He waited under the portico. No danger of being observed, everyone busy with lunch. There she is. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr. Noble.’
‘My pleasure, Miss Coutino. Where would you like to go?’
‘Please call me Laurie.’ He smiled, nodded. ‘Anywhere, Mr. Noble, as long as it’s private. I don’t want people to see us together and get the wrong idea.’
‘Quite right. There is a nice restaurant at the corner.’
‘I’ve seen it from outside,’ said Laurie.
‘They have private rooms, maybe we can talk there.’
They walked to the corner, stepping carefully. The rain had left fresh, deep puddles. ‘Mr. Noble, were you in the army?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I’ve seen you limping. I wondered if that’s what it was. Somehow, the way you walk, your shoulders, your moustache, make you look like a military man.’
Flattered, he modestly laughed away what he assumed was a compliment, in the manner that an army man would. ‘No. This injury was not received in the service of my country. It was in the service of my family.’
Intrigued by his way of putting it, she asked how. ‘To save the life of my eldest,’ he said, ‘nine years ago I jumped from a moving bus in the path of a car.’ He told her about the rainy morning, the bus conductor, Sohrab’s fall, the visit to Madhiwalla Bonesetter.
‘Does this bonesetter still practise?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes. But he is very old now, he does not hold his clinics as often as before.’
‘I must remember his name, in case I ever break a bone.’
‘You must take good care of them.’ He felt bold enough to add, ‘They are too beautiful to break.’
She blushed and smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr. Noble.’ The convent-girl lilt in her voice again. They walked silently past the great traffic circle. He thought of the last time he had been at the restaurant. Just over three months ago. With Dinshawji. But it seems like years. Time’s tricks. And Ghulam Mohammed’s accident. Wish the bastard had died. Those heads neatly sliced…Like a goaswalla’s knife — bhup! And Tehmul trying to pick up the cat. And Jimmy’s bloody letter.
The restaurant was crowded downstairs, the waiters spreading the usual odours and noises as they dashed back and forth. Fried samosas, overboiled tea, pungent rugdaa. Clatter of plates and glasses slammed before customers. Orders yelled to the kitchen. Kitchen yelling back. ‘Three teas, paani-kum, one paneer mattar! Idli dosa, sambhar, lassi!’ And over the cashier’s head, two more handwritten signs had been added, beneath the Rice Plate Always Ready sign. One said, No Combing Hair In Restaurant. The other injunction was sterner, and more sweeping: Don’t Discuss God & Politics.
Upstairs, the private rooms were empty. A flight of stairs steep as a ladder led to the mezzanine. He followed Laurie, her bottom undulating at his eye-level, ascending at the same rate as his eyes. Dinshawji should be watching. Bum within nibbling range. Omelette sandwich, and Laurie’s bum for dessert.
The stairs gave on to a very small landing that led to six doors. He opened the nearest one. Another sign greeted them: Please Ring Bell For Waiter Under Table. ‘Now why would they put the waiter under the table?’ said Gustad.
‘You have a sense of humour just like your friend Mr. Dinshawji,’ she said, laughing appreciatively. It was the first time he had heard her laugh. Started with a snort, segued into a bray. Such a pretty girl, but the ugliest laugh I ever heard.
The room contained four bentwood chairs and a glass-covered wooden table identical to the ones downstairs. The menu was under the dirty glass. The extras, for the five-rupee minimum charge, were air-conditioned privacy and a worn, beaten sofa with stains on the covers. The room spoke blatantly of the single sordid purpose it was meant for. He saw her eyes examining the well-used sofa. ‘I’m sorry about this place. I have never been here. Upstairs, I mean. Didn’t know it was like this.’
‘That’s all right. At least we can talk privately.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We better order something. Then you can tell me what the problem is.’
‘It’s not really a…yes, it is a problem.’
Their heads converged to share the menu. Pretending to read, he watched her from the corner of his eye. Dinshu was right, very attractive girl. Her upper lip had an exquisite curve, the hint of a pout that accounted for her sexiness.
‘Ready?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘Now where’s the bell for the waiter?’ He groped under the table. She felt around too, and their hands met. He pulled away quickly, as though jolted by electricity. ‘Sorry,’ he said awkwardly.
‘It’s all right,’ she smiled. The bell button was located on the leg at the far side, and she rang. Moments later, the waiter knocked discreetly, not to endanger his tip. He knew from experience that anything could develop in these rooms between the bell and his arrival.
‘Yes, yes, come in,’ said Gustad irritatedly, to show Laurie that he was offended at the waiter’s assumptions. They sat erect, very formal, with arms folded.
The waiter took the order, fearing that things were not passionate enough. No pre-luncheon concupiscence here. Unhappy men gave small tips. Perhaps they needed reassuring. ‘Please sir, in exactly five minutes with the food I will return. I will be knocking, then afterwards you will have complete privacy.’
Gustad shook his head as the door shut. ‘One-track mind.’
‘Not his fault,’ said Laurie. ‘It’s a one-track room.’
An audacious remark, he thought. ‘Now tell me why you wanted to see me.’
‘Yes.’ She passed a hand over her hair, and adjusted her collar. ‘It’s difficult to talk about it, but I think the best thing is to tell you rather than the manager.’
‘Mr. Madon? What’s wrong?’
She took a deep breath. ‘It’s your friend, Mr. Dinshawji.’
Oh no, thought Gustad.
She continued, ‘You know how he carries on all the time, playing the fool.’
‘Sure. Dinshawji does that with everyone.’
‘I know. That’s why I did not mind it. Joking, dancing, singing, all that is OK.’ She inspected her nails. ‘I don’t know if you heard, but one day he began telling me he wants me to meet his lorri.’ She bit her lower lip, hesitating. ‘ “You can play with my little lorri,” he said, “such fun two of you will have together.” ’ Now she looked him in the eye. ‘You know, at first I thought it was his daughter or niece, or something like that, and I would smile and say, “Sure, I would love to.” ’
Gustad coloured. It was difficult to continue meeting her eye. But he said nothing, let her go on.
‘Then recently, I found out what it really means. Can you imagine how I felt?’
Gustad searched desperately for words. Embarrassed before Laurie, furious at Dinshawji, fearful about Madon, he could only say: ‘I am so sorry about it. I did try to make him stop.’
‘You know how I feel when I think of those men laughing every time he said it? It’s so difficult to come to work, I want to resign and tell Mr. Madon why.’ Her tone, even and controlled so far, grew emotional. ‘If someone speaks my name now, no matter who, I feel bad. It reminds me of the dirty meaning. Mr. Dinshawji has ruined my own name for me.’ She touched her hanky to the corner of one eye.
She is really upset, Dinshu’s had it. Gone too far this time. And if it reaches Mr. Madon’s ears…Casanova of Flora Fountain castrated. He leaned forward earnestly. ‘Please don’t say that. Laurie is a beautiful name. That will never ever change just because of some silly slang word.’