Shantaram полностью

Vikram Patel was of average height and build, but average stopped just there, with those characteristics. His thick, curly, black hair framed a handsome, intelligent face. The bright and animated light brown eyes stared out confidently above a long, hawk-like nose and a sharp, immaculately trimmed Zapata moustache. His clothes were black-cowboy boots, jeans, shirt, and leather vest-and he wore a flat, black Spanish flamenco hat on his back, hanging from a leather thong at his throat. His bolo tie, dollar-coin belt, and hatband were all in silver. He looked like a hero in a spaghetti western movie, and that was, in fact, the inspiration for his style. Vikram had an obsession with Sergio Leone’s films, Once Upon A Time In The West, and The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Later, when I knew him better, when I watched him win the heart of the woman he loved, and when we stood together to face and fight enemies who wanted to kill me, I learned that he was a hero, and that he would’ve held his own with any of the gunslingers he adored.

Sitting opposite him on that first meeting, I was struck by the ease with which he assumed his black cowboy dream, and the stylish assurance that carried it off. Vikram is the kind of man who wears his sleeve on his heart, Karla once said. It was an affectionate joke, and one that we all understood, but there was a brittle filament of scorn in it, as well. I didn’t laugh with the others when she said it. People like Vikram, people who can wear an obsession with panache, always win me over because their honesty speaks directly to my heart.

‘No, it’s true!’ he persisted. ‘In Copenhagen there was this club. It’s what they call a telephone club. There’s all these tables, yaar, and every table has a number that’s lit up in red lights. If you see someone interesting, someone really hot, sitting at table twelve, you just dial up number twelve, and speak to them. Fucking deadly system, man. Half the time you don’t know who’s calling you, or they don’t know who you are. Sometimes you talk for an hour, trying to guess who’s talking to you, because everybody is talking at the same time. And then you tell each other what table you’re at. I had a real nice party there, I can tell you. But if they tried to do it here, it wouldn’t last five minutes, because the guys couldn’t handle it. So many Indian guys are chutias, yaar. They’d be swearing, and saying all sorts of indecent shit, the childish motherfuckers. That’s all I’m saying. In Copenhagen, the people were a lot cooler, and we’ve still got a damn long way to go, here, before India catches up to them on the cool scale.’

‘I think that things are getting better,’ Ulla volunteered. ‘I get the feeling the future of India is a good future. I am sure things will be good, you know, like better than now, and there will be a lot of better living, for a lot of the people.’

We all turned to stare at her. The table was silent. We were stunned to hear such sentiments expressed by a young woman who made her living as the sexual plaything of those Indians who were rich enough to exploit her. She was used and abused, and I, for one, would’ve expected her to be more cynical. Optimism is the first cousin of love, and it’s exactly like love in three ways: it’s pushy, it has no real sense of humour, and it turns up where you least expect it.

‘Really, my dear foolish Ulla, nothing changes at all,’ Didier said, curling his lip in disgust. ‘If you want to curdle the milk of your human kindness, or turn your compassion into contempt, get a job as a waitress or a cleaner. The two fastest ways to develop a healthy loathing for the human race and its destiny is to serve it food, or clean up after it, on the minimum wage. I have done both jobs, in those terrible days when I was forced to work for a living. It was horrible. I shudder now in thinking about it. That’s where I learned that nothing ever really changes. And to speak the truth, I am glad of it. In a better world, or a worse one, I would make no money at all.’

‘Bullshit,’ Lettie declared. ‘Things can get better, and things can get a lot worse. Ask the people in the slum. They’re experts in how much worse things can get. Isn’t that right, Karla?’

We all turned our attention to Karla. She toyed with her cup for an instant, turning it slowly in the saucer with her long index finger.

‘I think that we all, each one of us, we all have to earn our future,’ she said slowly. ‘I think the future is like anything else that’s important. It has to be earned. If we don’t earn it, we don’t have a future at all. And if we don’t earn it, if we don’t deserve it, we have to live in the present, more or less forever. Or worse, we have to live in the past. I think that’s probably what love is-a way of earning the future.’