Shantaram полностью

‘I like the guy,’ Vikram put in. ‘Did you all know he’s a fantastic horseman? He can ride like Clint Eastwood, yaar. I saw him at Chowpatty last week, riding on the beach with this gorgeous, blonde, Swedish chick. He rode just like Clint, in High Plains Drifter, I’m telling you. Fucking deadly.’

‘Oh, well, he rides a horse,’ Lettie said. ‘How could I have been so wrong about him? I take it all back then.’

‘He’s got a cool hi-fi in his apartment, too,’ Vikram added, apparently oblivious to Lettie’s mood. ‘And some damn fine original Italian movie scores.’

‘That’s it! I’m off!’ Lettie declared, standing and grabbing her handbag and the book she’d brought with her. Her red hair, falling in gentle curls that framed her face, trembled with her irritation. Her pale skin stretched so flawlessly over the soft curves of her heart-shaped face that for a moment, in the bright white light, she was a furious, marble Madonna, and I recalled what Karla had said of her: I think Lettie’s the most spiritual of all of us…

Vikram jumped to his feet with her.

‘I’ll walk you to your hotel. I’m going your way.’

‘Is that right?’ Lettie asked, rounding on him so swiftly that he flinched. ‘Which way would that be then?’

‘I… I… I’m going, kind of, everywhere, yaar. I’m taking a very long walk, like. So… so… wherever you’re going, I’ll be going your way.’

‘Oh, all right, if you must,’ she murmured, her teeth clenched and her eyes flashing blue sparks. ‘Karla me love, see you at the Taj, tomorrow, for coffee. I promise not to be late this time.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Karla agreed.

‘Well, bye all!’ Lettie said, waving.

‘Yeah, me too!’ Vikram added, rushing after her.

‘You know, the thing I like most about Letitia,’ Didier mused, ‘is that no little bit of her is French. Our culture, the French culture, is so pervasive and influential that almost everyone, in the whole world, is at least a little bit French. This is especially so for women. Almost every woman in the world is French, in some way. But Letitia, she is the most un-French woman I have ever known.’

‘You’re full of it, Didier,’ Kavita remarked. ‘Tonight more than most nights. What is it-did you fall in love, or out of love?’

He sighed, and stared at his hands, folded one on top the other.

‘A little of both, I think. I am feeling very blue. Federico-you know him-has found religion. It is a terrible business, and it has wounded me, I confess. In truth, his saintliness has broken my heart. But enough of that. Imtiaz Dharker has a new exhibition at the Jehangir. Her work is always sensuous, and a little bit wild, and it brings me to myself again. Kavita, would you like to see it with me?’

‘Sure,’ Kavita smiled. ‘I’d be happy to.’

‘I’ll walk to the Regal Junction with you,’ Ulla sighed. ‘I have to meet Modena.’

They rose and said goodbye, and walked through the Causeway arch, but then Didier returned and stood beside me at the table. Resting a hand on my shoulder as if to steady himself, he smiled down at me with an expression of surprisingly tender affection.

‘Go with him, Lin,’ he said. ‘Go with Prabaker, to the village. Every city in the world has a village in its heart. You will never understand the city, unless you first understand the village. Go there. When you return, I will see what India has made of you. Bonne chance!’

He hurried off, leaving me alone with Karla. When Didier and the others were at the table, the restaurant had been noisy. Suddenly, all was quiet, or it seemed to be, and I had the impression that every word I spoke would be echoed, from table to table, in the large room.

‘Are you leaving us?’ Karla asked, mercifully speaking first.

‘Well, Prabaker invited me to go with him on a trip to his parents’ village. His native place, he calls it.’

‘And you’re going?’

‘Yes, yes, I think I will. It’s something of an honour to be asked, I take it. He told me he goes back to his village, to visit his parents, once every six months or so. He’s done that for the last nine years, since he’s been working the tourist beat in Bombay. But I’m the first foreigner he ever invited to go there with him.’

She winked at me, the start of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

‘You may not be the first one he asked. You may be the first one of his tourists crazy enough to actually say yes, but it amounts to the same thing.’

‘Do you think I’m crazy to accept the invitation?’

‘Not at all! Or at least, crazy in the right way, like the rest of us. Where is the village?’

‘I don’t know, exactly. It’s in the north of the state. He told me it takes a train and two bus rides to get there.’

‘Didier’s right. You have to go. If you want to stay here, in Bombay, as you say, then you should spend some time in the village. The village is the key.’

A passing waiter took our last order, and moments later brought a banana lassi for Karla and a chai for me.