The Mountain Shadow

by Gregory David Roberts

  I said goodnight to Didier and Naveen, checked on Diva, already asleep in the arms of new Diva girls, and walked those lanes feeling sadder than I could understand.

  A small pariah dog joined me, skipping ahead and then running back to collide with my legs. When I left the slum and started my bike, she joined a pack of street dogs, howling provocatively.

  I headed to the Amritsar hotel to do some writing. As I cruised along the empty causeway I noticed Arshan, Farzad’s father, the nominal head of the three families that were looking for treasure.

  Arshan wasn’t treasure hunting: he was staring fixedly at the Colaba police station, across the road from where he stood. I wheeled the bike around in a circle, and pulled up beside him.

  ‘Hi, Arshan. How’s it going?’

  ‘Oh, fine, fine,’ he said absently.

  ‘It’s kinda late,’ I observed. ‘And this is a rough neighbourhood. There’s a bank, a police station and a fashion brand store, all within twenty metres.’

  He smiled softly, but his eyes never wavered from the police station.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m waiting for someone,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘Maybe he isn’t coming. Can I offer you a lift home?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said again. ‘I’m fine, Lin. You go on.’

  He was so distracted that his hands were twitching, reflexes driven by violent thoughts, and his expression had unconsciously settled into a grimace of pain.

  ‘I’m gonna have to insist, Arshan,’ I said. ‘You don’t look good, man.’

  He gradually brought himself back to the moment, shook his head, blinked the stare from his eyes, and accepted the ride.

  He didn’t say a word on the way home, and only muttered thanks and farewell abstractedly, as he walked toward the door of his home.

  Farzad opened for us, gasping in concern for his dad.

  ‘What is it, Pop? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, boy,’ he replied, resting on his son’s shoulder.

  ‘Lin, will you come in?’ Farzad asked.

  It was a brave offer, because the kid was still in the Company, and we both knew Sanjay wouldn’t approve of him hosting me.

  ‘I’m good, Farzad,’ I said. ‘Let’s catch up, one of these days.’

  At the Amritsar I threw everything off and took a long shower. Diva, who must’ve enjoyed baths foaming with scented oils in her father’s mansion, would have to wash in a small dish of water in the slum, and like the other girls, she’d have to wash fully clothed.

  Poor kid, I thought, as I dressed again, but reminded myself that Naveen was never more than a call for help away. And I wondered how long it would take the Indian-Irish detective to admit that he was in love with her.

  I made a no-bread sandwich of tuna fish, tomato and onion between slices of Parmesan cheese, drank two beers, and looked over Didier’s black market scams for a while.

  He’d made pages of notes, with profiles on the key players, profit margins per month, salaries, and bribery payoffs. When I’d read them, I shoved the papers to the end of the bed, and picked up my journal.

  There was that new short story I’d been trying to write, about happy, loving people doing happy, loving things. A love story. A fable. I tried to put a few more lines into the stream of words I’d already composed. I reread the first paragraph.

  When it comes to the truth, there are two kinds of lovers: those who find truth in love, and those who find love in truth. Cleon Winters never sought the truth in anything, or anyone, because he didn’t believe in truth. But then, when he fell in love with Shanassa, truth found him, and all the lies he’d told himself became locusts, feeding on fields of doubt. When Shanassa kissed him, he fell into a coma, and was unconscious for six months, submerged in a lake of pure truth.

  I persisted with the story for a while, but the characters began to change, following their own morphology, and became people I knew: Karla, Concannon, Diva.

  The faces blurred, my eyes drooped, and every return to a line was another wave of will. I began to float on the sea of them, real faces and imagined.

  The journal fell beside the bed. Loose pages from the notebook swirled free. The overhead fan scattered pages of my happy, loving story into Didier’s crime synopses. His pages settled on mine and mine joined his, and the wind wrote crime as love, and love as crime, as I slept.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  There will be constant affirmations, Idriss had said, again and again. If they were there, I didn’t see them, even in dreams. Idriss talked of spiritual things, but the only thing that came to mind for me, in the word spiritual, was nature. I hadn’t found my connection to his tendency field, and out there on that fringe of the world, I didn’t feel that I belonged to anything but Karla.

  I’d searched the faiths I could find. I learned prayers in languages I couldn’t speak, and prayed with believers whenever they invited me to join them. But I always connected to the people and the purity of their faith, rather than the religious code they followed. I often had everything in common with them, in fact, but their God.

  Idriss spoke of the Divine in the language of science, and spoke of science in the language of faith. It made a strange kind of sense to me, where Khaderbhai’s lectures on cosmology only ever left me with good questions. Idriss was a journey, like every teacher, and I wanted to learn on the way, but the spiritual path I could see always led to forests, where talking stopped long enough for birds to find trees, and to oceans and rivers and deserts. And each woken beautiful day, each lived and written night, carried inside it a small, ineffaceable emptiness of questions.

  I showered, drank coffee, tidied my rooms and went down to my bike, parked in the alleyway under the building. I had a breakfast meeting with Abdullah. I wanted to see him, and I was afraid to see him: afraid that friendship had faded in his eyes. So I rode and thought of Diva Devnani, the rich girl in a very poor slum, whose father was watching the sand run through his fingers. I made a note to buy her some Kerala grass and a bottle of coconut rum for when I checked on her.

  When I parked my bike beside Abdullah’s, across the street from the Saurabh restaurant, I looked up slowly and reluctantly, but the eyes that met mine were as true as they’d always been. He hugged me, and we squeezed onto a small bench behind a table that gave us both a view of the door.

  ‘You are the subject of discussion,’ he said, as we worked our way through masala dosas and dumplings in mango sauce. ‘DaSilva made a bet that you would not live to see the end of the month.’

  ‘Anyone take the bet?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Abdullah said, between mouthfuls. ‘I beat DaSilva with a bamboo rod. He withdrew the wager.’

  ‘Solid.’

  ‘The talk from Sanjay is what counts, for now, and Sanjay wants you to live.’

  ‘In the way a cat wants a mouse to live?’

  ‘More like a tiger and a mouse,’ he replied. ‘He thinks the Scorpions are cats, and that they hate you more than DaSilva does.’

  ‘So, am I a target or a useful distraction, for Sanjay?’

  ‘The last. He does not expect that you will survive outside the Company for a long time. But you are useful, in a unique way.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘While you live, you are irritating.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention. In fact, I think you will probably be irritating, even after you are dead. It is a rare quality.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘Don’t mention.’

  ‘Where do I stand with business?’

  ‘He does not think you will survive long enough, to establish a business.’

  ‘I got that. But if I do survive, say, until the day after tomorrow, when I’d like to get started, how do I stand?’

  ‘Sanjay assured me that he would license you, like everyone else, bu
t at a higher percentage.’

  ‘And they say mafia dons have no heart. Can I do my own passports?’

  ‘He does not think you will –’

  ‘– survive long enough. But if I do?’

  ‘Sanjay has said that you are banned from the passport factory. Your young man there, Farzad, came to see Sanjay personally, asking that he be permitted to learn from you privately. Sanjay said that he did not think –’

  ‘– I’d survive long enough, right, but he didn’t rule it out?’

  ‘No. He ordered Farzad not to contact you, or speak to you.’

  ‘And if I bought my own kit, and started modifying books?’

  ‘He does not think –’

  ‘Abdullah,’ I sighed, ‘I don’t care if Sanjay thinks I won’t last the winter. The only opinion I respect on that subject is my own. Just tell Sanjay, when you get a minute, that one of these days he might need a good passport from me himself. If he’s cool with it, I’d like to start making books. I’m good at it, and it’s an anarchist crime. See if you can get him to agree, okay?’

  ‘Jarur, brother.’

  It was good to hear him call me brother, but I didn’t know if he was accepting my defection from the Company, or if his disaffection was driving him closer to my renegade side of the line.

  ‘You will be taking over all of Didier’s enterprises?’ he asked.

  ‘Not all of them. I’m letting the drugs go. The Company can pick it up, if they want. Amir can have it. And the escorts, too. They can have all of Didier’s escort strings in South Bombay. I wrote off the debts, and let everyone run free. They’re out there, doing their own things. But the Company can probably negotiate them back again, I guess.’

  ‘It will be done before nightfall,’ he intoned, his deep voice rumbling the syllables. ‘So, without the girls and the drugs, you will have what, exactly?’

  ‘All Didier’s currency touts are with me. I’ve got enough to float about fifteen of the black money traders from Flora Fountain to Colaba Market, for a month. If it ticks over, I’ll do okay. On the side, I’m specialising in watches and technology. Every street guy on the strip will bring stuff to me first, before any other buyer. I think I can make that work.’

  ‘Watches?’ he asked, frowning sternly.

  ‘There’s a lot of money in collector watches.’

  ‘But watches, Lin?’ he said, suddenly almost angry. ‘You were a soldier, with Khaderbhai.’

  ‘I’m not a soldier, Abdullah. I’m a gangster, and so are you.’

  ‘You were one of his sons. How can you sit here, and talk to me of watches?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, trying to make it light. ‘How about we ride our bikes to Nariman Point, and I’ll sit there, and talk of watches?’

  He rose from the table, left the restaurant, and strode to his motorcycle. He didn’t pay a bill in any restaurant in South Bombay. No gangster ever did. I paid, left a tip for the waiters, and caught up to him.

  ‘A ride is necessary,’ he said.

  I followed him to Bombay University, where we parked the bikes, walked through the colonnades and leafy laneways, and entered the open playing fields called Azad Maidan, behind the campus and other buildings.

  There was a fence of iron spears between the vast expanse of the playing fields and the street outside, with only one other entry point, served by a long path across the lawns to the university. The sun’s invisible lake of light reflected gold off every surface and feature.

  Abdullah and I walked the fence line, side by side, just away from the shaggy weeds that gathered at the base.

  It was almost exactly like the walks I’d made with other men every day, in prison, walking and talking, walking and talking in circles of years.

  ‘How bad has it been?’ I asked him. ‘I heard some stuff on the mountain. What’s the deal with the fire, at the Scorpion house?’

  He pursed his lips. He’d anticipated that I’d ask him about the fighting in Colaba, and the fire that killed a nurse in Vishnu’s house. I knew why that nurse was in the house. I wondered if Abdullah or anyone in the Company knew that civilians were in the house. I hadn’t known, when I rang the bell, and I hadn’t told Abdullah or anyone else about it.

  He let a deep breath escape through his nose, his lips pressed firmly in a rumpled frown.

  ‘Lin, I am going to trust you, as if you are still in the family. It is not what I should do, but it is what I must do.’

  ‘Abdullah, I’m a broad strokes guy, you know that. I don’t want intimate details about anything except intimacy, if I can help it. And don’t go breaking your oath for me, although I love you for it, man. Just let me know the big picture details, so I know who’s shooting at who.’

  ‘It was Farid,’ Abdullah said. ‘I counselled against it. Fire is indiscriminate. I wanted to discriminate, and kill them personally. All of them, once and for all. Sanjay decided to use fire. Farid set it, and the Scorpions escaped, but a nurse, who was not supposed to be there, she died in the flames.’

  ‘Where’s Farid now?’

  ‘He is still here, at Sanjay’s side. He refuses to leave the city, when it would be far wiser if he did.’

  ‘There’s a lot of that going around at the moment.’

  ‘What is going around?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a stray thought in the wind. The Scorpions will hit back hard, Abdullah. I’ve met this guy, Vishnu. He’s no lightweight. He’s smart, and he’s got a political agenda. That gives him allies in unlikely places. Don’t underestimate his revenge.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He wants what you want, up to a point. He wants Sanjay dead. But he wants the whole Company dead with him. And he’s got a thing about Pakistan.’

  ‘Pakistan?’

  ‘Pakistan,’ I repeated. ‘Neighbour country, kind people, nice language, great music, secret police. Pakistan.’

  ‘That is not a good thing,’ Abdullah frowned. ‘Sanjay has made many friends in Pakistan. It was those friends who sent the Afghan guards to protect him.’

  We were approaching a curve in the fence. A young couple sat on a blanket in the warm, plush grass. They had several books open in front of them. A message of crows was hopping around them, basking in the morning sun and searching for worms.

  Abdullah began to turn away to avoid the couple.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘I know those guys.’

  Vinson and Rannveig looked up, smiling, as we approached. I introduced Abdullah, and stooped to pick up one of the books. It was Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces.

  ‘How did you get into Campbell?’

  ‘We studied him at university,’ Rannveig said. ‘I’m teaching a crash course to Stuart.’

  ‘It’s over my head,’ Vinson grinned, waving a hand over the blonde waves of his hair.

  ‘Carlos Castaneda,’ I said, reading the covers of other books. ‘Robert Pirsig, Emmett Grogan, Eldridge Cleaver, and the Buddha. Nice bunch. You could throw Socrates and Howard Zinn onto that list. I didn’t know you’re a student here.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Rannveig said quickly.

  ‘Technically, I’m the student,’ Vinson said. ‘I enrolled here nearly two years ago, but I’ve bunked all my classes. Still have the library card, though.’

  ‘Well, happy reading, guys,’ I said, turning away.

  ‘It worked,’ Rannveig said. ‘That thing, with the plate of food.’

  I turned back.

  ‘It did?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sweet Tooth was happy, I guess. He’s gone. Thank you.’

  ‘What are you guys talking about?’ Vinson asked, his face as perplexed as a ten-year-old kid’s.

  One of the things I liked most about Vinson was that his face was so wide open that it gave nowhere for his feelings to hide. Whatever he thoug
ht or felt started in his face. He was his own straight man.

  ‘Tell you later,’ Rannveig said, waving goodbye.

  ‘Do those people also buy and sell watches?’ Abdullah asked, as we continued the loop of the playing fields back toward the campus entrance.

  ‘Are we back to that again?’

  Abdullah harrumphed. There actually are people who harrumph. I know quite a few, as it turns out. My theory is that harrumphers have a tiny pinch of extra bear DNA than the rest of us, in their setup.

  ‘I have your guns for you,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Tell me where you want me to deliver them.’

  ‘I know a guy who’ll keep them safe, for ten per cent. I’ll give you the details. Thanks, Abdullah. Let me know what I owe you.’

  ‘The weapons are a gift,’ he said, stung.

  ‘I’m sorry, brother, of course. Damn nice. And speaking of weapons, I’ve got a meeting with Vikrant, my knife guy, in Sassoon Dock. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  We approached the archway leading back through the campus to the street, but he stopped me before I could join the mill of students passing through the arch.

  ‘There is something,’ Abdullah began, but he closed his mouth firmly again, breathing hard through his nose. ‘Sanjay has forbidden us from befriending you, or contacting you, for any reason other than Company business.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You understand what this means?’

  ‘I . . . guess so.’

  ‘It means that the next time we meet openly, Sanjay will be dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Be confident and unafraid,’ he said, hugging me fiercely, and then holding me in his outstretched arms, as solid as a doorjamb. ‘You have eyes watching you.’

  ‘You got that right.’

  ‘No. I mean that I have paid some eyes to watch you, for some time,’ he said patiently.

  ‘You have? Who?’

  ‘The Cycle Killers.’