Gun Island

by Amitav Ghosh

  Bilal wiped his eyes again, with the hand that was holding the knife.

  ‘If I had got a call like Rafi did, from his friend, do you think I would not do everything possible to raise the money that was needed? I would do exactly what Rafi did, even if I knew I wouldn’t be able to pay and would get beaten up for it.’

  He looked me in the eyes and gestured at the left sleeve of his T-shirt. ‘If I had to cut off an arm I would gladly do it.’

  I was walking away from Bilal when I felt, in that indescribable, animal way that we sometimes feel the gaze of others, that I was being watched. I looked to my left and there he was, the pale, heavy-jawed man I had seen the day before, sticking his forefinger into Rafi’s chest. He was leaning casually against a wall and picking his teeth; under the bill of his green baseball cap his eyes seemed to glow with an intensity that was almost demonic.

  Our eyes met only for an instant, but I knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the scafista that Rafi had been dealing with.

  By this time I had almost reached the turn for Cinta’s building, but I ignored it and walked straight on, in the direction of the Rialto Bridge. At that moment it was suddenly of pressing importance not to reveal where I was staying.

  I wandered aimlessly for an hour, allowing myself to be swept along by waves of tourists. On the way back I took a vaporetto and even though I was much calmer now, I couldn’t get rid of that prickling sensation at the back of my neck. Almost involuntarily I kept looking around, checking the faces around me.

  The sun was setting when the vaporetto got to San Marcuola. I joined a moving throng of tourists and slipped quickly through the back gate of Cinta’s building. A sense of relief came over me as I closed the gate, yet when I entered Cinta’s apartment and looked into the mirror that faced the doorway I half expected to see those eyes looking over my shoulder.

  Walking through the apartment I caught a faint smell of wisteria blossom, wafting delicately through the air. It seemed to be coming from the room at the far end of a long corridor: that was where I had set up my computer.

  The room was small – it had probably once been a maid’s room – but it had a table, a chair, and a window that looked out over the flower-filled courtyard at the rear of the palazzo: the window frame was wreathed by the wisteria vines that covered the back wall.

  Stepping into the room, I saw that the window was open. Had I left it like that? I couldn’t remember. Nor did I stop to think about it for in front me lay a spectacular sight: the snow-covered peaks of the Dolomites, tinted with the rosy glow of the setting sun.

  I was reaching for my phone, to capture the view, when my eyes fell on my laptop. I saw, to my shock, that there was a spider perched on the cover. It was about two inches across, brownish in colour, with jointed legs that rose high above its body.

  Suddenly an image of criss-crossed lines floated past my eyes and I recalled Rafi’s words: ‘Some spiders are poisonous, aren’t they, just like snakes?’

  I took a couple of steps backwards and found myself pressed up against a wall. The spider, in the meantime, had stayed where it was, with its eyes apparently fixed on me. Since my phone was still in my hands I raised it, reflexively, and managed to snap a picture. The flash startled the creature and it leapt out of the window and disappeared.

  Hurrying across the room, I pulled the window shut. But my heart was racing now and I had to lean against the window frame to collect myself. I knew I was having some kind of panic attack and forced myself to draw several deep breaths.

  This had the right effect and my panic gradually subsided. As my heartbeat slowed I began to get annoyed with myself. What was the matter with me, jumping at shadows like this? Spiders were everywhere; they were just a part of the texture of the world, like flies and ants. If I allowed myself to read some kind of meaning into this it wouldn’t be long before I lost my sanity.

  I sat down at the desk, opened my laptop, and wrote a message to Piya, explaining that Rafi was in hospital but I had spoken to a friend of his who had told me a story that basically corroborated what we had already surmised: that Tipu and Rafi had left Bangladesh together and travelled overland through India, Pakistan and Iran, to the Turkish border where they’d been separated. As for the rest, I said, I would tell her over the phone once she arrived in Berlin; she should call me as soon as possible.

  I was just about to hit the send button when my phone came to life and asked if I wanted to share the picture I had just clicked, of the spider. I transferred the picture to my laptop, attached it to my message, and added a postscript: ‘My latest encounter with the animal kingdom.’

  Upon rereading I decided that this sounded a little sententious, so I added a string of random emojis.

  Dreams

  At ten o’ clock the next morning I went back to Lubna’s office. I had half expected it to be closed, but the door was ajar. I stepped in to find a young man sitting in Lubna’s chair, a diminutive Bengali with raven-black hair and a large pair of eyeglasses.

  He rose to his feet and looked me up and down with an expression of puzzlement. ‘Are you looking for Mrs Lubna Alam?’ he said in English. He appeared to be in his mid twenties and was dressed in a neatly pressed shirt, trousers and jacket. Behind his lapels the tops of two pens could be seen, protruding from the breast pocket of his shirt.

  I replied in Bangla. ‘Hã, uni achhen? Is she here?’

  His eyes lit up suddenly, as though he had solved a riddle. ‘I know who you are,’ he cried. ‘You’re that Kolkata Bengali! The one who was almost brained by Rafi?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I’m Dinanath Datta.’

  ‘And my name is Fozlul Hoque Chowdhury,’ he said, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘But everyone calls me Palash. Please sit down.’

  I noticed that his Bangla accent was different from that of the other Bengalis I’d spoken to; he sounded like a street-smart, city-bred college student.

  ‘I’m looking after the office today,’ he said. ‘Lubna-khala had to go to a meeting with a group of activists. They’re busy trying to raise money to hire a boat.’

  ‘A boat?’ I said. ‘Why do they need to hire a boat?’

  ‘Oh, haven’t you heard…?’

  Palash explained that human rights activists across Italy had decided to take up the cause of the boatload of refugees that had been so much in the news of late. They had decided to send out boats of their own, to confront the right-wing activists who had pledged to turn back the refugees.

  ‘If a fleet of civilian vessels shows up to support the refugees,’ said Palash, ‘then maybe it’ll speak to the world’s conscience. Across the planet everyone’s eyes are on the Blue Boat now: it has become a symbol of everything that’s going wrong with the world – inequality, climate change, capitalism, corruption, the arms trade, the oil industry. There’s a lot of hope that this will be a historic moment. Maybe now, while there’s still time to make changes, people will wake up and see what’s going on.’

  ‘That must be exciting for you.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Palash. ‘I’m excited about going out there. This boat’s journey could be a turning point.’

  He flashed me a grin. ‘Maybe you should come with us.’

  ‘Me?’ I was so taken aback that it took me a while to answer. ‘But I’m no activist.’

  ‘Lubna-khala said that you were working on a documentary. Wouldn’t this be good footage for you?’

  It struck me that he might have a point. ‘That’s an interesting suggestion,’ I said. ‘I’ll pass it on to my friend, the director.’

  ‘Good. It’ll be a big help to us if you could share the costs. I’ll tell Lubna-khala when she gets back.’

  ‘And do you know when that will be?’

  ‘Not for a while, I think.’

  My disappointment must have been evident on my face for he added quickly: ‘But maybe I could be of help? Why don’t you tell me what you need from her?’

  ‘Actually I wanted t
o ask her about Rafi,’ I said. ‘I was wondering whether it might be possible for me to talk to him today.’

  Palash shook his head. ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to go to the hospital today. There’s a rumour that the polizia are going to question Rafi again.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The attack. I suppose they’ve figured out that it’s more complicated than it appears.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘In the first place because Rafi was carrying a lot of money – for a boy like him anyway. He had over 400 euros with him actually; he had put it together by begging and borrowing because he needed to pay back a scafista who had been threatening him. Apparently last night Rafi promised the scafista that he would pay him back today.’

  I recalled the glimpse I had caught of the man in the green baseball cap, poking a finger into Rafi’s chest.

  ‘Who is this scafista? Do you know him?’

  Palash nodded. ‘He’s a tall, thuggish-looking man, often wears a cap.’

  ‘I think I saw him talking to Rafi on the night of the attack.’

  ‘Quite possible,’ said Palash. ‘He often hangs around Cannaregio; he’s a sort of labour recruiter, except that he’s probably connected to the Mob. Those people are always trying to trap migrants into going down south, to work on farms where they’re basically treated as slaves.’

  ‘But I thought you said he was a scafista?’

  ‘There’s not a big difference,’ said Palash. ‘It’s all tied together. The Mob has close ties with crime syndicates in Nigeria, Libya and Egypt. They often smuggle people into this country and put them to work on their farms and construction sites. These scafisti are always on the lookout for boys like Rafi – once they fall into their clutches it’s not easy for them to get out.’

  ‘But Rafi was going to pay this scafista back, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palash. ‘And the scafista must have tipped off the thugs who attacked Rafi and stole his money.’

  ‘So it was a set-up?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Palash. ‘These scafisti don’t actually want to be paid back. It’s to their advantage to keep people in debt. That way they can force them to do whatever they want – it’s like bonded labour back home. The scafisti will stop at nothing, even…’

  He looked into my eyes. ‘Do you know the story of Lubna-khala’s husband?’

  ‘Not really. She told me that he died last year, in Sicily.’

  Palash nodded. ‘It was very sad; Munir-bhai was an amazing man, an activist who worked tirelessly for migrants and their causes. He was actually on a city council – the first Bengali to hold such a position. His death was a tragedy for everyone – especially since he was so young, just forty-two.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He got on the wrong side of the Mob. For them, migrants and rifugiati – not to mention the whole Italian “reception system” – is a lucrative business, a big cash cow. Munir-bhai was a thorn in their side: he made a fuss about the money they were skimming from the funds earmarked for refugees. Then it came to his ears that a group of Bengalis was being held captive on a farm in Sicily and he decided to go down there to enquire. We tried to stop him but he wouldn’t listen. He insisted on going and after a few days we heard that Munir-bhai had died, in a car crash.’

  I sat back, stunned. ‘That’s terrible!’ I said. ‘Bibhotsho! And terrible for Rafi too, that he got mixed up with such people.’

  Palash nodded. ‘Yes, we warned him, but he was desperate I suppose. He wanted to help his friend at all costs.’

  * * *

  I was going to ask Palash another question but my phone began to ring. Glancing at the screen I saw that the caller was Piya.

  ‘I have to take this,’ I said to Palash. ‘But I hope we can talk again later.’

  ‘Sure. Any time.’

  Stepping outside I put the phone to my ear. ‘Hello? Piya?’

  ‘Hi, Deen. I’m calling from my hotel in Berlin. I just saw your message. So it looks like I was right then? Rafi and Tipu travelled to Turkey?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s how it looks. They seem to have got separated at the border. Rafi made his way to Europe while Tipu got stuck in Turkey.’

  ‘But I don’t think he’s there now,’ said Piya, ‘I think he’s managed to get to Egypt.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. You remember that message – you know, the one about the beachings? I’d sent it to a friend of mine who’s a whiz at digital forensics. He was able to trace it back.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Apparently, it was sent from an Internet café in Alexandria, Egypt. So that’s where Tipu must have been when he sent it.’

  ‘Egypt?’ For just an instant I toyed with the idea of telling Piya a little of what I had learnt about human trafficking in that country. But then I decided that there was no point in adding to her anxieties.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit odd,’ I said, ‘that he’d be thinking about dolphin beachings in Egypt?’

  ‘My guess,’ said Piya, ‘is that the whistle-blower managed to reach him there through social media or something.’

  ‘You’re still sure, are you, that the tip-off came from a whistle-blower?’

  ‘Well what else could it be, Deen?’ she said impatiently. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me he had a vision, or that the dolphins spoke to him in his sleep or something like that: that stuff is really not helpful.’

  Then suddenly her tone changed: ‘There is an odd thing though.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember how I told you that the beachings started not at sunrise, as the warning had predicted, but two and half hours later, around 8.30 a.m.?’

  ‘I remember that, yes.’

  ‘I was thinking about it and it struck me that 8.30 a.m. Indian time would have been around sunrise for Tipu – that is, if he was still in Egypt the week after he sent the message.’

  ‘That’s interesting…’

  Piya cut me off abruptly. ‘If you’re going to say Tipu saw it in a dream or something, please don’t. What’s important now is to figure out why Tipu was in Egypt in the first place.’

  ‘My guess,’ I said, ‘is that Tipu was planning to get on a boat, to cross the Mediterranean. It’s just a guess, but I think Rafi would know.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I wish you could talk to him.’

  ‘Listen, Piya,’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best but I don’t know when it’ll be possible, what with him being in hospital and all.’

  ‘Doesn’t the hospital allow visitors?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ll ask.’

  ‘Anyway, do keep me posted, Deen. I could come over at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘Well, I would certainly be happy to see you!’ I said.

  Then, sensing that I had startled her, I added: ‘But don’t do anything yet. I’ll have another go at talking to Rafi and then I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  I was about to say goodbye when she broke in suddenly: ‘Hey, Deen! Could you just hang on for a minute? Something’s just turned up, on my screen.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I heard her clicking on her computer and after a minute she gave a little gasp. ‘Deen, remember that picture you sent me? Of the spider?’

  ‘Yes. What about it?’

  ‘I forwarded it to Larry, a friend of mine who studies spiders.’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’ I said, feeling suddenly panicky. ‘It was a … a joke.’

  ‘I don’t know why I did it,’ said Piya. ‘I just did. And the email that arrived right now was from Larry. He was excited to get the picture – apparently the res was high enough that he could blow it up and make an identification. He says I should warn you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Warn me? About what?’

  ‘The spider in that picture is a brown recluse, Loxosceles reclusa. Its bite can be very pai
nful; its venom is more potent, by weight, than that of a rattlesnake; it breaks down the skin and eats into the flesh. Larry wants to know: is it the only such spider you’ve come across or have you seen others?’

  ‘I did see another spider,’ I said. ‘Or actually, it was Rafi who saw it. It landed on his shoulder and then jumped on me. I don’t know if it was the same kind of spider though. Are they meant to be common around here?’

  ‘Larry says this is the first time he’s heard of one turning up so far north. But he’s not surprised either. He says the brown recluse has been increasing its range very quickly because it’s getting so much hotter in Europe. And there’s a related species, the Mediterranean recluse, that’s already widespread across Italy. Those’re quite dangerous as well. A couple of years ago, in southern Italy, a woman died after being bitten by a Mediterranean recluse. She ignored the bite at first, thinking it wasn’t serious, and within a day she was so sick she couldn’t be saved. The antivenin had to be flown in from Brazil. She died before it arrived.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll send you a link to the story: I’m looking at it right now. Apparently what happened was that there was a Mediterranean recluse infestation in the house next to hers and some got into her cellar. I just hope there’s nothing like that where you are.’

  ‘An infestation of poisonous spiders?’ The very thought made my flesh crawl. ‘In Venice? Surely not?’

  ‘Well just be careful, okay?’

  * * *

  I could feel another panic attack creeping up on me now and to hold it off I started walking. The right thing to do, of course, would have been to check Cinta’s apartment for spiders straight away. But I couldn’t face it at that moment so I headed in the other direction.