"This is the truth, I assure you. There was a small war over this business. See, here, even now as we speak, the victors arrive.
That is Bairam, and his men. He is Iranian. He is an enforcer, and one of those who works for Abdul Ghani, who, in his turn, works for one of the great crime lords of the city, Abdel Khader Khan. They won this little war, and now it is they who control the business in passport books."
He gestured with a slight nod of his head to point out a group of young men, dressed in stylish western jeans and jackets, who'd just entered through one of the arches. They walked to the manager's desk and greeted the owners of Leopold's warmly before taking a table on the far side of the room. The leader of their group was a tall, heavy-set man in his early thirties. He lifted his plump, jovial face above the heads of his friends and swept the room from right to left, acknowledging deferential nods and friendly smiles from a number of acquaintances at other tables.
As his eyes found us, Didier waved a greeting.
"Blood," he said softly, through his bright smile. "For a time yet, these passports will be stamped in blood. For me it is nothing. In matters of food I am French, in matters of love I am Italian, and in matters of business I am Swiss. Very Swiss.
Strictly neutral. But there will be more blood on these books, of that I am sure."
He turned to me and blinked once, twice, as if severing the thread of daydream with his thick lashes.
"I must be drunk," he said with pleasurable surprise. "Let's have another drink."
"You go ahead. I'll sit on this one. How much do these passports cost?"
"Anything from one hundred to one thousand-dollars, of course.
Do you want to buy one?"
"No..."
"Ah. This is a Bombay gold dealer's no. It is a no that means maybe, and the more passionate the no, the more definite the maybe. When you want one, come to me. I will arrange it for you- for a small commission, of course."
"You make a lot of... commissions here?"
"Mmm, it goes. I cannot complain," he grinned, his blue eyes gleaming through lenses of pink, alcoholic wetness. "I make ends meet, as they say, and when they meet I get a payment from both of the ends. Just now, tonight, I made the arrangements for a sale-two kilos of Manali hashish. You see those Italian tourists, over there, by the fruits, the fellow with the long, blonde hair, and the girl in red? They wanted to buy. Someone-you see him, out there on the street, the one with a dirty shirt and no shoes, waiting for his commission-he put them to me, and then I in my turn put them to Ajay. He makes hashish business, and he is an excellent criminal.
See now, he sits with them, and all are smiling. The deal is done. My work for this night is finished. I am a free man!"
He thumped the table for another drink, but when the small bottle arrived he grasped it for a while with both hands, staring at it with a brooding, pensive expression.
"How long will you stay in Bombay?" he asked, without looking at me.
"I don't know. It's funny, everyone seems to ask me that in the last few days."
"You have already stayed longer than the usual. Most people cannot depart the city too quickly."
"There's a guide, Prabaker's his name, do you know him?"
"Prabaker Kharre? The big smile?"
"That's him. He's been showing me around for weeks now. I've seen all the temples and museums and art galleries, and a lot of the bazaars. From tomorrow morning he's promised to show me something of the other side of the city-the really city, he called it. He made it sound interesting. I'll stick around for that, and make my mind up then where I want to go next. I'm in no hurry."
"It's a very sad thing, to be in no hurry, and I would not be so free in admitting it, if I were you," he said, still staring at the bottle. When he wasn't smiling his face looked flabby, slack, and pallid grey. He was unwell, but it was the kind of unwell you have to work at. "We have a saying in Marseilles: a man in no hurry gets nowhere fast. I have been in no hurry for eight years."
Suddenly his mood changed. He poured a splash from the bottle, looked at me with a smile, and raised his glass.
"So, let's drink! To Bombay, a fine place to be in no hurry! And to civilised policemen, who will accept a bribe, in the interests of the order, if not of the law. To _baksheesh!"
"I'll drink to that," I said, clattering my glass against his in the toast. "So, tell me, Didier, what keeps you here in Bombay?"
"I am French," he replied, admiring the dew on his half-raised glass, "I am gay, I am Jewish, and I am a criminal, more or less in that order. Bombay is the only city I have ever found that allows me to be all four of those things, at the same time."
We laughed, and drank, and he turned his gaze on the wide room, his hungry eyes finally coming to rest on a group of Indian men who sat near one of the entrances. He studied them for a while, sipping slowly at his drink.
"Well, if you decide to stay, you have picked a good time for it.
