Shantaram полностью

My thoughts drifted to Khaderbhai as I rode. He seemed well pleased with the niche role that I was playing in his mafia network. I supervised certain movements of smuggled gold through the domestic and international airports, exchanged sums of cash with agents at the five-star hotels and airline offices, and arranged to buy passports from foreigners. They were all jobs that a gora could perform more successfully and less obtrusively than an Indian. My conspicuousness was a strange and ironic form of camouflage. Foreigners were stared at in India. Somewhere in the five or more millennia of its history, the culture had decided to dispense with the casual, nonchalant glance. By the time I came to Bombay, the eye contact ranged from an ogling gaze to a gawping, goggle-eyed glare. There was nothing malicious in it. The staring eyes that found and followed me everywhere I went were innocent, curious, and almost always friendly. And that intense scrutiny had its benefits: for the most part, people stared at what I was, not what I did. Foreigners were stared into invisibility. So I wandered in and out of travel agencies or grand hotels, airline or business offices, followed in every step by eyes that saw me, but not the crimes I committed in the service of the great Khan.

I rode on past the Haji Ali Mosque, accelerating into the wide avenue of afternoon traffic, and as I rode I asked myself why Abdel Khader Khan never referred to the murder of his friend and colleague Madjid. It still nagged at me and I wanted to ask him about it, but the one time that I’d mentioned his name, soon after the murder, Khader had looked so stricken with grief that I’d let the subject lapse. And as the days had passed into weeks, and the weeks had drifted into silent months, I’d found it impossible to drag the subject into our conversations. It was as if I was the one who was keeping secrets; and no matter how thick my mind became with thoughts of the murder, I never admitted them to him. Instead, we talked business or we spoke of philosophy. And during the course of our long discussions he finally answered my big question. I remembered the excitement that had refracted in his eyes, and the pride, perhaps, when I’d proved that I understood his teaching. And as I rode from Leopold’s to my meeting with Lisa on that day of Didier’s confession, I remembered word-by-word and smile-by-smile the great Khan’s explanation.

‘And so, you understand the principle of the argument to this point?’

‘Yes,’ I answered him. I’d come to his Dongri mansion that night, a week before, to give him a report on the changes I’d recommended and initiated in the passport factory run by Abdel Ghani. With Ghani’s approval and support, we’d expanded the operation to include a full package of identity documents-driver’s licences, bank accounts, credit cards, even memberships of sports clubs. Khader was delighted with the progress of those innovations, but he soon changed the subject to talk of his favourite themes: good and evil, and the purpose of life.

‘Perhaps you can tell it back to me,’ he nodded, looking into the playful fling and splash of the fountain’s plumes of water. His elbows rested on the arms of the white cane armchair, and the temple of his fingertips peaked at his lips and the neat, silver-grey moustache.

‘Ah… sure. You were saying that the whole universe is moving toward some ultimate complexity. This has been going on since the universe began, and physicists call it the tendency toward complexity. And… anything that kicks this along and helps it is good, and anything that hinders it is evil.’

‘Very good,’ Khader said, raising one eyebrow in the smile he offered me. As was so often the case, I wasn’t sure if he was expressing approval or mockery or both. It seemed, with Khader, that he never felt or expressed any one emotion without feeling something of its opposite. That might be true for all of us, to some extent. But with him, with lord Abdel Khader Khan, it wasn’t possible to know what he really thought or felt about you. The one and only time that I saw the whole of the truth in his eyes-on a snow-covered mountain called Sorrow’s Reward-it was already too late, and I never saw it again.

‘And this final complexity’ he added, ‘it can be called God, or the Universal Spirit, or the Ultimate Complexity, as you please. For myself, there is no problem in calling it God. The whole universe is moving toward God, in a tendency toward the ultimate complexity that God is.’

‘That still leaves me with the question I asked you last time. How do you decide how any one thing is good or evil?’

‘That is true. I promised you an answer to this very good question then, young Mr. Lin, and you will have it. But, first, you must answer a question for me. Why is killing wrong?’

‘Well, I don’t think it is always wrong.’