I couldn’t bring myself to crawl across the floor and accept that food, although I was weaker by the day, by the hour. Eventually my temperature soared again until my eyes burned with the fever day and night. I visited the toilet, limping, or crawling on my knees when the fever crippled me, but the visits grew less frequent. My urine was a dark, orange colour. Malnutrition robbed my body of energy, and even the simplest movement-rolling over from one side to another, or sitting up-demanded so much of the precious, limited resource that I considered long and hard before undertaking it. I lay motionless for most of every day and night. I still tried to remove the body lice, and I still tried to wash. But those simple tasks left me wretched and panting. My heartbeat was unnaturally high, even while lying down, and my breath came in short puffs, often accompanied by soft, involuntary moans. I was dying of hunger, and I was learning that it’s one of the cruellest ways to kill a man. I knew that Big Rahul’s scraps would save me, but I couldn’t crawl across that room to the edge of his feast. Still, I couldn’t look away either, and every meal he gluttonised found its witness in my dying eyes.
I drifted, often, in fevered visions to my family, and the friends I’d known and had lost forever in Australia. I also thought of Khaderbhai, Abdullah, Qasim Ali, Johnny Cigar, Raju, Vikram, Lettie, Ulla, Kavita, and Didier. I thought of Prabaker, and I wished that I could tell him how much I loved his honest, optimistic, brave, and generous heart. And sooner or later, my thoughts always found their way to Karla, every day, every night, every hour that I counted out with my burning eyes.
And it seemed, to my dreaming mind, that Karla saved me. I was thinking of her when strong arms lifted me, and the chains fell from my wounded ankles, and guards marched me to the prison official’s office. I was thinking of her.
The guards knocked. At an answering call, they opened the door. They waited outside when I entered. In the small office, I saw three men-the prison official with the short grey hair, a plain-clothes cop, and Vikram Patel-sitting around a metal desk.
‘Oh,
The official and the cop exchanged neutral glances, but didn’t reply.
‘Sit down,’ the prison official commanded. I remained standing, on weakening legs. ‘Sit down,
I sat, and stared at Vikram with tongue-locked amazement. The flat, black hat hanging on his back by the cord at his throat, and his black vest, shirt, and scrolled flamenco pants seemed wildly exotic, and yet the most reassuringly familiar costume I could imagine. My eyes began to lose focus in the elaborate whirls and scrolls on his embroidered vest, and I pulled my stare back to his face. That face wrinkled and winced as he stared at me. I hadn’t looked into a mirror for four months. Vikram’s grimaces gave me a fairly good idea of how near to death he believed me to be. He held out the black shirt with the lasso figures that he’d taken off his back to give to me in the rain four months before.
‘I brought… I brought your shirt…’ he said falteringly.
‘What… what are you doing here?’
‘A friend sent me,’ he replied. ‘A very good friend of yours. Oh, fuck, Lin. You look like dogs have been chewing on you. I don’t want to freak you out or nothing, but you look like they dug you up, after they fuckin’ killed you, man. Just stay cool. I’m here, man. I’m gonna get you the fuck outta this place.’
Taking that as his cue, the official coughed, and gestured toward the cop. The cop gave the lead back to him, and he addressed Vikram, a kind of smile pinching the soft skin around his eyes.
‘Ten thousand,’ he said. ‘In American dollars, of course.’
‘Ten fuckin’
‘Ten thousand,’ the official repeated, with the calm and authority of a man who knows that he brought the only gun to a knife-fight. He rested his hands flat on the metal desk, and his fingers rolled through once in a little Mexican wave.
‘No fuckin’ way, man.
The cop took a folder from a slender vinyl briefcase, and slid it across the desk to Vikram. The folder contained a single sheet of paper. Reading it quickly, Vikram’s lips pressed outward, and his eyes widened in an expression of impressed surprise.
‘Is this you?’ he asked me. ‘Did you escape from jail in Australia?’
I stared at him evenly, my feverish eyes not wavering. I didn’t reply.
‘How many people know about this?’ he asked the plain-clothes cop.
‘Not so many’ the cop replied in English. ‘But, enough to need ten thousand, for keeping this information a private matter.’
