Shantaram полностью

It was eleven o’clock when I finally found time to stop at Karla’s small house near the Colaba Market. There was no answer to my knocking. Her neighbours told me she’d gone out an hour earlier. They had no idea when she would return. I was annoyed. I’d left my boots and jeans inside, and I was anxious to retrieve them, to get out of those loose but uncomfortable clothes, those clothes that were hers. I hadn’t exaggerated when I’d told her that the jeans, T-shirt, and boots were my only clothes. In my hut there were only two lungis, which I wore for sleeping, bathing, or for when I washed my jeans. I could’ve bought new clothes-a T-shirt, jeans, and track shoes would’ve cost me no more than four or five American dollars in the clothing bazaar at Fashion Street-but I wanted my own clothes, the clothes I felt right in. I left a grumble of words for her in a note, and set off to keep my appointment with Khaderbhai.

The great house on Mohammed Ali Road seemed to be empty when I arrived. The six panels of the street door were folded back, and the spacious marble entrance hall was exposed. Thousands of people walked past every hour, but the house was well known and no-one on the street seemed to pay any attention to me as I entered, knocking on the green panels to announce my arrival. After a few moments, Nazeer came to greet me, his frown vaguely hostile. He directed me to swap my street shoes for a pair of house slippers, and then led me along a tall, narrow corridor in the opposite direction to that of the room I’d visited the night before. We passed a number of closed rooms as the corridor wound through two right turns, and eventually came out upon an inner courtyard.

The very large, oval space was open to the sky in the centre as if a great hole had been cut in the thick plasterwork of the ceiling. It was paved with heavy, square Maharashtrian stone, and surrounded by pillared arches that gave a cloister effect. There were many plants and flowering shrubs in the wide circle of the interior garden, and five tall, slender palms. The fountain that I’d heard from the meeting room, where we’d talked about suffering, was the centrepiece. It was a circle of marble about a metre in height and four metres in diameter with a single huge, uncut boulder in the centre. Water seemed to spout from the very core of the enormous stone. At its peak, the small fountain curved into a lily-shaped plume before splashing gently onto the smooth, rounded surfaces of the boulder and flowing with rhythmic, musical flourishes into the pond of the fountain. Khaderbhai was sitting in a cane emperor chair, to one side of the fountain. He was reading a book, which he closed and placed on a glass-topped table when I arrived.

‘Salaam aleikum, Mr. Lin,’ he smiled. Peace be with you.

‘Wa aleikum salaam. Aap kaise hain?’ And with you be peace. How are you, sir?

‘I am well, thank you. Mad dogs and Englishmen may very well be out and about in the midday sun, but I prefer to sit here, in the shade of my humble garden.’

‘Not so humble, Khaderbhai,’ I remarked.

‘Do you think it altogether too grand?’

‘No, no. I didn’t mean that,’ I said hurriedly, because that’s precisely what I’d been thinking. I couldn’t help but recall that he owned the slum where I lived; the dusty, barren slum of twenty-five thousand people, where nothing green existed after eight rainless months, and the only water was rationed from wells that were padlocked shut, most of the time. ‘This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen in Bombay. I couldn’t have imagined this from the street outside.’

He stared at me, for a few moments as if measuring the exact width and depth of the lie, and then waved me to a small, backless stool that was the only other chair in the courtyard.

‘Please sit down, Mr. Lin. Have you eaten?’

‘Yes, thank you. I had a late breakfast.’

‘Allow me to serve you tea, at least. Nazeer! Idhar-ao!’ he shouted, his voice startling a pair of doves that had been pecking for crumbs at his feet. The birds flew up and flapped around Nazeer’s chest as he entered. They seemed to be unafraid of him, even to recognise him, and they settled on the flagstones once more, following him like tame puppies.

‘Chai bono, Nazeer,’ Khaderbhai commanded. His tone with the driver was imperious, but not severe, and I guessed that it was the only tone Nazeer felt comfortable with and respected. The burly Afghan withdrew silently, the birds hop-running behind him into the very house.

‘Khaderbhai, there’s something I want to say before we… talk about anything else,’ I began quietly. My next words drew his head up swiftly, and I knew that I had his full attention. ‘It’s about Sapna.’

‘Yes, go on,’ he murmured.