The Mountain Shadow

by Gregory David Roberts

  ‘Any current place,’ I said.

  She laughed again.

  ‘That didn’t come out right,’ I said quickly. ‘We haven’t been together since the mountain. Does that seem like a long time, to you? It seems like a really long time, to me.’

  I might’ve been telling jokes. She laughed harder with every word I said. She actually pleaded with me to stop, because she was choking.

  ‘You’re driving me crazy, Karla. That thing you feel, when something makes you feel completely right? I only feel that, with you.’

  She stopped laughing, and looked me up and down. I don’t know what it is about me that makes people look me up and down, but I’ve had my share.

  She kissed me. I kissed her. Rain, wave, and that place inside where we dance better than we dance: she kissed me.

  She slapped me.

  ‘Damn! What was that for?’

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ she said. ‘I thought we had this talk. I told you. We’re in this game together, or I’m in it alone. They’re your options, not mine.’

  ‘Fair enough. Agreed. What game?’

  ‘I love you, Shantaram,’ she said, slipping away. ‘I need Kavita, at the moment. I’ve got a plan, and I can’t tell you about it, remember? I need her, and I need you to rise above, and be the better man.’

  Dogs barked, as she trotted back to the slum.

  I didn’t understand any of it except my part, and I wasn’t really sure about my part. But at least I knew that I was back in Karlaville. I could still feel her slap, and her kiss.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  I didn’t see Oleg for two weeks after that night. He found a new couch, for a while, and the Diva girls found a new plaything. I took a taxi, the day after he vanished, and collected the banger bike he’d left by the side of the road. I talked to the bike for a while and assured her, even though my heart belonged to another machine, that I’d protect her in future, especially from Russian writers. She carried me home without incident, her engine humming a song the whole way: a brave motorcycle, not ready to die.

  I did my rounds day to night, helped decent people out with loans and collected money from indecent defaulters, swapped funny jokes and funnier insults, smacked a cheeky money changer on the ear from time to time and knelt in prayer with others, bribed cops and Company soldiers for blessings from below, dropped donations into churches and temples for blessings from above, fed beggars outside mosques, chased a brutal pimp from my collection area, and came third in a knife-throwing competition, which I’d entered to find out who was better at a throwing a knife than I was: always a handy thing to know. In one way and another, golden days became silvered nights.

  A couple of weeks after Oleg’s olfactory defection I was swinging back toward Leopold’s one day, thinking of their veg curry rice and hungry enough to eat it, when a man ran onto the causeway, stopping me in traffic.

  It was Stuart Vinson.

  ‘Lin!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Park the fucking noisy bike, man.’

  ‘Steady on, Vinson,’ I said, patting the gas tank of my bike. ‘Language, man.’

  He blinked at me, and at the bike.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Calm down. You’re a one-man traffic jam.’

  Cars were moving around us, and the Colaba police station wasn’t far enough away.

  ‘It’s serious, Lin! Please, meet me at Leopold’s. I’ll go there right now.’

  He scampered away through the traffic toward Leopold’s, and I made the traffic scamper around me while I did an illegal turn, and parked the bike.

  I found Vinson pestering Sweetie for a table. There was nothing at Didier’s table but a Reserved sign. I handed the sign to Sweetie, and sat down. Vinson joined me.

  He didn’t look good. His surfer-healthy face was thinner than I’d seen it, and there were dark rings on the high cheekbones where optimism used to play.

  ‘Looks like beer,’ I said to Sweetie.

  ‘You think you’re the only customers I have to serve?’ Sweetie asked himself, walking back to the kitchen.

  ‘Do you wanna do this before the beer, or after?’ I asked.

  It seemed like a reasonable question, to me. I’ve seen both, and I know what it’s like: the same story, told by different maniacs.

  ‘She’s disappeared,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, before the beer. Are you talking about Rannveig?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Disappeared . . . how?’

  ‘She was there one minute, and gone the next. I’ve searched every­where for her. I don’t know what to do. I was, like, hoping she might’ve contacted you.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her,’ I said. ‘And I have no idea where she is. When did this happen?’

  ‘Three days ago. I’ve been searching everywhere, but –’

  ‘Three days? What the fuck, man? Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘You’re my last resort,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried everything, and everyone else.’

  The last resort: the last person who might help you. I’d never thought of myself as that. I’d never been that. I was always one of the first called, when someone needed help.

  The beer arrived. Vinson drank it fast, but it didn’t help.

  ‘Oh, my God! Where is she?’ he wailed.

  ‘Look, Vinson, you could ask Naveen for help. It’s his job to find lost loves.’

  ‘Can you call him for me?’

  ‘I don’t use the phone,’ I said. ‘But I can take you there, if you like.’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Anything. I’m so worried about her.’

  We stood up to leave, my beer untouched. I left a tip for Sweetie. It wasn’t sweet enough.

  ‘Fuck you, Shantaram,’ he said, replacing the Reserved sign on the table. ‘Who’s going to drink your beer? Tell me that?’

  I delivered lost-love Vinson to the Lost Love Bureau, two doors along from my own, and left him with Naveen.

  Things had been cooler between Naveen and me. I’d hurt him, somehow, I was sure of it, but I had no idea how. I brought Vinson to the office because I trusted Naveen, and I hoped he saw that.

  He smiled vacantly at me as I walked back to my room, then he turned to Vinson, serious questions writing themselves on his face.

  I ate a can of cold baked beans, drank a pint of milk and settled the emergency ration lunch with half a glass of rum. I left the door open, and sat in my favourite chair. It was a curved captain’s chair, padded with faded, dark blue leather. It was the manager’s chair. Jaswant Singh had inherited it from the previous manager, who’d inherited it from someone with damn good taste in writer’s chairs. I’d bought it from Jaswant and replaced it for him with a shiny new manager’s chair.

  Jaswant loved his new chair, and had put coloured lights around it. I put my old chair in a corner, where I had a view of the balcony, and a clear line of sight into the hallway, the manager’s desk and the stairs leading up to it. I did some of my best writing there.

  I was doing some of my best writing, when Naveen tapped on the door.

  ‘Got a minute?’ he asked.

  He was intelligent, brave and devoted. He was kind and honest. He was all the things we’d wish a son or a brother to be. But I was writing.

  ‘How many a minute?’

  ‘A couple.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, putting my journal away. ‘Come in, and sit down.’

  He sat on the couch, and looked around. There wasn’t much to see.

  ‘You always leave your door open?’

  ‘Only when I’m awake.’

  ‘Your place is . . . ’ he began, searching for a clue in a room that was packed for flight. ‘It’s kinda boot camp, if you know what I mean. I thought it would get warmer, you know, the longer you lived here. But . . . it didn�
�t.’

  ‘Karla calls it Fugitive Chic.’

  ‘Does she like it?’

  ‘No. What’s on your mind, Naveen?’

  ‘Diva,’ he said, sighing the name, his head sagging.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She offered me a job,’ he said, his face stretched and creased with distress. ‘That’s why I’ve been so touchy lately.’

  ‘Not such a bad thing, a job.’

  ‘You don’t understand. She called me to a meeting. One of her people took me all the way up to the roof of her building, on Worli Seaface. She has offices there. I hadn’t seen her for a while. She’s . . . we’ve both been busy.’

  He pressed his mouth shut on whatever it was that he’d been about to say. I waited, and then nudged him.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘She . . . she looked amazing. She cut her hair. It looks great. She was wearing red. There was wind, on the roof. I looked at her. For a second I let myself believe that she’d called me there to tell me that she . . . ’

  His head dropped, and he stared at his hands.

  ‘But she called you there to offer you a job, instead.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘For a lot of money?’

  ‘Yeah. Too much, really.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘She’s trying to protect you. She’s kinda stuck on you. The two of you went through some stuff together. She’s worried, now that the Lost Love Bureau is putting you back on the street.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I think it’s her way of saying that she cares about you. It’s not a bad thing, it’s a good thing.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. She almost kissed me that night, remember?’

  ‘She told you to shut up, and kiss her. Maybe you should do that.’

  ‘You know,’ he mused, ‘the new Diva, man, she’s taking some getting used to. I always knew what the old Diva was thinking, and what she’d say. Happy, smiling Diva is impossible to read. It’s like snow on the radar. It’s like I have to fall in love with the same woman all over again.’

  ‘You know, I read a book once, called Women for Idiots.’

  ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘I couldn’t make head or tail of it. But it confirmed a point from my own messed-up experience, which is that you can’t know what’s in a woman’s mind, until she tells you. And to do that, you have to ask her. One of these days, you’ve gotta ask that girl if it’s a serious thing.’

  ‘You think I should take the job?’

  ‘Of course not. You worked for her father. Now, you’re on your own. She’ll respect a no more than a yes. She’ll probably find another way to keep you close.’

  He stood to leave, offering to wash his glass. I put it back on the table.

  ‘You’re a good man, Naveen,’ I said. ‘And she knows how good you are.’

  He turned to leave, but spun around quickly, boxer-ballet.

  ‘Hey, don’t forget the race tonight.’

  ‘What race?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? Charu and Pari went to the slum, and I challenged Benicia to race me. It’s all set.’

  ‘Benicia agreed?’

  ‘She’s into it.’

  ‘Did you meet her?’

  ‘Kind of. See you later.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Kind of?’

  He relaxed again, but avoided my eyes as he leaned against the door jamb.

  ‘I set up a meeting with her, to buy jewellery,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way to see her. She’s not an easy girl to reach. She sat me down on a carpet, in this very old apartment. She rents it for her business. And she did the whole transaction in a niqab.’

  ‘The full black cover, or just the black mask?’

  ‘Just the mask. And those eyes, man, I swear.’

  ‘Is she a Muslim?’

  ‘No. I asked her that, and she said no. She just digs the niqab. It’s not really a niqab. It’s actually just sunglasses that cover her face, and only leave the eyes unshaded. She must’ve had them specially made. Those eyes, man, I swear.’

  ‘A masked hero. Karla’s gonna love her.’

  ‘Those eyes, man,’ he said again. ‘I swear.’

  ‘Settle down, Naveen. How did it go, with Benicia?’

  ‘I did the deal, and bought a bunch of Rajasthani jewellery as a show of good faith, and then explained the situation to her. She agreed, but on one condition.’

  ‘Ah, terms and conditions always apply.’

  ‘I have to go on a date with her.’

  ‘If you win, or if you lose?’

  ‘Win, lose or draw.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘No, I’m serious.’

  ‘Damn, Naveen. Diva’s not gonna see it in a rosy light that you’re on a date with an enigma, who happens to ride a vintage 350cc motor­cycle faster than anyone in Bombay.’

  ‘Anyone but me,’ Naveen said. ‘I’ve been practising, Lin. I’m fast.’

  ‘You better be fast, when Diva hears about the date.’

  ‘It’s a done deal,’ he said.

  ‘Well, Diva will definitely kick your ass for this, but you’re racking up some legend points with Didier, kid. He’s gonna go nuts when he hears about it.’

  ‘He already knows. Everybody knows. Everyone . . . but Diva. I thought you knew.’

  I didn’t know. No-one had told me. Somehow, I was disconnected from a world of friendship I’d helped to build.

  ‘Where’s the race?’

  ‘Air India building, Marine Drive, Pedder Road, and back again, three times.’

  ‘Where are you turning on Pedder Road?’

  ‘The last signal before Haji Ali.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At midnight.’

  ‘The cops are gonna love it.’

  ‘The cops are helping us. They’re maintaining traffic security, and we’re so grateful for their cooperation, so to speak, that we paid them what they asked, which wasn’t cheap. We had to bring them in. We needed their police radios to call the race. There’s a lot of money on this.’

  ‘Some of it mine,’ I laughed.

  ‘You know,’ he said hesitantly, ‘on the spur of the moment, with the race in my mind and all, I totally didn’t think about what Diva would make of it, if I went out with Benicia on a date.’

  ‘You can’t blame this on the moment, Naveen.’

  ‘But, if I was still with the old Diva, you know, who hit me in the balls every time I stood up, it couldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Bring new Diva along on the date. Benicia might like her. And Diva likes jewellery.’

  ‘It’s not that kind of date Benicia has in mind.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Those eyes,’ he said. ‘She did this . . . she was . . . you had to be there, but there’s no mistake. It’s more than a date she’s got in mind.’

  ‘And you agreed to that?’

  ‘I told you, I was carried away.’

  ‘Call off the bet.’

  ‘I can’t do that. Too many people have put too much money on the race. I’ve gotta give it all I’ve got.’

  ‘Well, when you have the date with Benicia, tell her you’re in love with another girl. Tell her then what you should’ve told her when she asked for a more-than-date, through her sunglasses niqab.’

  ‘I feel shitty,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t feel shitty. Win the race, and make it right.’

  He hugged me so intensely that I was standing in a river, and water was rushing past me, chest high, just gently enough not to knock me off balance.

  He dashed through the door.

  ‘See you there!’ he said, starting down the stairs.

  ‘Wait!’ I called, and he sprinted back to stand on the to
p step.

  ‘That girl, Vinson’s friend, Rannveig.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, standing on one foot, a deer waiting for velocity. ‘I spoke to him before. He’s with Didier, in the office.’

  ‘She’s a friend of mine as well. If you’re trying to find her, go spiritual. That’s where I’d start.’

  ‘Okay, spiritual. Got it. Anything else?’

  ‘No. Run.’

  He jumped and bumped his way down the stairs.

  For some reason, I wanted to close the door, lock the locks, clean my gun, sharpen my knives, write things, and get drunk enough to miss the race. In that moment, I didn’t want to know anything else, about anyone else’s love drama.

  I stood up and walked toward the door, but Vinson beat me to it.

  ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘Fuck it, man, who hasn’t got a minute? And who doesn’t know that it’ll take a lot longer than a minute? Everybody. So leave your self-deprecating passive aggression at the door, come in, park your carcass on Oleg’s sofa, have a beer, and tell me what’s on your mind, or what’s on Oleg’s mind, if you’d care to guess.’

  ‘You’re in a mood,’ he said, sitting.

  I threw him a beer.

  ‘Nice couch,’ he said. ‘Who’s Oleg?’

  ‘What’s on your mind, Vinson?’

  He talked about her, that girl from the North Lands who carried the ice in her eyes wherever she went. He blamed himself for being overprotective, for making her feel like a prisoner, for withholding his affection, and for all the other wrong things.

  ‘You’re the prisoner, man,’ I said.

  ‘I’m the prisoner?’

  ‘You’re chained to what you do, Vinson. And she’s a free bird.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Rannveig unless she’s here to join in the conversation,’ I said. ‘But I’ll just say that I think she’s a sensitive person, and what you’re doing hurts something inside her. Her last boyfriend died at the business end of heroin, remember?’

  ‘I don’t take heroin.’

  ‘You’re a drug dealer, Vinson.’

  ‘I’ve kept her away from it,’ he said defensively. ‘She doesn’t know anything about what I do.’

  ‘Well, knowing that girl the little that I do, I think it matters to her what you do. I don’t know, Vinson, but I think it might come to a choice you’ll have to make, between the money and the girl.’