‘No, no, no—’ said Pavel Havel. He looked thoroughly worried.
‘Impossible,’ said Novak, his eyes boring into Haresh, willing him to give in.
Kurilla did not say anything. He looked at the pair of shoes. He knew that no supervisor — and only one Indian — had been allocated a place among the forty or so houses in the walled compound. But he was glad to see the excellence of the training of his old college vindicated by Haresh. Among his Praha colleagues, most of whom had learned their skills on the job, Kurilla’s technical training was often treated as something of a joke.
Haresh too had found out from Havel’s Indian assistant that only one Indian had so far gained admittance into the hallowed colony — a manager from the Accounts Department.
He sensed Kurilla’s sympathy and Havel’s hesitancy. Even the icy Novak had a little earlier — and most uncharacteristically for him — praised his work in three brief syllables. So there appeared to be hope.
‘I want above everything else to work for Praha,’ said Haresh with feeling. ‘You can see how much I care for quality. That is what has drawn me to your company. I have been an officer at the Cawnpore Leather and Footwear Company, and I was offered a manager’s, an officer’s grade at James Hawley, so my living in the compound would not be so extraordinary. I cannot take the job otherwise. I am sorry. I want to work here so much that I am willing to compromise on salary and on status. Keep me as a foreman, a supervisor, if you wish, and pay me less than I was getting before. But please compromise on this small matter of accommodation.’
There was a confabulation in Czech. The Managing Director was out of the country and could not be consulted. More importantly, the Chairman, who sometimes treated the Czechs as brusquely as they treated Indians, would not be sympathetic to what he would see as their exclusivism. If Haresh refused the job after all this, there would be hell to pay.
Like a litigant listening to legal incomprehensibilities in court, incomprehensibilities that would decide his fortune, Haresh listened to the three men, sensing from their tones and gestures and the occasional word—‘colony’, ‘club’, ‘Khandelwal’, ‘Middlehampton’, ‘Jan Tomin’ and so on — that Kurilla had persuaded Havel and that both were now bearing down on Novak. Novak’s replies were brief, trenchant, entrenched, consisting only rarely of more than five or six syllables. Then, quite suddenly, Novak made an expressive gesture — he half shrugged, he half threw up his hands. He did not utter a word or even a nod of assent, but there was no further dissent from him either.
Pavel Havel turned to Haresh with a broad smile.
‘Welcome — welcome to Praha!’ he said, as if he were offering Haresh the keys to the kingdom of heaven.
Haresh beamed with pleasure, as if indeed he were.
And everyone civilly shook hands.
13.29
Arun Mehra and his friend Billy Irani were sitting on the verandah of the Calcutta Club overlooking the lawn. It was lunchtime. The waiter had not yet come around to take his order for a drink. Arun, however, did not wish to press the little brass bell at his white cane table. As a waiter walked past a few yards away, Arun got his attention by patting the top of his left hand with his right.
‘Abdar!’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What’ll you have, Billy?’
‘A gimlet.’
‘One gimlet and one Tom Collins.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The drinks came around in due course. Both of them ordered grilled fish for lunch.
They were still on their drinks when Arun, looking around, said: ‘That’s Khandelwal sitting there by himself — the Praha chap.’
Billy’s comment was relaxed: ‘These Marwaris — there was a time when membership in this club meant something.’
They had both on several occasions noted with distaste Khandelwal’s drinking habits. Being limited at home by the powerful Mrs Khandelwal to one drink in the evening, Khandelwal made it his business to get in as many as possible during the day.
But Arun today found nothing much to object to in Khandelwal’s presence, particularly in the fact that he was sitting alone and drinking his fourth Scotch. Mrs Rupa Mehra had written to Arun, ordering him to acquaint himself with Haresh Khanna and to write to her telling her what he thought of him. Haresh apparently had got some job or other in Praha and lived and worked in Prahapore.
It would have been too demeaning for Arun to approach him directly, and he had been wondering how to go about it. But yes, he could certainly mention the matter to the Chairman of Praha and perhaps inveigle a common invitation to tea — on neutral grounds. Here was an excellent opportunity.
Billy was continuing: ‘It’s remarkable. He no sooner finishes one than another’s at his elbow. He never knows when to stop.’
Arun laughed. Then another thought struck him. ‘Oh, by the way — Meenakshi’s expecting again.’
‘Expecting?’ Billy was looking slightly blank.
‘Yes, you know, old fellow, preggers!’
‘Ah, yes, yes, preggers!’ Billy Irani nodded his head. Then suddenly a thought struck him, and he began to look bewildered.
‘Are you feeling all right, old chap? Another? Abdar—’
The waiter came by. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Another gimlet. Though we were taking the usual precautions. Still, it shows you never can tell. Determined fellows—’
‘Fellows?’
‘Yes, you know, babies. They want to appear, so they do so without consulting their parents. Meenakshi’s been looking worried — but I suppose it’s all for the best. Aparna could do with a brother. Or sister, I suppose. I say, Billy, I might have to go over and have a few words with Khandelwal. It’s about the new hiring policies of our firm. Praha apparently have been taking on some Indians lately, and I might get a few ideas from him — well, I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Oh, no, no — not at all.’
‘You’re looking rather poorly. Is it the sun? We can change tables.’
‘No, no — just tired — working too hard, I suppose.’
‘Well, take it easy. Doesn’t Shireen tick you off? Act as a moderating influence and all that?’ Arun smiled as he moved away.
‘Shireen?’ Billy’s handsome face was pale. His mouth was open in rather a fish-like gape. ‘Oh, yes, Shireen.’
Arun wondered for a second whether Billy’s IQ had sunk to zero, but his mind was soon occupied with other thoughts. He winched up a smile as he approached Mr Khandelwal’s table at the far end of the verandah.
‘Ah, Mr Khandelwal. Good to see you.’
Mr Khandelwal looked up, half sozzled already, but very genially. This was Arun Mehra, one of a handful of young men in Calcutta who had been accepted into the British commercial establishment — and who with their wives were therefore the leaders of Indian society in Calcutta. Chairman of Praha though he was, he was flattered to be recognized by Arun, to whom he had once been introduced at the races. Khandelwal remembered that the young man had an exceedingly glamorous wife, but he had a bad memory for names, and groped around a bit before Arun, who could not believe that anyone could have forgotten him, said, ‘Arun Mehra.’
‘Yes, yes, of course — Bentsen Pryce.’
Arun was mollified.
‘I wonder if I could have a few words with you, Mr Khandelwal,’ he said.
Mr Khandelwal gestured towards a chair and Arun sat down.
‘Will you have a drink?’ offered Mr Khandelwal, his hand poised above the small brass bell.