Transmission

by Hari Kunzru

  ‘I can see that. So I take it she won’t be making herself available for interviews about this computer-virus story?’

  ‘Interviews? I personally would be grateful if she would be making herself available for shooting first.’

  It was unclear in which sense Mr Iqbal meant this comment, but around the room there were scowls and nods of assent. This, Gaby realized, was not a happy production.

  ‘She does not come out of her room,’ continued Iqbal. ‘This morning we gave a cake. A hundred candles ordered from Harrods London and still she will not come out of the room. After we go away cake is gone from outside room. Later approximately half of cake is discovered in flowerbed underneath room window.’

  ‘She probably scoffed the rest.’ The speaker was the only other woman present: thirty-something and comprehensively beautified, her black hair tied up in a long pony-tail. Her tracksuit, bearing the logo of an American designer diffusion label, was accessorized with metallic pink tennis shoes and a lot of silver jewellery. Gaby smiled at her, and she deliberately swivelled her black-rimmed eyes away, pretending to examine her nails. The choreographer, apparently.

  Iqbal looked at her, then back at Gaby. ‘The last thing on our minds is this computer business. In my opinion, computer business is perhaps at the root of Miss Zahir’s midge bite. For us, the important thing is to get back to work. Every hour she lies in her bed I have to pay electricians and caterers and Miss Jain’s twenty-five beautiful dancers and the old Lord skinflint who owns the fort and God knows who else, so you can see, Miss Caro, it is one hundred per cent imperative to make all these newspaper fellows go away so we can carry on making a masterpiece of modern contemporary cinema.’

  Gaby thought for a while. ‘The quickest way to make them go away is for her to talk to them. It doesn’t have to be all of them. I could arrange a schedule. One or two of the key news people, perhaps.’

  Iqbal gave an exasperated shrug, indicating the impossibility of this idea.

  ‘Well, then, a quote. If necessary I could write something. Give it to her for approval.’

  This, Iqbal thought, was possible. They went through the details, and at the end of the meeting Gaby went back to her room to work on a draft statement. As she was fitting her key in the lock, she heard a cough behind her. It was Vivek, the DP.

  ‘I heard her singing,’ he said. ‘In the room. She says she has lost her voice, but behind closed doors she is singing.’

  Gaby sat up working on the press statement until the room’s heavy rose-patterned wallpaper started to oscillate before her tired eyes. Deciding the paragraph she had written was finally usable, she shut her laptop down. Before she cleaned her teeth, she stood at the window and smoked a cigarette, looking over the lake at Dimross Castle, Tender Tough’s ‘fort location’. Coloured spotlights had been placed strategically around its base, bathing the walls in dramatic violet and blue. By night the hills surrounding Loch Lone were no more than a denser band of darkness, and Dimross stood out against it like something supernatural, a faerie structure superimposed on the ordinary night.

  She went to bed shivering a little, pulling the chintz covers up to her neck and feeling relieved to be away from London and all the clutter of her life. And Guy Especially Guy. From the perspective of a big double bed in a mansion by a lake in Scotland, Guy Swift seemed more or less irrelevant. She went to sleep halfheartedly scripting the conversation the two of them would have to have. She hoped he would not make it too hard.

  Some time later she was woken by the sound of knocking at her door. She got up to answer it, but something stopped her, something in the tone of the knock: a slyness, an insinuation. The thought came to her, surely illogically, that it was Iqbal, and once it was there the idea would not go away, so she waited, standing at the door listening to the tapping until it stopped and she heard footsteps heading off slowly down the carpeted corridor.

  She felt uneasy. Without switching on the light, she pulled on a jogging top, groped for her cigarettes and went back to the window. The moon was out, and the swathe of striped lawn that led down to the water was illuminated like a stage set. The ambience was so gothic, particularly with the castle glowing eerily in the background, that it took her a moment to separate the figure in the white robe from the rest of the scene. It was as if a frame from an old horror film had come to life. Her unlit cigarette drooping from her top lip, she stared, bristling, at the thing gliding spectrally over the lawn. Then she saw an orange dot rise and fall close to its face, and realized that it too was smoking. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, other details emerged. The sweater over the nightdress. The trainers. The young woman walked down to the very edge of the water and stood for a while, looking out at the loch. Then she dropped the cigarette butt, ground it into the grass with her shoe, pushed her long dark hair away from her face and headed back inside.

  Miss Leela Zahir wishes to disassociate herself from the computer virus which has been causing so much destruction and confusion around the world. She wishes to emphasize that she has no connection with the person or persons responsible and hopes that they will be brought speedily to justice. Her sympathy goes out to everyone who has been affected, especially those of her fans who may have mistaken these malicious emails for an official communication from Miss Zahir, LovelyLeela Pvt or some other person or company connected with her. As an artist, she has found the whole experience distressing and disruptive. She hopes that, having made this statement, she will be left to pursue her path of thespian creativity in peace.

  The flourishes were added by Iqbal, who considered Gaby’s draft too formal. ‘We need a little emotion here,’ he said. ‘Some touching sentiments.’ He also altered ‘Ms’ to ‘Miss’ and ordered that the whole thing be typed in a tacky handwriting font, ‘to give a personal touch’. The statement was slipped under Leela’s door, but elicited no response.

  Gaby ate breakfast sitting cross-legged on her bed, watching CNN. Unusually for her, she had an appetite and ate a quantity of toast and muesli, washing it down with cups of strong tea. The virus was the second lead story. According to one of the talking heads, it was a new variety. According to another, it was thought to originate in India. They alternated video of various upsets and commotions with clips of Leela Zahir singing and dancing, commenting that after a tennis player and a stripper the actress had become the latest in a line of women to be associated with this type of computer crime. Apart from the publicity stills it was Gaby’s first proper sight of her. She shimmied down the middle of a London street in front of a squad of identically clad dancers, looking flirtatiously into the camera and drawing a hand over her face. On her eight-by-tens she had looked like every other production-line Indian actress, a perky black-haired Barbie, but in the midst of the song-and-dance routine Gaby thought she discerned something else, a hollowness behind the eyes which seemed at odds with the broad smile and the come-hither look those eyes had been trained to deliver.

  After a mercifully short meeting with Iqbal, Gaby photocopied the completed release in the Lodge’s tiny business centre and drove the minivan down the driveway to meet the press. Their numbers seemed to have increased since the previous day, and were swelled by several dozen Asian teenagers, who sat in their cars playing hip-hop and sending text messages to each other on their phones. Where they had come from (Glasgow?) she had no idea, but they were causing chaos, making obscene gestures behind the local news reporter as he tried to record a piece to camera and asking everyone, including the nervous policeman guarding the hotel gate, if they had seen ‘Rajiv Baba’ or ‘Leela Zee’.

  Gaby handed out copies of the statement, which, as she had expected, did little to satisfy any of the correspondents. They crowded round her, pushing and jostling, each trying to get in first with their requests for interviews and photos. As she tried to deal with them, her sleeve was tugged by kids with cards and soft toys and photos they wanted her to pass on to the two stars. Just one picture. All my editor wants, ten minutes, fiv
e minutes, I love him innit, I made this myself. Muscling her way to the front came a middle-aged Indian woman dressed as if she were going on an Antarctic expedition, complete with scarf, hat, Gore-Tex jacket and hiking boots. Introducing herself as chief showbiz reporter of Film Buzz magazine, she asked whether the latest rumours’ were true.

  ‘What rumours?’ asked Gaby.

  ‘That Leela has walked off the set.’

  ‘No, absolutely not.’

  ‘But there has been no shooting.’

  ‘I can confirm that Miss Zahir has been slightly unwell due to an allergic reaction to an insect bite. They had to suspend shooting while she recovered, but it’s nothing serious. She’ll be back at work very soon.’

  ‘It must be an unpleasant bite. Maybe from bad boy Rajiv, perhaps?’

  ‘I understand,’ Gaby improvised, ‘that her arm was very swollen.’

  ‘And this virus tamasha is all a publicity stunt, am I correct? This is Rocky Prasad drumming up interest in his picture.’

  ‘As Miss Zahir’s press statement says –’

  ‘Well, it would, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’m from Fox News,’ butted in a tall blond man with a North American accent. ‘We want to talk to the girl.’

  The Sun, Asian Age and most of the others wanted the same thing.

  ‘Miss Zahir is recovering, and won’t be giving interviews.’

  ‘But I’m from Fox,’ said Fox incredulously.

  ‘Are you saying definitively that the producers are not responsible for the computer virus?’ asked the man from the West Highland Advertiser, who knew a conspiracy when he saw one.

  ‘Of course they aren’t.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Ms Film Buzz. ‘This kind of thing is always happening in Mumbai.’ Several of the other reporters started quizzing her about the link between computer crime and Indian film marketing. The situation was heading in an uncomfortable direction. Gaby was trying to get things back on track when her voice was drowned out by the rumble of a V12 engine and a burst of high-pitched hormonal squealing. Turning round, she saw a sight so macho it was almost a period piece, a poster memory of the moneyed eighties. The Ferrari Testarossa throbbed like an engorged metal penis, its bright red paintwork glinting unironic-ally in the sunlight. Its driver, a man in his forties, wore aviator sunglasses, a black leather biker jacket and a tight white t-shirt. His straight black hair was slicked back from his forehead with quantities of gel, a few strands artfully curling over one mirror-shaded eye. He waved and signed autographs, his empty passenger seat filling up with teddy bears and home-made greetings cards. Rajiv Rana made (no, surely not) a pistol shape with his fingers and fired it off at a couple of simpering girls, then pulled down his glasses, looked directly at Gaby and grinned. He gave her a little wave all of her own, then gunned the engine and screamed up the hotel driveway.

  For reasons known only to himself, the policeman actually applauded. ‘Did ye see that?’ he asked. ‘Did ye bloody well see that?’

  That afternoon it started to rain. Gaby had a meeting with Iqbal. As his hands slithered obscenely around his lap, she emphasized again that his best chance of being left in peace was for Leela to appear for photos. He just shrugged gloomily and asked whether the press would be diverted by meeting Rajiv. She explained that most of them were news people, and had no interest in Rajiv or the production. Leela was the story. Only she would do.

  At front desk the manager was swearing at his computer, which was displaying an animation of his guest. Rob D. was propping up the bar, watching the dancers play squealing argumentative hands of cards. To Gaby’s surprise every one of them was blonde and English. ‘This,’ one of them confided, ‘is brilliant. We get paid to stay here and we’ve had to do bugger all for days.’ Gaby agreed it was a good deal. ‘The actual producer wants us to go to the Gulf with him later in the year,’ explained another. ‘To give a performance.’

  That evening she went down to the restaurant for dinner and was asked to join a large but subdued crew table. Avoiding the empty seat next to Iqbal, she was settling herself next to Vivek when Rajiv Rana strode in and pulled up a chair between them. His entrance sent a ripple of little glances, facial touching and adjusted clothing through the Indian crew, the involuntary self-consciousness generated by the presence of fame. Among the British the only reaction came from a couple of the dancers, who idly checked him out, as they would have any other presentable man. It was bizarre. To half the people in the room Rajiv was a superstar. To the others he was unremarkable.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, loading the syllable with meaning.

  ‘Hello,’ said Gaby.

  ‘Rajiv,’ he said.

  ‘Gabriella Caro from Bridgeman & Hart.’

  He had taken his sunglasses off, and in place of the cheesy leather jacket was wearing a plain blue Oxford cotton shirt. She was forced to admit it suited him. He was tall, conspicuously worked-out, and had the kind of clean good looks she liked. During the meal he focused almost entirely on her, and though he talked mostly about himself it was not the testosterone-testarossa monologue she was expecting. There was a sincerity in the way he told his story, which, as narrated by its principal character, was a classic rags-to-riches tale. He had grown up in a poor family in a small town in the Punjab and run away to Mumbai at the age of twelve. After working at a chai stall and a bicycle-repair shop, he had found a job fetching and carrying for one of the big studios. By watching the stars rehearse and perform he taught himself to dance, and started to attend cattle-call auditions for extras. When he began to get work he was able to afford acting and dance lessons, and eventually was cast in a small role in The Chain, an action movie. ‘And that, Miss Caro,’ he concluded, ‘was how I made myself famous.’ As he said it, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and fixed her with a direct look. She found herself distracted by the musculature of his forearms, their light dusting of hair.

  ‘Call me Gaby,’ she said.

  In her room she looked at her phone, which was charging on the bedside table. There was a text from Guy: miss u ring me? Also two voicemails. He wondered where she was, sorry not to have made contact. Then he was on his way to Dubai to make a key pitch. He would see her when he got back. Guy’s pitches were always key, or vital, or essential. She deleted the messages.

  She took off her shoes and lay on her bed, watching a Rita Hayworth film. Some time after midnight she went to the window to smoke and watch the castle lights. At the very edge of the loch, where the lawn dipped down to the water, stood the woman in the white nightdress. Tonight there was nothing ghostly about her. She was wearing a dark-coloured coat which came down to her knees and some kind of headscarf over her hair. She looked human, mundane; an insomniac hotel guest wrapped up against the chill.

  On a whim Gaby pulled on a jacket and stepped out into the corridor. From beneath one of the neighbouring doors seeped the faint sound of a television. She skirted the front desk, where the night porter was sleepily picking his nose over a paperback novel, and tiptoed through the darkened dining room, which was already laid for breakfast, elaborately folded napkins and teacups and silver cutlery formally arranged on the tables. A pair of French doors looked out on to a small terrace. They were, as she expected, unlocked. Outside, the air cut through her clothes and a wave of dampness rose up from the lawn against her face and hands. The sky over the hills was a rich purple, the not-quite-blackness of the northern summer night.

  She walked over the lawn towards the loch, keeping some distance between herself and the figure staring at the castle. Even so, she managed to startle her. As Gaby drew level, the woman gasped and took a couple of steps backwards, half turning as if to run. Gaby waved at her and spoke, her voice sounding painfully loud in the silence.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ The voice was Indian accented. Soft and girlish. Gaby walked closer and found herself face to face, as she expected, with Leela Zahir. India’s dreamgirl was smoking a Β & H Gold, the shiny pack clu
tched in her free hand like a talisman. Even under the moonlight Gaby could see that she was not quite the double of the dancing girl in the film clips. This Leela’s hair was unwashed, lank strands of it sticking out from beneath the shawl round her head. There were dark shadows under her eyes and what might have been a cold sore on her top lip.

  ‘Got a light?’

  Leela Zahir nodded and handed her a box of matches. As Gaby lit a cigarette, she flicked hers into the water. Then, without hesitating, she took another from the pack.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Gabriella. You must be Leela.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I must be.’ She smoked with the cigarette pressed between middle and index fingers, which she held very straight, pursing her lips as she took a drag, like a child imitating the grown-ups.

  ‘Happy birthday for yesterday,’ said Gaby. Leela shot her a suspicious look.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘They brought me up here to work on the film.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Public relations. You probably know about all the journalists.’

  Leela nodded and jerked her chin at the castle.

  ‘And they want to know why I’m not over there, running up and down on the roof.’

  ‘That’s more or less it. That and the computer virus.’

  Suddenly Leela reached out and clutched Gaby’s wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

  ‘Are they bringing my mother here?’