Shantaram полностью

But I closed my eyes. I remembered Prabaker. I remembered that he was working so hard and so late on the night he died because he owned the taxi, and was working for himself. I’d bought the taxi for him. He’d be alive if I hadn’t bought that taxi for him. He was the little mouse that I’d trained and fed with crumbs in my prison cell; the mouse that was crucified. And sometimes the breeze of a clear, unstoned hour gave me an image of Abdullah in the minute before he died, alone in the killing circle. Alone. I should’ve been there. I was with him every day. I should’ve been with him then. Friends don’t let friends die like that-alone with death and fate. And where was his body? And what if he was Sapna? Could my friend, my friend I loved, really have been that ruthless, insane mutilator? What did Ghani say? Pieces of Madjid’s slaughtered body were found all over his house… Could I have loved the man who did that? What did it mean, that some small, insistent part of me feared that he was Sapna, and loved him anyway?

And I fired the silver bullet into my arm again, and fell back on the floating raft. And I saw the answer in the rafters overhead. And I was sure I would understand it with a little more dope, and a little more, and a little more.

I woke to see a face glaring at me and speaking fiercely in a language I couldn’t understand. It was an ugly face, a scowling face, defined by deep lines that descended in curved chines from his eyes and nose and mouth. Then the face had hands, strong hands, and I found myself lifted from the raft of my bed and propped unsteadily on my feet.

‘You come!’ Nazeer growled in English. ‘You come, now!’

‘Fuck…’ I said slowly, pausing for maximum effect,’… off.’

‘You come!’ he repeated. The anger in him was so close to the surface that he trembled with it, and opened his mouth unconsciously to bare his teeth in an underbite.

‘No,’ I said, turning to the bed once more. ‘You… go!’

He pulled me around to face him again. There was enormous power in his arms. He clamped the metal grapples of his hands on my arms.

‘Now! You come!’

I’d been three months in the room at Gupta-ji’s. They were three months of heroin every day, and food every other day, and the only exercise a short walk to the toilet and back. I didn’t know it then, but I’d lost twelve kilos-the best thirty pounds of muscle on my body. I was thin and weak and still stupid on drugs.

‘Okay,’ I said, feigning a smile. ‘Okay, let me go, will ya. I have to get my stuff.’

He relaxed his grip as I nodded toward the little table where my wallet, watch, and passport rested. Gupta-ji and Shilpa waited in the corridor beyond. I gathered up the possessions and put them into my pockets, pretending to co-operate with Nazeer. When I judged the moment to be right, I swung round at him with an overhand right. It should’ve hit him. It would’ve hit him when I was healthy and sober. I missed him completely, and threw myself off balance. Nazeer drove a fist into my solar plexus, just under the heart. I doubled over, winded and helpless, but my knees locked stiffly and my legs wouldn’t fold. He raised my head, with his left hand locked into a patch of my hair, pulled his right fist back at shoulder height, hesitated in the precision of his aim, and then rammed his fist into my jaw. The full force of his neck, shoulders, and back were in the blow. I saw Gupta-ji’s lips pout and his eyes squint in a wince, and then his face exploded in a shower of sparks that left the world darker than a cave full of sleeping bats.

It was the only time in my life I was ever knocked out cold. It seemed that I was falling forever, and the ground was impossibly far away. After a time I was dimly aware of movement, floating through space, and I thought, It’s okay, this is all a dream, a drug dream, and I’m going to wake up any minute now, and take more drugs.