The Mountain Shadow

by Gregory David Roberts

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then you give copies of Irina’s photograph to the waiters at Leopold’s, and offer a reward to the first man who identifies her, and calls you.’

  ‘What makes you think she’ll come?’ Oleg asked.

  He had the same expression shining in his smile that the students on the mountain had, when they listened to Idriss.

  ‘The scent,’ Didier smiled back at him. ‘If she is yours, the power of your scent will bring her. She will come to you, like a pheromone pilgrim. But only if she is yours, and you are hers.’

  ‘Wow, Didier!’ Oleg said, slapping his hands together. ‘I’ll start right away.’

  He jumped up, pulled my second T-shirt from my wardrobe, and pulled it on over my other one, which he was wearing.

  ‘Why a photograph of Irina, and not Elena?’ I asked Didier. ‘Or, why not photos of both?’

  ‘The sex,’ Didier frowned. ‘Did you not pay attention? Irina is Elena, without inhibitions.’

  ‘You got that right,’ Oleg said, straightening his T-shirts.

  ‘Exactly,’ Didier said, sniffing Oleg to make sure he wasn’t wearing scent. ‘The sex you had with Irina was exceptional. Do I need to say more?’

  He stood up, brushing at his sleeves.

  ‘My work is done here,’ he said, pausing at the door. ‘Do physical sport, Oleg. Climb to high, dangerous places, jump off things, provoke a policeman, start a fight with a bully, and above all, flirt with women, but have sex with none of them, until you send the shirts. She must smell tiger on you, and wolf, and ape, and a man hungry for sex, and women hungry for him. Bonne chance.’

  He swept out, flourishing his grey-blue scarf.

  ‘Wow,’ Oleg said.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘how I asked you not to use the R-word all the time?’

  ‘Yes . . . ’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘I’m adding Wow to the list.’

  ‘There’s a list?’

  ‘There is now.’

  ‘Shit, there’s a list of things I can’t say,’ he grinned. ‘You’re making me homesick for Moscow, and I don’t even like Moscow.’

  He was right. A list of things not to say?

  ‘You know what, fuck it. Say anything you want, Oleg.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Wow, I’m Russian again.’

  ‘You know what,’ I said. ‘You wanted to ride my bike, right?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Never gonna happen. But there’s an old banger bike downstairs. I saw her neglected down there, where I park mine. She belonged to a waiter at Kayani’s. I didn’t like how he was treating her, so I bought her off him. I’ve been cleaning her up, the last couple of weeks.’

  ‘Kruto,’ Oleg said, finding his shoes.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That’s me, not saying Wow. Kruto means fucking cool, man.’

  ‘Kruto?’

  ‘That’s it. Kruto, man.’

  ‘Can you ride?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ he scoffed, tying his sneakers. ‘We Russians can ride anything.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve gotta make some rounds, and you can come with me if you like, seeing as you have the day off.’

  ‘Great material for a story,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mess with my material, Oleg. Just ride, and observe, and wipe the breathy window of recollection clean afterwards, okay?’

  ‘But what if I find a great character, someone I see you talking to, someone who’s really, you know, amazingly good?’

  I thought about it. He was a decent guy.

  ‘I’ll let you have one character,’ I said.

  ‘Great!’

  ‘But not Half-Moon Auntie.’

  ‘Oh. She sounds like a good one.’

  ‘That’s why you can’t have her. Are you ready to ride, or not?’

  ‘I’m ready for anything, man. That’s my family motto.’

  ‘Please, please, don’t tell me about your Russian family.’

  ‘Okay, okay, but you’re missing a lot of great Russian characters, and I’d give them to you free.’

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  We rode two circuits of the south, touring the Island City at slow speeds. We rarely had to change gear, because we jumped every red light that could be jumped without a fine, and took every short cut unknown to man.

  Oleg loved his visit to the black bank. He asked them if they had rooms to rent. And he loved Half-Moon Auntie. She liked Oleg, too: enough to take him through two lunar cycles.

  I dragged him away at nine minutes and thirty seconds, the pair of us sliding away from Half-Moon Auntie in an escape that got slower, the faster we tried to run.

  Night controlled the lights as we were completing a loop that took us near the President hotel, in Cuffe Parade. We heard the persistent blaring of a horn behind us.

  I gestured with my right hand, giving the sign that it was okay to pass. The horn kept braying, so I slowed to a stop beneath a canopy of street-lit plane trees, still vivid green from the monsoon long gone.

  There was a laneway beside me where I’d stopped. It was an escape route that a car couldn’t follow, if I needed it. Oleg pulled up close behind me. A limousine stopped beside us. I put my hand on a knife.

  The tinted window slid down and I saw Diva, with the two Diva girls.

  ‘Hi, kid,’ I said. ‘How ya doin’?’

  She got out of the car. The chauffeur scrambled to open the door for her but was too late, and she waved him away.

  ‘Don’t worry, Vinodbhai,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘I’m fine.’

  He bowed, and glanced at the Diva girls quickly before lowering his eyes, as he waited beside the car.

  It was significant that she’d added the honorific bhai to the end of his name. It was respectful, and probably the only other time he’d ever be addressed so respectfully, outside the circle of family and friends who knew the worth of the man inside the uniform.

  It was superb, something beyond class, and I liked the young heiress for it.

  ‘Lin,’ she said, coming to hug me. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’

  It was the first time she’d hugged me. It was the first time she hadn’t insulted me, in fact.

  ‘Kruto,’ I said. ‘Someone happy to see me, for a change.’

  ‘I just wanted to thank you,’ she said, placing her hand flat against my chest. ‘I never got to do it, after the fire, and getting back into Dad’s company and all. And I’ve been thinking about thanking you, and wanting to let you know how grateful I am to you, and Naveen, and Didier, and Johnny Cigar, and Sita, and Aanu, the real Aanu, and Priti, and Srinivasan the dudhwallah, and –’

  ‘You’re freaking me out, Diva,’ I said. ‘Where’s the tigress?’

  She laughed. The Divas laughed, inside the air-conditioned limousine.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ Diva asked, giving Oleg the twice over.

  ‘This is Oleg,’ I said. ‘He’s a Russian writer, and a field agent for the Lost Love Bureau.’

  ‘Diva Devnani,’ Diva smiled, offering her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you.’

  Oleg kissed her hand.

  ‘Oleg Zaminovic,’ he said. ‘We think our great grandfather made up the name, but, hey, he made all of us as well, so we don’t hold it against him.’

  ‘I’m Charu,’ one of the Divas said.

  ‘I’m Pari,’ the other said.

  Oleg bowed gallantly from the seat of his motorcycle.

  ‘Get in,’ Charu said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Pari said.

  The door of the limousine opened silently, as if by an act of will.

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ Oleg said, looking at me hopefully.

  ‘Great!’
Diva said. ‘It’s all settled. I’ll go on ahead into the slum with Lin on the bike, and Oleg will go with the girls.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘You’re forgetting something here.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Lin,’ Diva said. ‘I rode on the petrol tank of our ser­vant’s motorcycle from the age of three.’

  ‘I’m talking about the motorcycle he’s riding.’

  Oleg looked into the limousine at the pretty girls, and their short dresses, much shorter on the back seat. He looked at me.

  ‘You don’t abandon a motorcycle, Oleg.’

  ‘Remember Didier’s advice?’ he asked limply, pleading with me, guy to guy. ‘You know what I mean, Lin. The smelly T-shirt thing. I think I should start tonight. What do . . . what do you think?’

  He glanced back inside the limousine. They were undeniably pretty girls, and unambiguously interested in Oleg.

  ‘Park her over there on the footpath, next to that gate,’ I said. ‘Give the watchman a hundred roops to watch her, until I can pick her up.’

  ‘Great!’ he said, bristling the bike up onto the footpath, and smothering the watchman’s protest with a fair amount of money.

  He sprinted back to the limousine, threw me the keys and ducked inside, pulling the door shut after him.

  Diva was smiling at me. She was standing beside my bike. Night was a lizard crawling past us on the footpath. People recognised her, from time to time. Some of them stopped to look.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ I asked her.

  ‘I’m smiling,’ she said, ‘because you have no idea what a nice man you are.’

  I frowned. People, friends, enemies were changing too fast around me, as if I was the last man to wake during an attack.

  ‘Charu and Pari are single girls, with multiple minds,’ she said.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘They think you’re interesting, too,’ she said. ‘I haven’t disabused them of the notion.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They think you’re interesting,’ she said. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Everybody’s interesting.’

  ‘You really do love Karla, don’t you?’ she asked, smiling again, not a tiger in sight.

  ‘Why are we going to the slum, Diva?’

  ‘There’s a women’s party. I’m the guest of honour, I’m honoured to say. I’d like you to come with me. Tell me that isn’t the best offer you’ve had in the last twenty minutes.’

  My turn to laugh. Maybe she really had changed. People do.

  ‘Guest of honour, huh?’

  ‘Let’s go, Cisco,’ she smiled, swinging a leg behind me over the bike.

  We parked the bike outside and walked through lanes decorated with flowers. Long, thick garlands linked every house. Johnny’s nephew, Eli, guided us with a torch in lamp-lit shadows. He paused at every spectacular bouquet, scanning the torch over the cordons of flowers, allowing us to admire every bloom. He was dressed in his finest clothes, suitable for devotion, as was everyone we passed in the lanes.

  He finally led us to an open space, used in the slum for weddings and festival days. Plastic chairs had been arranged in a wide semicircle around a small stage. The space was becoming crowded.

  Women gathered in a flame-lit garden of coloured dresses, their hair plaited with frangipani flowers, their talking laughter like birds at sunset.

  Charu and Pari arrived with Oleg. Then Kavita joined the crowd, with Naveen and Karla a few steps behind.

  Karla.

  She saw me, and smiled. Those things inside, when the woman you love smiles at you: those spears of courage, that rain.

  People called for Diva to speak. She found an open space, where all could see her short form, but her speech was even shorter.

  ‘I want to thank you all, so very, very much,’ she said in Hindi. ‘I know, because you saved my life here, that we can do anything, together. And from now on, I’m with you all the way. I’m supporting fair slum resettlement in decent, safe, comfortable homes across the city. I pledge myself to that, and I’m doing it with all the resources I have.’

  The women cheered, the men cheered, and the children leapt about as if the earth was too hot to tolerate more than a frantic skip. The band played furiously until no-one could hear properly.

  A place had been set out for a meal, with a long, blue plastic sheet on the ground. Authentic banana leaves were arranged, side by side, for guests to receive food. I’d already eaten, but it was impolite to refuse, and bad luck.

  We all squatted beside one another. Charu and Pari had to sit side-saddle, because their designer skirts were too short, but they didn’t mind. Their eyes were as wide as if they were studying lions in Africa.

  It was their first time on the wretched side of the line. They were repulsed, horrified, and terrified of germs in the food. But they were also fascinated: and a fascinated Indian is yours.

  As Fate would have it, Kavita sat on my right, and Karla on my left.

  Vegetable biryani was served, along with coconut paste, Bengali spices, Kashmiri refinements, tandoori-fired vegetables, cucumber and tomato yoghurt, yellow dhal, and wok-fried cauliflower, okra and carrot, offered by an endless line of people, smiling as they served us.

  ‘Funny time for a party,’ I said to Karla.

  ‘If you knew anything about this,’ Kavita said, leaning over to catch my eyes, or my soul, or something, ‘you’d know that this is the time between shifts, and the only time that day workers and night workers can join in together.’

  It was silly. I’d lived in that slum, and Kavita hadn’t, and there wasn’t much she could teach me about it.

  ‘You really won’t let this go, will you, Kavita?’

  ‘Why should I, cowboy?’

  ‘How about you pass me the pungent chutney, instead?’ Karla said, playing peacemaker.

  I passed it across, my eyes catching Karla’s for a moment.

  ‘Ran away, when Lisa died,’ Kavita said. ‘And running away now.’

  ‘Okay, Kavita, just get it off your chest.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ she asked, squinting spite at me.

  ‘How can the truth be a threat? I’m just sick of the guilt games. I came to this city with my own crosses. I don’t need you making new ones for me.’

  ‘You killed her,’ she said.

  I didn’t see it coming.

  ‘Calm down, Kavita,’ Karla said.

  ‘I wasn’t even here. I wasn’t even in the same country. That was on your watch, Kavita.’

  She flinched. She was hurt, and I didn’t want to hurt her: I only wanted her to stop hurting me. Her eyes brimmed, like snow domes of the world inside, made of tears.

  ‘I loved her,’ she said, the domes bursting. ‘You only used her, while you waited for Karla.’

  ‘This is the ideal moment, with foresight, to stop this, and focus on the occasion,’ Karla said at last. ‘Stop this bickering, both of you, and be gracious guests. We’re not here for us. We’re here for Diva, who suffered a lot as well.’

  I pretended to eat, for a while, and Kavita pretended to stop. Neither one of us managed it.

  ‘It should be you who died on that bed, all alone,’ Kavita spat at me, losing control.

  ‘Stop this, Kavita,’ Karla said.

  ‘Nothing to say, Lin?’

  ‘Stop it, Kavita,’ I said.

  ‘That all you got?’

  I started to get up, but she pulled at my sleeve.

  ‘You want to know what she said about you, while she was making love to me?’

  I should’ve stopped. I didn’t.

  ‘You know, Kavita, you work at a newspaper that sells white-skin potions to a country full of brown-skinned people,’ I said. ‘You talk about the environment, and you take money from oil companies and coal co
mpanies for advertising. You lecture people who wear fur, and accept advertising from battery-fed chicken chains and hormone hamburgers. Your economists forgive bankers no matter what they do, your opinion pages shrink opinion, and your criticism is a flea on the elephant of intolerance. The women in your pages are dolls, while the men are sages. You cover up as many crimes as you report, and you’ve campaigned against innocent men just for ratings, and we both know it. Come down off your throne, Kavita, and leave me alone.’

  She looked at me with a determination that revealed nothing, but maybe nothing was all she had, because she was silent.

  I stood, excused myself, and walked back through the slum alone. Naveen caught up with me in a lane filled with small shops.

  ‘Lin,’ he said. ‘Wait up.’

  ‘How you doing with lost love?’ I asked.

  I touched a nerve without knowing it. He let the anger-face out of the cage.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he growled.

  ‘You know what, Naveen, I like you. But this really isn’t a good night to play sulky.’

  I walked off alone, but when I reached my bike on the wide street outside, where children were still playing, someone came up behind me quickly and quietly.

  I spun around, grabbed a throat in one hand and had my knife in the other before I knew it was Karla.

  ‘You got me there, Shantaram,’ she said, as I released her.

  ‘I always get you there.’

  She didn’t pull away from me.

  ‘Sneaking up on people like that will buy you conniptions, girl,’ I said, my hands in the small of her back.

  ‘Conniptions? How American of you.’

  ‘You have no idea how American I could get tonight.’

  ‘Would that fix my conniptions?’

  ‘Maybe not. Maybe I should put a bell on your bracelet.’

  ‘Maybe you should,’ she purred.

  I kissed her, leaning against the bike, praying that she’d never leave me.

  ‘Whoa,’ she said, easing away. ‘You’re ready to invade Troy, and the ships haven’t even landed.’

  ‘Whatever that means,’ I said, ‘can you explain it horizontally?’

  ‘My current place, or your current place?’ She laughed.