Shantaram полностью

We followed the black vines of relay cables from the generator vans outside the hotel. They led us through a side entrance and past a procession of bustling assistants to the banquet room, which had been hired as a set. The room was filled with people, powerful lights, dazzling reflector panels, cameras, and equipment. Seconds after we entered, someone shouted Quiet, please] And then a riotous musical number began.

Hindi movies aren’t to everyone’s taste. Some foreigners I’d dealt with had told me that they loathed the kaleidoscopic turmoil of musical numbers, bursting stochastically between weeping mothers, sighing infatuates, and brawling villains. I understood what they meant, but I didn’t agree with them. A year before, Johnny Cigar had told me that in former lives I must’ve been at least six different Indian personalities. I’d taken it as a high compliment, but it wasn’t until I saw my first Bollywood movie shoot that I knew at last, and exactly, what he’d meant. I loved the singing, the dancing, and the music with the whole of my heart from the very first instant.

The producers had hired a two-thousand-watt amplifier. The music crashed through the banquet room and rattled into our bones. The colours were from a tropical sea. The million lights were as dazzling as a sun-struck lake. The faces were as beautiful as those carved on temple walls. The dancing was a frenzy of excited, exuberant lasciviousness and ancient classical skills. And the whole, improbably coherent expression of love and life, drama and comedy, was articulated in the delicate, unfurled elegance of a graceful hand, or the wink of a seductive eye.

For an hour we watched as the dance number was rehearsed and refined and finally recorded on film. During a break, after that, Kalpana introduced me to Cliff De Souza and Chandra Mehta, two of the four producers of the film. De Souza was a tall, curly-haired, thirty-year-old Goan with a disarming grin and a loping walk. Chandra Mehta was closer to forty. He was overweight, but comfortable with it: one of those big men who expand to fit a big idea of themselves. I liked both men and, although they were too busy to talk for long, that first meeting was cordial and communicative.

I offered Lisa a lift back to town, but she’d arranged to ride with Kalpana, and she chose to wait. I gave her the phone number at my new apartment, telling her to call if she needed me. On my way out through the foyer, I saw Kavita Singh also leaving the hotel. We’d both been so busy in recent months-she with writing about crimes, and me with committing them-that we hadn’t seen one another for many weeks.

‘Kavita!’ I called out, running forward to catch her. ‘Just the woman I wanted to see! The number-one reporter, on Bombay’s number-one newspaper. How are you? You… look… great]’

She was dressed in a silk pantsuit. It was the colour of bleached bone. She carried a linen handbag in the same colour. The single-breasted jacket descended to a deep decolletage, and it was obvious that she was wearing nothing under the jacket.

‘Oh, come off it!’ she snapped, grinning and embarrassed. ‘This is my dressed-to-kill outfit. I had to interview Vasant Lai. I just came out of there.’

‘You’re moving in powerful circles,’ I said, recalling photos of the populist politician. His incitements to communal violence had resulted in rioting, arson, and murder. Each time I saw him on television or read one of his bigoted speeches in the newspaper, he made me think of the brutal madman who called himself Sapna: a legal, political version of the psychopathic killer.

‘It was a snake-pit up there in his suite, I tell you, baba. But I got my interview. He has a weakness for big tits.’ She whipped a finger into my face. ‘Don’t say anything.’

‘Hey!’ I pacified her, raising both hands and wagging my head. ‘I’m… saying nothing at all, yaar. Absolutely nothing. I’m looking, mind you, and I wish I had three eyes, but I’m saying nothing at all!’

‘You bastard!’ she hissed, laughing through gritted teeth. ‘Ah, shit, what’s happening to the world, man, when one of the most important guys in the city won’t talk to you, but will give a two-hour interview to your tits! Men are such sick fuckers, don’t you think?’

‘You got me there, Kavita,’ I sighed.

‘Fuckin’ pigs, yaar.’

‘Can’t argue with that. When you’re right, you’re right.’ She eyed me suspiciously.

‘What are you being so damn agreeable about, Lin?’

‘Listen, where are you going?’

‘What?’

‘Where are you going? Right now, I mean.’

‘I was going to take a cab back to town. I’m living near Flora Fountain now.’

‘How about I give you a lift, on my bike? I want to talk to you. I want you to help me with a problem.’

Kavita didn’t know me well. Her eyes were the colour of bark on a cinnamon tree, flecked with golden sparks. She looked me up and down with those eyes, and the forensic examination left her somewhere short of inspired reassurance.

‘What kind of a problem?’ she asked.