender with banana and milk, yoghurt, cinnamon, honey.

‘Vish,’ Gran Catchprice said, ‘I need you out here.’

‘Oh no, Gran,’ Vish said. ‘I’m sorry. One sec.’ He turned on the blender and mouthed to Govinda-dasa: ‘It’s O.K.’

‘I don’t think there’s too much I can do about Benny any more, Gran,’ he said as he poured the smoothies into their tall green glasses. ‘I think he needs to see a doctor.’

‘I’m the doctor,’ Gran said.

‘Good luck, Gran.’ He smiled. He handed the glasses to Govinda-dasa who added the mint sprig and placed them on the counter top for Ramesvara.

‘You’re the doctor,’ she corrected.

‘No way, José.’

‘But I’m going to follow your prescription – let the business go to hell, wasn’t that it?’

‘Gran I can’t come back now. I’ve gone now. I’ve gone for ever. I’m sorry.’

Govinda-dasa turned his back and began to dish some stuffed eggplant. But if Govinda-dasa understood Vish perfectly, Granny Catchprice would not.

‘Isn’t that what you told me?’ she said. ‘Let the business go to hell?’

‘It is hell,’ Vish said. ‘That’s the truth.’

‘I think so too,’ she said.

Vish shut his eyes, puffed up his cheeks, blew out air.

Govinda-dasa made a sign with his finger, like a record going round. He meant: don’t enter into argument or discussion, just keep repeating it – I – AM – NOT – COMING – BACK.

‘Gran, I’m not coming back.’

‘Not even to get your brother out of his hole?’

‘I’m not coming back.’

‘You don’t care what happens to your brother?’

‘Gran,’ Vish turned back towards the wall and the painting of Lord Nara Sinha, ‘he’s sawn off Grand-dad’s shot gun. He’s suffering from delusions. The best thing you can do is keep away from him. Don’t go down there.’

‘I’m not going to go down there. I’m not going to even talk to him.’

‘Well, I’m not either. Gran, there’s nothing anyone can do.’

‘Oh yes there is.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t say on the phone.’

Vish grinned and turned back to look at Govinda-dasa who was making the record sign – I – AM – NOT – COMING – BACK. ‘This is not Dorrigo,’ he said. ‘There’s no operator listening to the call.’

‘I know it’s not Dorrigo,’ she said. ‘Do you really think I don’t know that? I’m going to wind this business up. It makes me sick myself.’

He said nothing.

‘It makes me ill in my stomach just looking out of the window. I feel like such a fool …’

He did not ask her what she felt a fool about. He smiled at Govinda-dasa and played the record: ‘Just the same, Gran – I can’t come.’

‘You never want to see it again?’ She was persistent, like a salesman. ‘As long as you live?’

‘Gran. I can’t come.’

‘You don’t want to see it, but it’s always there. It won’t go away. It just goes on and on like some bad dream …’

He did not answer her. He nodded.

‘If you could wave a magic wand and make it go …’

‘A magic wand …’ he laughed. ‘Sure, Gran.’

‘Well, yes or no?’

Govinda-dasa was all the way over at table 14 but he saw what was happening. He walked rapidly back towards the counter, making circular motions with his index finger.

‘Did you hear me?’ she said.

‘Yes I heard.’

There was a long silence on the phone while Vishnabarnu felt the cool dry wall against his cheek.

‘I’m not talking to my father,’ he said.