The old man gave a little dismissive shake of his stick. ‘How was Calcutta? Everything OK in the factory? They treated you well?’
Tochi said they had.
‘And the hotel was happy to have you? No trouble?’
‘None,’ Tochi lied.
‘Excellent. So now you’ve got that out of your system, there’s plenty of work here to do. When can you start?’
Tochi said nothing.
‘Because I’ve been thinking and it’d be good to try and get three lots out this year.’
‘Babuji, about what we talked about before I left?’
The old man grimaced, revealing perfect dentures. ‘I was hoping you would have changed your mind.’
‘Did you find out?’
‘I found out that it’s very expensive.’
‘I think I’ve earned enough.’
‘So what? Do you plan to live over there in hiding forever?’
‘I will come back. I’ll come back a rich man who can choose his own life.’
Babuji told him that, yes, he had found a man in Patna who did this kind of thing regularly. His fee was heavy – too heavy, as far as Babuji was concerned – but he said he could get you anywhere. Europe, England, Canada, America. Guaranteed.
‘But you have no idea how hard it will be. Here you have a job, food, somewhere to sleep. You’ll be sleeping on the streets over there. It won’t be all playing cricket in their parks.’
‘Where can I find this man?’
Babuji banged his stick. ‘You are not thinking properly!’
Tochi stayed silent for a while, then repeated his question.
Shivroop Skytravel: a small glass-fronted building with a life-size cut-out of an air stewardess in the doorway. Tochi pushed inside, into the freeze of the air conditioning. A dark woman, a perfect strip of vermilion in her parting, looked up from behind her desk. She asked if she could help. She didn’t smile.
‘I’m here to see Mr Thipureddy.’
‘What is it in connection with?’
‘I’m here to see him about flights abroad.’
She sighed, seeming to understand, and leaned heavily to one side, perhaps pressing a button. Several minutes passed before a man stepped through the curtain at the back of the office. He was short, even darker than the woman and with a jumped-up little moustache whose tips pointed to God. The woman said something in Tamil and then the man clicked his fingers and told Tochi to come upstairs.
An hour later and Tochi was back on the street, his money-satchel lighter. Two weeks, the man had said. He’d called someone in Delhi and said that Tochi could be on a flight to Turkey in exactly two weeks. After that he’d be trucked as far as Paris, which was in France, and from there Tochi would be on his own. Did he understand?
‘Yes,’ Tochi said.
‘Of course, I’ll come with you as far as Delhi. Part of the service.’ And then Mr Thipureddy took out some forms from his little Tamil drawer and snatched up the pen leaking in his shirt pocket. There was a map on the wall behind him.
‘Where is France on there?’ Tochi asked.
‘Hm?’ Mr Thipureddy twisted round. ‘Oh, no. France is in Europe. That is South India. I am from – ’ he reached back and jabbed his pen into the map – ‘there. Kanyakumari. The southernmost tip of India. The end of the country.’
Tochi nodded.
‘It is the only point in the world where three oceans meet. So you see it was in my blood to help people straddle the seas.’ He gave a little laugh. It sounded like something he said often. ‘Anyway. I expect you will be wanting to make payment.’
Mr Thipureddy met him twice more in the next ten days to go over what he called Tochi’s itinerary, and the night before departure he confirmed by phone what time they were to meet at Patna Junction. Tochi switched off his mobile – Babuji’s leaving gift – and sat on the plastic suitcase he’d bought that afternoon. There was nothing to do now but wait. He took out a tennis ball and bounced it against the ground and wall opposite, watching its yellow sheen glimmer and die as it ricocheted through the dark. He thought again of that place called Kanyakumari. The place of ends and oceans. It seemed amazing to him that there could be an end to India, one you could point to and identify and work towards. That things needn’t go on as they are forever.
Later that night, Susheel came to say goodbye. He gripped the keys to his motorbike in his fist and said he’d heard bhaji was back. That he was leaving again, this too he’d heard. Tochi told him it was true.
‘When do you go?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Susheel nodded, looked down, looked up. He gave a nervous smile. ‘Papa has arranged for my wedding next month. I thought you should know.’
‘I’d heard,’ Tochi said.
‘Oh.’
The breeze picked up, disturbing the silence.
‘I have to wake up early tomo—’ Tochi began.
‘Why did they find her in the trees?’
He moved a hand down his face. ‘Because I told them to run away. Both of them.’
‘All three of them,’ Susheel corrected.
‘All three of them,’ Tochi repeated, barely moving his lips.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know. Europe.’
Susheel looked to the lane beyond the open doorway. ‘Away from here. Good.’
Tochi didn’t know what that ‘good’ really meant.
‘How did you earn enough?’
‘I worked.’ He didn’t mention the money Babuji had given on his parents’ death – a pseudo life-insurance payout – or what he’d made from selling the rental contract on the land. Even with all that, he’d only just enough to cover all of Mr Thipureddy’s costs.
‘My papa’s been trying for fifteen years and still can’t afford to go.’
‘I guess I was born lucky,’ Tochi said.
Susheel smiled, wry, and extended his hand. ‘Papa asked me to invite you to our house. But it seems we were too late.’
Tochi shook his hand. ‘Good luck.’
‘Good luck.’
Tochi heard the motorbike being kick-started at the end of the lane, and then the sound of the engine withdrawing. He’d been dispatched to ask if he could join Tochi, or if Tochi would send for him, or make some provision for him once he was safely fixed up abroad. Susheel would’ve known that Tochi understood this. But the boy hadn’t asked, for whatever reason. And no doubt he’d go back home and tell his father that Palvinder’s brother hadn’t been in and the door had been locked and that he’d waited as long as he could. And the father would sit there swirling the dirty ice cubes in his whisky, wondering how much to believe his son.
The coach station at Delhi’s Indira Gandhi International Airport was so blazingly floodlit that Mr Thipureddy changed his mind and told the tuk-tukwallah to drop them off in the cargo park instead. That had been over an hour ago.
‘She’s always late,’ he said and flipped open his phone.
‘No need to call, uncle. I’m here.’
She approached through the smoky lilac air, the skirt of her sari held away from the dirt.
‘Madhu,’ Mr Thipureddy said.
Her shiny plastic waistcoat looked crimped in the moonlight and from the lanyard around her neck hung a whistle and perhaps a security pass. The niece, Tochi thought. She asked how her aunty was, if Aanjay’s marks had recovered sufficiently to get into college this year. Only then did she say hello to Tochi. ‘You’ve heard of Russia? Because we’re going to have to go via Ashgabat, which is pretty much the same thing.’
Mr Thipureddy kissed the air. Tochi wondered if he’d have to hand over more money.
‘No choice,’ she said. ‘They moved Annie. Too much flip-flopping in Customs these days.’
She showed her uncle the new tickets and asked if he’d got all the papers officialized. He gave them over.
‘Which route?’ Mr Thipureddy asked.
‘B. Ashgabat to Turkey. Then Europe.’
The niece looked up from palming through Tochi’s documents. ‘It’s Deniz now. How long since your last carry-over?’
‘Not since that business with the food on the plane.’
She said to Tochi, ‘The food on the plane is free. Do you understand? Don’t try to pay for it. Don’t cause a scene – just eat it.’
Tochi thanked Mr Thipureddy, who wished him the best of luck, and followed the niece into the airport. She talked him through what to expect, what he’d have to do. It sounded like a routine she was ploughing through, even where she said she was going to repeat the key points because she could tell he was nervous. She gave him a small red rucksack to hold over his shoulder – ‘A book, toothbrush, socks. Motor magazines. I don’t know why you boys never bring hand luggage. It looks so suspicious’ – and a bright green-and-gold ribbon to tie onto the bag before he got to Turkey. It was how the driver would recognize him.
‘Won’t that look suspicious?’ he asked.
‘On a plane with Indians? It’ll look restrained.’
She asked if her uncle had shown him how to use an escalator – moving stairs. He said he hadn’t and she made a frustrated noise. She looked at the watchface on the underside of her slender wrist. ‘We don’t have time now. You’ll have to just work it out.’
They checked in his suitcase, where a woman name-badged Annie stamped his ticket and fake passport and wished him a safe flight. He put the red rucksack through security and rejoined the niece on the other side of the beeping electronic arch. She checked the boarding time and pointed out the gate. Then she extended her hand and wished him very good luck.
‘If anyone stops you or asks you anything, just remember what I told you. But Annie will be on the flight.’
‘Thank you,’ Tochi said.
She seemed about to go, half turning. ‘I was sorry to hear about your family.’
Tochi said nothing.
She sighed. ‘Well, let us know how you get on.’ And she walked back, ignoring the security guard who laughed and asked her how much she’d pocketed this time.
The boarding call was announced and her instructions started to churn in his mind. He looked to the floor, fighting his nerves, then got on the plane and found his window seat and belted himself in. Somehow – the graceful stewardesses, the exasperated passengers, the hard, straight seats – it all looked as he’d expected it to. An elderly Sikh man in a three-piece suit sat next to him.
The plane began to move. He looked out of the window at the dirty white span of wing veering away and beyond that to the floodlit luggage men playing cards on the bottom step of a mobile staircase. Then the plane started to speed up and there was a savage oncoming roar as Tochi felt himself forced back into his seat. He could see the luggage men clasping their cards to their chest and their trousers yapping wildly about their ankles and then the ground tilted away and the dark sky opened, beckoned, and a sense of being freed, of freedom, poured beautifully through him.
He didn’t see Annie again until they arrived in Ashgabat, when he took up his rucksack and followed everyone out of the plane and into the airport. She was sitting behind a glass counter, as though she’d always been there. People were reaching for their documents and joining one of two queues. He waited in Annie’s line. She had a serious face, which complemented the way she stamped tickets and dispatched passengers on their way. When he gave over his documents, she glanced up briefly, then applied the circular green stamp and moved on to the next.
He filed into the waiting room: a small, sorry place with rows of rudimentary grey seats and an old-style black-and-white ticker board that looked broken. There was a bar at the back playing American-sounding music, and a barman who was punching open boxes of snacks and stacking them high. There was no one at the bar, though. Everyone was sitting on the seats and quietly waiting. He’d seen lights and cars on the descent, but now it felt as if they were all stranded here in this Russian desert. He rested his head on the rucksack.
It was still dark outside when people started to queue at the airport’s only boarding gate. He half rose out of his seat, then saw Annie at the bar, tidying her skirt over her knee as she talked to another girl. She’ll let you know when it’s time, Mr Thipureddy’s niece – Manju? Mandip? – had said. So he sat back down.
Two hours passed and more flights had departed before Annie came down in her high heels and announced that the flight to Gaziantep was now boarding. She spoke first in English and then, with almost smiling slowness, in Hindi.
He stayed awake all through the flight. The flickering map on the beige-boxed screen at the front of the plane made little sense to him and he spent most of the time watching the slow dissolving of the night, the way the heavy black-blues hung on and hung on until finally relenting to the turning world and the first faint pinks of daybreak.
Though the landing wasn’t as smooth as last time, and passengers gasped and lurched, the pilot’s voice came over and he said something which made everyone laugh. Out of the plane, he noticed Annie up ahead, in front of all the other stewardesses. He kept his head low, trying to keep up. Suddenly, the moving stairs appeared in front of him, like a cliff drop. He didn’t have time to wonder how the thing worked – he could feel people at his back – and put one foot onto the grille and gripped the rail, his left leg somehow following. He felt a little dizzy, as if he wasn’t sure if the stairs were carrying him down or if the ground was floating up. He focused on the man in front and tried to copy him off the thing.
The hall was large and carpeted red and his fellow travellers were taking out their passports. Once more, Tochi joined Annie’s line. She didn’t look at him as he passed and when he turned round, she’d gone. A gum-chewing man with a glistening bald head called him forward. Tochi handed over his passport, and as the man flicked through, a tricky smile came to his lips.
‘So you’re paying my rent this month, ha?’ he asked in bad Hindi.
Tochi said nothing.
‘Which of Annie’s are you? Germany? UK?’
‘France,’ Tochi said.
The man nodded, tapping in some numbers. ‘Good. I hate the French.’
He collected his luggage, dragging it off the belt, and headed straight out of the automatic glass doors and into the new world.
The niece had been right: his ribbon was one of the least colourful, and it took some time before a short, heavyset man with surprisingly quick strides approached. His yellow shirtsleeves were squared around his elbows, sunglasses on his head.
‘Tar-lo-chan, Indien?’
He followed the man outside. A dry, sandy heat filled the day and two great whorls of sweat swelled out from the man’s armpits, almost meeting in the centre of his back. As if reading Tochi’s mind, the man twisted round and said, ‘No air con outside.’ He spoke reasonable Hindi and said his name was Deniz and welcome to Antep.
They sat in silence on the dinky airport bus that dropped them in the middle of an industrial estate. They walked along the perimeter fence, beyond which women in headscarves and red-stained overalls were eating pastries in the shade. Deniz shouted something across to them and some of them laughed and raised their hands. They seemed to be wishing Tochi good luck. Rounding the corner, some sort of depot came into sudden view, pallets strewn, and Deniz pointed out his truck – the only truck there – a reassuringly huge twelve-wheeled monster. Its black tarpaulin bore a giant image of wet tomatoes on a vine. Deniz gestured for Tochi to wait while he went inside. He returned ten, fifteen minutes later, stapled papers in his hand and a yellowing pillow squashed under his arm. He said it was time to go. Tochi moved to the rear of the truck, but Deniz threw him the pillow and told him to climb in the front.
A beeping sounded as they reversed, then Deniz changed gears and took the road out of the estate. Tochi stared. He’d never felt so high up in a vehicle before. He could see all the way back to the
airport, where a plane was taking off, climbing its ramp of air.
He waited outside the cemetery gates, ready to leave, his two months in Paris just as Deniz had predicted. They’d been on the deck of the ferry to Brindisi when the Turk warned that France was the wrong choice for him. London would be much better.
‘London? You understand me?’
The waters looked free and magical, the sun breathily warm on Tochi’s face. He wondered if this was what it would feel like to stand on that southernmost tip of India. The calling sea beyond.
‘Very racist, the French are. Horrible people. The English are much nicer. You should have paid a little more and gone to England.’
‘As long as there’s work.’
‘Not much work in Paris for you men these days.’
Later, as they’d crossed into Austria, or maybe France, Tochi asked him if he meant what he said, about there being no work in France?
‘Did I say that?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s true, anyway. You’ll find out soon.’
‘How much for you to take me to England?’
They agreed on a price and a date. And when Deniz dropped him off at Bobigny gurdwara – ‘All the Indians spend their first night here’ – he reminded Tochi to be waiting outside the cemetery gates and to not tell anyone. He didn’t want half of Bangladesh climbing into his truck and ruining his tomatoes.
He completed a second circuit of the cemetery in case Deniz had meant some other gate, but there was only the one. He sat on his suitcase, rucksack between his legs, and ran a thumbnail in the leather creases of his boots, where foot met shin. Sleeping in the park. Less than one week of work. He was glad to be going. The traffic was sparse, the road lonely. There were apartments for sale in the window of the shop opposite, and there, in its dull reflection, he saw Deniz coming up behind him. His sunglasses shone and on the chest pocket of his red T-shirt a black horse pranced.
‘So! Ready to leave, my friend?’
For the ferry to England, he hid in the back of the lorry. Europe was no problem, Deniz had said, but these English types could be very difficult. Tochi hunkered down, knees tight to his chest and head tucked in. It was as dark as a well. Metal barrels surrounded him – right above his head, too – their clinking the only sound. He fell asleep. At some point he lifted his head off his knees and felt a deep stillness inside him. The barrels weren’t wobbling. The engine wasn’t running. All was peace and darkness. He closed his eyes, though the insides of his lids were painted with images of dying and the dead. He was woken by the rear shutter rattling up. He held his breath, didn’t move. Daylight made a faint blond entrance. There were voices, Deniz’s among them, and knuckles being rapped on the containers. More voices, white-sounding, until the shutter clattered back down. A little later the engine roused and he felt the truck’s clunking descent.
The Year of the Runaways Page 8
