‘And how is that? How is it, with our Madjid?’
I hesitated. Karla once said that men reveal what they
‘I’m learning what I need to know. He’s a good teacher.’
‘But… you made a more personal connection with Khaled Ansari, isn’t it so?’
It was true. Khaled was angry, and there was a part of his heart that was always hate-filled, but I liked him. Madjid was kind and patient and generous with me, yet I had no feeling for him at all beyond a vague, premonitory unease. After four months in the black-market currency business, Khaderbhai had decided that I should learn the gold-smuggling trade, and he’d sent me to Madjid Rhustem. In his house overlooking the sea, among the affluent elite at Juhu, I’d discovered the many ways in which gold was smuggled into India. Khaled’s formula of
Grey-haired Madjid controlled Khader’s substantial gold imports, and had been running the business for almost ten years. With inexhaustible forbearance, he’d taught me everything that he thought I needed to know about gold and the smuggler’s arts. His dark eyes had stared at me from beneath his bushy grey brows, hour after hour in the lessons. Although he commanded a large number of strong men, and could be ruthless with them when it was required, his rheumy eyes only ever showed me kindness. Still, I felt nothing for him but that bodeful uneasiness. When I left his house, after any lesson, a sense of relief flooded into me: a relief that washed the sound of his voice and the sight of his face from my mind, just as water might wash a stain from my hands.
‘No. There’s no connection. But he’s a good teacher, as I say.’
‘Linbaba,’ Khader replied, his deep voice rumbling over the name that the slum-dwellers used, ‘I like you.’
My face flushed with emotion. It was as if my own father had said the last three words to me. And my own father never did. The power that those simple words had-the power that Khader had over me-made me realise how neatly and completely he’d come to fill the father’s role in my life. In my innermost, secret heart, a small boy that I used to be was wishing that Khader was my father-my real father.
‘How’s Tariq?’ I asked him.
‘Tariq is very well,
‘I miss him. He’s a great kid,’ I said. Missing him, I missed my own daughter. I missed my family. I missed my friends.
‘He misses you, too,’ Khader said slowly, and with what seemed to be regret. ‘Tell me, Lin, what do you want? Why are you here? What do you really want here, in Bombay?’
We were approaching his parked car. Nazeer ran ahead on his short, thick legs to open the doors and start the engine. Khader and I stood close together, holding a stare.
‘I want to be free,’ I said.
‘But you
‘Not really.’
‘Are you talking about Australia?’
‘Yes. Not only that. But mostly that.’
‘Don’t worry’ he said. ‘Nothing will ever harm you in Bombay. I give you my word. No harm will come to you, now, while you wear my name on the medal around your neck and while you work for me. You are safe here,
He held both my hands in his and murmured a blessing, just as he’d done with the owner of the Saurabh. I walked him to his car, watching as he stooped to sit. Someone had daubed the name Sapna on a grubby wall nearby. The paint was reasonably fresh, no more than a week old. If Khader had noticed, he gave no indication of it. Nazeer slammed the door, and ran around to the other side of the car.
‘Next week, I want you to start with my friend Ghani on passports,’ Khader said. Nazeer revved the engine, awaiting the instruction to leave. ‘I think you will find the passport business interesting.’
He was smiling at me as Nazeer drove away, but it was Nazeer’s scowl, behind him, that lingered longest in my mind. The man hated me, it seemed, and sooner or later I would have to settle the matter with him. It was a measure of just how lost and lonely I was, in my exile, that I looked forward to fighting him. He was shorter than I was, but every bit as strong, and perhaps a little heavier. I knew it would be a good fight.
