‘My dear friend, you can stand to eat a meal-if you must-and you can stand to make love-if you are able-but it is impossible to stand and drink whisky. It is the act of a barbarian. A man who stands up to drink a noble alcohol like whisky, in all but a toast to some noble thing or purpose, is a beast-a man who will stop at nothing.’
So we sat, and he raised his glass immediately to toast with mine.
‘To the living!’ he offered.
‘And the dead?’ I asked, my glass still on the table.
‘And the dead!’ he replied, his smile wide and warm.
I raised my glass in turn, clinked it against his, and threw back the double.
‘Now,’ he said firmly, the smile discarded as swiftly as it had risen to his eyes. ‘What is the trouble?’
‘Where do you want me to start?’ I scoffed.
‘No, my friend. I am not talking just about the war. There is something else, something very determined in your face, and I want to know the heart of it.’
I stared back at him in silence, secretly delighted to be back in the company of someone who knew me well enough to read between the frown lines.
‘Come on, Lin. There is too much trouble in your eyes. What is the problem? If you want, if it is easier, you can begin by telling me what happened in Afghanistan.’
‘Khader’s dead,’ I said flatly, staring at the empty glass in my hand.
‘No!’ he gasped, fearful and resentful, somehow, in the same quick response.
‘Yes.’
‘No, no, no. I would hear something… The whole city would know it.’
‘I saw his body. I helped to drag it up the mountain to our camp. I helped them bury him. He’s dead. They’re all dead. We’re the only ones left from here-Nazeer, Mahmoud, and me.’
‘Abdel Khader… It can’t be…’
Didier was ashen-faced, and the grey seemed to move even into his eyes. Stricken by the news-he looked as though someone had struck him hard on the face-he slumped in his chair and his jaw fell open. He began to slip sideways in the chair, and I was afraid that he would fall to the floor or even suffer a stroke.
‘Take it easy,’ I said softly. ‘Don’t go to fuckin’ pieces on me, Didier. You look like shit, man. Snap out of it!’
His weary eyes drifted up to meet mine.
‘There are some things, Lin, that simply cannot be. I am twelve, thirteen years in Bombay, and always there is Abdel Khader Khan…’
He dropped his gaze again, and lapsed into a reverie so rich in thought and feeling that his head twitched and his lower lip trembled in the turbulence of it. I was worried. I’d seen men go under before. In prison, I’d watched men succumb, fragmented by fear and shame, and then slaughtered by solitude. But that was a process: it took weeks, months, or years. Didier’s collapse was the work of seconds, and I was watching him crumple and fade from one heartbeat to the next.
I moved around the table and sat beside him, pulling him close to me with an arm around his shoulder.
‘Didier!’ I hissed in a harsh whisper. ‘I’ve got to go. Do you hear me? I came in to find out about my stuff-the stuff I left with you while I was at Nazeer’s, getting off the dope. Remember? I left my bike, my Enfield, with you. I left my passports and my money and some other stuff. Do you remember? It’s very important. I need that stuff, Didier. Do you remember?’
‘Yes, but of course,’ he replied, coming to himself with a grumpy little shake of his jaw. ‘Your things are all safe. Have no fear of that. I have all your things.’
‘Do you still have the apartment in Merriweather Road?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that where my things are? Do you have my things there?’
‘What?’
‘For God’s sake, Didier! Snap out of it! Come on. We’re going to get up together and walk to your apartment. I need to shave and shower and get organised. I’ve got something… something important to do. I
He blinked, and turned his head to look at me, his upper lip curling in the familiar sneer.
‘What is the meaning of such a remark?’ he demanded indignantly. ‘Didier Levy does not fuck up on
At Didier’s apartment I shaved, showered, and changed into the new clothes. Didier insisted that I eat something. He cooked an omelette while I went through the two boxes of my belongings to find my stash of money-about nine thousand American dollars-the keys to my bike, and my best false passport. It was a Canadian book, with my photo and details inserted in it. The false tourist visa had expired. I had to renew it quickly. If anything went wrong in what I planned to do, I would need plenty of money and a good, clean book.
‘Where are you going now?’ Didier asked as I pushed the last forkful of food into my mouth, and stood to rinse the dishes in the sink.
‘First, I have to fix up my passport,’ I answered him, still chewing. ‘Then I’m going to see Madame Zhou.’
‘You
