Gun Island

by Amitav Ghosh

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I was just looking at this book called The Mystery of the Black Jungle…’

  ‘Oh yes!’ cried Cinta. ‘By Salgari! Lucia loved that book – she used to say she could see the Sundarbans in her dreams.’

  ‘Speaking of the Sundarbans,’ I said, ‘I had a very strange run-in today, with someone from there.’

  ‘Sul serio? What happened?’

  I told her about the incident in the Ghetto, and my meeting with Rafi. To my surprise, she reacted not with a show of concern, but laughter.

  ‘It wasn’t a joke, Cinta!’ I protested. ‘I could have been badly hurt.’

  ‘But you weren’t, were you? Your Gun Merchant seems to be keeping an eye on you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Never mind, caro. Look after yourself and I’ll see you soon.’

  * * *

  The call had just ended when my phone beeped to let me know that I had a message. It was from Gisa: ‘Something has come up – I will call later. Hope all OK in Venice. Let me know if u find some interviews for me. Ciao!’

  As I was slipping the phone back into my pocket my fingers brushed against a slip of paper. Taking it out I saw Rafi’s number scribbled on it and decided to give him a call.

  Rafi answered after a couple of rings, in Italian: ‘Pronto?’

  I answered in Bangla: ‘Ami bolchhi – it’s Dinanath Datta here.’

  His voice hardened. ‘How did you get my number?’

  ‘Lubna gave it to me.’

  He gave a snort of irritation. ‘Ki chai? What do you want? Why are you calling me?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  This seemed to give him pause. When he spoke again his voice was more evasive, almost anxious. ‘What do you want to ask?’

  I was puzzled by the sudden change in his tone. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ I said. ‘When do you think you’ll have time?’

  He thought this over for a bit. ‘I have time right now,’ he said. ‘I’m meant to be working except that I don’t have any customers. We could talk if you came over here.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m near San Marcuola, selling ice cream. Do you know the church across from the vaporetto stop? I’m on the other side of it – you’ll see me if you head this way.’

  ‘I’m very close to San Marcuola. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  * * *

  Stepping into the backyard I discovered, to my surprise, that the sky had darkened and the weather had changed: a chill had descended on the city and a thick, clammy fog had rolled in from the Grand Canal.

  Opening the back door I found I could not see the far side of the adjoining lane, even though it was only a few feet away. I knew that the church of San Marcuola was somewhere to my right so I stumbled along in that direction, staying close to the side of the lane.

  On reaching the walls of the church, I stopped to look around; I saw no sign of Rafi though I knew he had to be nearby. Then I heard his voice: ‘Eijé – here I am.’

  He was behind me, leaning against a wall, with a handcart positioned in front of him. His plastic windbreaker was zipped up and a scarf was knotted under his chin, covering his head and ears in the fashion of a Bengali ‘muffler’. The scarf’s edges extended outwards, like a bonnet, shadowing Rafi’s face.

  When I went over to the cart I understood why he had positioned it there: the spot was a kind of crossroads, with a number of lanes converging on it, including a narrow, curved calle that led to the Rio Terà San Leonardo. Had the weather been better the place would probably have been thronged with tourists. But because of the fog there were only a few stragglers drifting forlornly by, like clouds within the murk.

  ‘Who’s going to buy ice cream on an evening like this?’ said Rafi glumly.

  ‘No one,’ I said. ‘So why don’t you stop for the day?’

  He gave me a pitying look. ‘That would only give the owner an excuse not to pay me.’ As an afterthought, he added: ‘He probably won’t pay me anyway but I don’t want to give him an excuse.’

  He looked me in the eyes now, frowning. ‘So what is it that you want to talk about?’ he said, sounding a little tentative, as though he were testing the waters.

  ‘It’s nothing very complicated,’ I said. ‘I just want to know how you ended up in Venice.’

  ‘Why is that of interest to you?’

  Although his tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness, I had the sense that he was actually quite relieved; that he had been expecting some other, more difficult question.

  I began to explain about Gisa’s documentary but Rafi stopped me after a couple of sentences. ‘No, I don’t want to do this. Ask someone else.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to do it. But can I ask why?’

  He made a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m sick of people coming around, asking these questions: “Who was your dalal? What was his name? Who were the men who helped you cross over borders?” Or they’ll want to know: “Who goes to which mosque? What’s being said there?” It’s hard to tell whether they’re police stooges trying to get you to report on jihadis or whether it’s the other side trying to get you mixed up with the police. And they could even be the same, for all you know—’

  Cutting himself short, Rafi gave a cry of alarm and brushed something off his shoulder. A moment later he lunged in my direction. Taking hold of my arm he gave it a vigorous shake.

  ‘Makorsha!’ he said. ‘That was a spider – it jumped from me to you. Look, there it is.’ He pointed to the ground and I caught a glimpse of a large, long-legged spider scuttling away into the shadows.

  Rafi looked at me again and his eyes slowly began to widen.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’

  He shook his head as though he were trying to rouse himself from a trance. ‘It’s nothing – it’s just that they have some bad spiders over here. You should be careful.’

  I was puzzled, not so much by his words as by the way he said them. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘But tell me anyway.’

  ‘It’s just that I remembered something,’ he said reluctantly, ‘from the story – you know, that story about the Gun Merchant?’

  ‘What did you remember? Tell me.’

  He looked me up and down and then glared defiantly. ‘Why should I? I’ve been answering your questions since the day I met you, at the dhaam – and what have you done for me? Nothing! Isn’t it time that I got something from you? You act like a rich tourist – I’m sure you have plenty of money.’

  ‘Do you want money then?’ I took out my wallet. ‘How much?’

  He snatched the wallet out of my hand and looked inside. I had withdrawn three hundred euros the day before and had spent hardly any of it.

  Rafi pulled out four fifty-euro notes and held them up. ‘What if I took these?’

  ‘That much?’

  ‘Don’t you think you owe me at least that?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ I said. ‘Take them. But you’ll tell me the story then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pocketing the banknotes he handed me my wallet. ‘Do you remember – back at the dhaam, I showed you a panel that had some criss-cross lines on it?’

  Pulling out his phone he called up some kind of touch-enabled app and drew four lines that intersected in the middle, like the crosses on a Union Jack. In the centre he placed a small dot.

  ‘Do you remember seeing something like this?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I remember that panel. But what does it have to do with spiders?’

  ‘How many legs does a spider have?’

  ‘Eight?’

  He thrust the screen of his phone at me and pointed to the diagram he had just drawn.

  ‘And how many lines do you see, coming out of this dot at the centre?’

  I stared at the lines. ‘Eight?’

  ‘So you see�
�’

  ‘But what do spiders have to do with the Gun Merchant?’

  ‘Some spiders are poisonous, aren’t they, just like snakes?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you’re saying: they too could be Manasa Devi’s creatures?’

  He shrugged and turned away.

  ‘Come on, Rafi,’ I said. ‘What are you trying to get at?’

  He shot me a glance, from under his lowered brow. ‘I just remembered a little bit of the story, as my grandfather used to tell it.’

  ‘Yes? Go on.’

  ‘It goes like this: when the Merchant reaches Gun Island he thinks he is safe at last because no snake will be able to reach him here. But one day he sees Manasa Devi’s face, in a book, and he knows that this is a warning. The next day, seized by fear, he tells his friend Nakhuda Ilyas that he wants to spend this night in the most secure place on Gun Island, where no creature will be able to find him. The safest place on the island is a room where guns are kept, a room that is made of iron. So Nakhuda Ilyas takes him there and locks him in, with all the guns, thinking that he will be safe there. But in the morning, when he goes to check, he finds the Gun Merchant desperately sick – he has been bitten by a poisonous spider! It is then that the Merchant realizes that he can no longer remain on Gun Island.’

  My mouth fell open. ‘But you never told me this part of the story. Not when we were there, at the shrine.’

  Rafi nodded. ‘I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t in my mind then. It’s only now that it came back to me, when I saw that spider.’

  ‘What else do you remember of the story?’

  ‘Only that. Nothing else.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  But Rafi was no longer listening to me. His eyes had flickered away from my face to the narrow, curving calle behind me. He gave a start and his head snapped up, as though he were coming to attention. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he said: ‘You’ve got to go now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Never mind, just go.’

  ‘All right.’

  As I was turning to go I looked over my shoulder. The fog had thinned by this time and I spotted a man walking towards us, down the calle. He was wearing a green baseball cap and I couldn’t see his face. On an impulse I turned around and began to walk towards him.

  A few tourists had appeared now, and when I passed the man in the cap there were a couple of people between me and him. But I could feel his gaze on me, scanning my face, and we briefly locked eyes. He was a tall, swarthy-looking European, with a heavy jaw that was shadowed with stubble.

  On reaching the end of the lane I stole a backwards glance.

  The man was leaning over the ice-cream cart, his face thrust menacingly close to Rafi’s. As I was turning the corner I caught a glimpse of him stabbing the boy’s chest with an extended forefinger.

  * * *

  My phone began to ring just as I was stepping into Cinta’s apartment.

  It was Gisa, calling from Rome.

  ‘Listen, Dino, I am very, very, very sorry,’ she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a breathless rush, as always.

  ‘Mi dispiace molto, molto, molto … but I will not be able to join you in Venice for a few more days. I have had to postpone my arrival … something has happened and I must stay in Rome a little bit longer.’

  She went on to explain that a big news story was breaking: a boatload of refugees had been spotted in the eastern Mediterranean. They were believed to be steering in the direction of Sicily. The boat had precipitated a crisis; the interior minister in the newly formed government in Rome, a right-wing hardliner who had campaigned on an anti-immigration platform, had declared that he would not allow refugees to land in Italy at any cost, and had claimed that this policy would serve as a successful deterrent. This was the first refugee boat to head towards Italy in a long time and the minister was determined to stop it – he had even threatened to deploy the navy if necessary.

  ‘Where are these refugees from?’

  ‘They’re probably a gruppo misto with Eritreans, Egyptians, Ethiopians, Sudanese, and maybe some Bengalese as well. That’s been the pattern with boats from Egypt.’

  ‘Is that where this boat is from?’

  ‘Sì. At this time there’s nowhere else that it could have come from.’

  Over the last year, said Gisa, the European Union had been able to shut down most of the usual migration routes – through Greece, Turkey, Morocco and even Libya. But the traffickers were nothing if not inventive and they always managed to find new launching points. Currently Egypt was their preferred point of departure – the Sinai Peninsula to be exact.

  ‘The Sinai!’ said Gisa, on a note of bitter irony. ‘Where Moses received the Ten Commandments! I went there once, on a holiday, many years ago. I remember visiting the monastery of St Catherine, where we saw a roveto that was directly descended from the Burning Bush of the Bible. The Sinai was such a beautiful, tranquil place then. And now it is the most dangerous place on earth, at least for gli immigrati.’

  ‘Why is it so dangerous?’

  ‘I can only tell you what I have heard from the rifugiati that I’ve interviewed. They all say that the Sinai is a wild place, even wilder than Libya. No one controls it and the tribes who live there are at war with the government in Cairo. Their source of finance is smuggling – I suppose in the past they smuggled drugs and arms and things like that. But now it’s much more profitable to smuggle people, and easier too, because they have connections with the tribes of the Sahara, who send them rifugiati from Eritrea, Ethiopia, Somalia, and South Sudan – all the places that people are fleeing from. When they reach the Sinai, the rifugiati are put into big depots known as “connection houses”. After that, in order to come to Europe, they have to make further payments, for the crossing. Capisci?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What I’ve heard from the rifugiati is that the connection houses of the Sinai are equipped with special operating rooms, completely modern, with all the latest equipment, including solar-powered refrigeration units. Those who can’t pay the ransom are given drugs to make them senseless. Then they’re taken to the operating theatres, where an organ is removed, usually a kidney. Then these organs are sold – often to Europeans.’

  I gasped. ‘That’s horrifying!’

  Gisa sighed. ‘I know – it sounds too terrible to believe, like the worst horrors of the slave trade.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘There is something demonic about it, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Except that here too, in Italy, there are those who would turn a blind eye to all of this. Across Europe the question of immigration is now the single most important issue in politics and this boat – the Blue Boat, as it is being called – could bring it all to a head. This could be molto molto importante for my documentary. So I must stay in Rome a bit longer, to see what happens. You understand, no?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Grazie, grazie, Dino. A presto!’

  Strandings

  I found it hard to sleep that night: my mind was over-filled with disturbing images – of masonry crashing down at my feet; of people trying to escape floods by climbing into snake-infested trees; of refugees in the Sinai being preyed upon by demons.

  In the small hours I gave up trying, picked up my phone and tapped my email app to see if I had any messages. There was only one, and much to my surprise it was from Piya: she was in India and wanted me to call as soon as possible.

  I checked the time: it was 4 a.m. in Italy – 7.30 a.m. in India. I dialled Piya’s Indian mobile through an Internet telephony service, and she answered almost immediately, sounding startled.

  ‘Deen? Thanks for calling. I didn’t expect to hear from you for a while yet.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Well you’re in Venice, aren’t you? It must be very early there.’

  How did she know where I was?

  I was so surprised that the phone dropped fro
m my hands and disappeared under the bed-sheets. I was scrabbling around for it when I heard Piya’s voice calling to me, muffled by the covers: ‘Deen? Deen? Are you still there? Can you hear me?’

  I fished out the phone and put it to my ear. ‘Yes, here I am.’

  ‘Good. For a minute I thought I’d lost you.’

  ‘No, I’m still here. But tell me: how did you know that I was in Venice?’

  ‘I saw a status update or something on your social media. You posted some pictures yesterday, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘But it wasn’t really me – it was my phone that did it, which is why I didn’t remember.’

  A pause, and then: ‘Are you okay, Deen? You sound a bit woozy – we can talk later if you like.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m fine. Tell me why you wanted me to call.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve been dealing with a bit of a crisis and I thought you might be able to help.’

  ‘Sure, of course! Tell me what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks. But I’ll need to give you a bit of background first. How are you doing for time?’

  ‘No problem there,’ I said. ‘I have plenty of time. Take as long as you want.’

  * * *

  Two weeks before, in Eugene, Oregon, Piya had received an email message from an unknown sender. The message was written in the style of a news report and it described a mass beaching of dozens of Irrawaddy dolphins at Garjontola Island in the Sundarbans.

  The message had startled Piya. She had heard nothing about a recent beaching event in the Sundarbans: if there had been one she was sure her assistants would have let her know. Beachings of Irrawaddy dolphins were very rare and an event on this scale was unheard of. The entire population of Irrawaddy dolphins in the Indian Sundarbans probably did not exceed eighty or ninety individuals: if dozens of them had died then it would mean that the species would not survive in this habitat.

  Piya took some time to search the Internet and drew a blank. Nor was there any mention of a beaching in any of the professional threads and chat groups that she belonged to.