Shantaram полностью

‘We will see what can be done about your problems, Ramu,’ Khaderbhai said slowly. The affectionate diminutive of the name Ramesh, Ramu, provoked a wide, child’s smile on the young face. ‘You will come and see me tomorrow, at two o’clock sharp. We will talk further. We will help you, Inshallah. Oh, and Ramu-there will be no need to speak to your father about this, until the problem, Inshallah, has been solved.’

Ramesh looked as though he wanted to seize Khader’s hand and kiss it, but he simply bowed and backed away, muttering his thanks. Abdullah and the driver had ordered plates of fruit salad and coconut yoghurt, and they ate with noisy appreciation when the four of us were alone. Khaderbhai and I had ordered only mango-flavoured lassi. As we sipped the iced drinks, another visitor came to the window of the car. It was the chief officer of the Haji Ali police post.

‘A great honour to see you again, Khaderji,’ he said, his face writhing into a grimace that was either a reaction to stomach cramp, or an oily smile. He spoke Hindi with the strong accent of some dialect, and I found it difficult to understand. He asked after Khaderbhai’s family, and then made some reference to business interests.

Abdullah put his empty plate down on the front seat, and drew a packet, wrapped in newspapers, from under the seat. He passed it across to Khader, who opened a corner of the packet to reveal a thick bundle of hundred-rupee notes, and then passed it casually through the window to the cop. It was done so openly, and even ostentatiously, that I felt sure it was important to Khader that everyone within a hundred metres would see the bribe made and taken.

The cop scrunched the parcel into the front of his shirt, and leaned aside to spit twice noisily, for luck. He came close to the window once more, and began to speak in a quick, urgent murmur. I caught the words body and bargain, and something about the Thief Bazaar, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Khader silenced him with a raised hand. Abdullah looked from Khader to me, and then broke into a boyish grin.

‘Come with me, Mr. Lin,’ he said quietly. ‘We will see the mosque, isn’t it?’

As we got out of the car I heard the cop say loudly, The gora speaks Hindi? Bhagwan save us from foreigners!

We walked to a deserted spot on the sea wall. The mosque, at Haji Ali, was built upon a small, flat island that was connected to the mainland by a stone path, three hundred and thirty-three steps long. From dawn to dusk, the tide permitting, that broad pathway was thronged with pilgrims and tourists. At high tide, the path was completely submerged, and deep waters isolated the island. Seen from the retaining wall on the road beside the sea, the mosque at night seemed like a great moored ship. Brass lanterns, throwing green and yellow light, swung from brackets on the marble walls. In the moonlight, the teardrop arches and rounded contours glowed white and became the sails of that mystic ship, and the minarets were so many towering spars.

On that night, the swollen, flattened, yellow moon-known in the slum as a grieving moon-hovered hypnotic-full, above the mosque. There was a breeze from the sea, but the air was warm and humid. Swarms of bats flying overhead, along the lines of electrical wires, thousands of them, were like musical notes on a strip of sheet music. A very small girl, awake past her bedtime and still selling ribbons of jasmine flowers, came up to us and gave Abdullah a garland. He reached into his pocket to give her some money, but she refused, laughing, and walked away singing the chorus of a song from a popular Hindi movie.

‘There is no act of faith more beautiful than the generosity of the very poor,’ Abdullah said, in his quiet tone. I had the impression that he never raised his voice above that softness.

‘You speak English very well,’ I commented, genuinely impressed by the sophisticated thought and the way he’d expressed it.

‘No, I don’t speak well. I knew a woman, and she taught me those words,’ he replied. I waited for more, and he hesitated, looking out over the sea, but when he spoke again it was to change the subject. ‘Tell me, Mr. Lin, that time at the den of the Standing Babas, when that man was coming for you with a sword-what would you have done if I was not there?’

‘I would’ve fought him.’

‘I think…’ He turned to stare into my eyes, and I felt my scalp tightening with an unaccountable dread. ‘I think you would have died. You would have been murdered, and you would now be dead.’

‘No. He had a sword, but he was old, and he was crazy. I would’ve beaten him.’