‘That’s true. This Refugee Relief Tax is terrible,’ said Gustad. ‘It’s killing the middle class.’ He described how, working at the bank, he could see the trend: more and more people had to draw on their savings. Then he asked what it was like to work for the municipality.
‘Very boring,’ said Malcolm. ‘Not worth talking about.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ready to go?’
But the rush of the approaching tide, the blue-pink sky filled with comforting white shapes, the dancing foam and sea-glistened rocks, the touch of salty breezes on his face: all this was working to bestow gently upon Gustad a serenity he had not known for a very long time. He decided to stay. Malcolm had to leave for a piano lesson, but they promised to keep in touch, and shook hands on that. He thanked Malcolm for bringing him to Mount Mary; Malcolm replied it was his pleasure.
Alone, Gustad gazed at the horizon. There, the sea was calm. The tidal hustle and bustle could only be perceived near the shore. How reassuring, the tranquillity at the far edge, where the water met the sky. While the waves crashed against his rock. He felt an intense — what? joy? or sadness? did it matter? Like the sonata. Or dawn in the old days, the rising sun, its rays streaming happy golden tears into the compound, the sparrows chirping in the solitary tree.
The sun sank in the ocean, its journey done for the day. And all things that mattered in life were touched by this sweet, sad joy. One after another he remembered them. The workshop, the cheerful sound of tools, but also the silence of the end of day. Rides in his father’s four-horse carriage with the shiny brass lamps, it did not matter where to, for it was magic just to go clip-clop, until the ride ended and the horses were led away to the stable. Pappa’s wonderful parties, the food and music, the clothes, the people, the toys. And yet, always, at some point in the evening, the thought would surface — that the food would be consumed, the guests would leave, the music would stop playing, then he would have to go to bed and the lights switched off.
The opening bars of the sonata continued to obsess him, and the tears he could not permit now scalded his eyes. A wave touched the tip of his shoe, barely wetting it. The next one soaked both toes. If a person cried here, by the sea, he thought, then the tears would mix with the waves. Salt water from the eyes mixing with salt water from the ocean. The possibility filled him with wonder. He stood watching till the sea covered his rock. Then he followed the directions Malcolm had left him to get to Bandra station.
Later, as he emerged at Grant Road to walk home, the word came to him. ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.’ He repeated it softly. He would amuse Dinshawji with it tomorrow. Make up for missing today’s visit.
Chapter Sixteen
i
Dilnavaz answered the door without checking the peephole, as it was Gustad’s time to return from Parsi General. She was startled by the bearded man. When he introduced himself as Ghulam Mohammed, her first impulse was to slam the door in his face, lock and bolt it from inside.
‘Mr. Noble, please?’
‘He is out.’ Such everlasting woes that bhustaigayo Major dumped on our heads. When will it end? ‘He has gone to hospital to visit a very sick friend.’ Not that I need to explain to this sataan. But maybe he will feel sorry. If he has a heart.
‘I will wait in the compound.’ Good, she thought, don’t want him in my house. How dare he come here so shamelessly, after the things he did to us.
But she changed her mind: ‘You can sit inside.’ That way, I can warn Gustad at the door.
‘I am grateful. Thank you.’
She stayed in the kitchen, casting nervous glances into the front room. If she could only tell the black-bearded thief exactly what she thought of him. He smiled politely towards the kitchen door, curious about the black-out paper on the ventilators and the glass everywhere.
‘GustadGustadGustad,’ Tehmul yelled through the window. ‘PleasepleaseGustadplease.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. ‘I think someone is asking for Mr. Noble.’
She went to the front. ‘Yes?’
‘GustadGustadplease.’
‘Gone out.’
He scratched his armpit, deliberating, then remembered the rest of his message. ‘Phonephonephone. Veryimportantphone.’
‘Miss Kutpitia sent you?’ Tehmul nodded, using both hands under his arms like claws. ‘Stop it!’ she said, and the hands dropped. ‘Say that Gustad will come later.’ Cannot leave this black-bearded scoundrel alone. But who can be phoning on Sunday?
She did not have to wonder long, for shortly after, Gustad arrived. At the door, she whispered about the visitor. ‘Shall I stay here or go for the message?’
‘You go,’ said Gustad. ‘Better if I talk to him alone.’
Ghulam Mohammed stood up when he entered. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Gustad said, ‘Last time I made it clear. I want nothing more with you or Mr. Bilimoria.’
‘Please don’t get upset, Mr. Noble, I am sorry to disturb you and your wife. Promise, this is the last time. But remember you said you would consider Bili Boy’s request? To go to Delhi?’ He spoke appeasingly, almost cajoling. No trace of threat or hardness. ‘More than six weeks I waited for you, Mr. Noble.’
‘No, it’s impossible to go, I—’
‘Please Mr. Noble, let me show you this.’ He opened his briefcase. Not another newspaper, thought Gustad. It was.
Ghulam indicated the article. ‘About Bili Boy. If I tell you, you will think I am lying. See for yourself in the paper.’
It was still light outside, but the covered glass had let darkness overtake the room. Gustad switched on the desk lamp:
SENTENCING SOON IN RUPEES-FOR-RAW CASE
i
Following the recent judgement in the case of voice-impersonator Mr. Bilimoria, the RAW officer who defrauded the State Bank of sixty lakh rupees, the defendant’s request for a retrial was denied yesterday.
It is now learned that the head of the Special Investigation Team, appointed to determine if a retrial was necessary, had asked for more time to conduct a thorough review of the evidence. Soon after, he was killed in a car accident on Grand Trunk Road.
His replacement has brought the investigation to a rapid conclusion. The report finds that a retrial is not necessary. Sentencing is expected to follow shortly.
Gustad folded the newspaper and handed it back.
‘It was his last chance,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. ‘But the courts are in the pockets of the ones at the top. Those bastards think we are stupid, that we don’t understand what it means when the chief investigator suddenly dies in a car accident.’ He clenched and unclenched his fist. ‘Now it’s just a matter of time. Please go and meet Bili Boy. Before they finish him off. Please.’
‘Why do you keep saying finish him off? This is not Russia or China.’ But something funny going on, for sure.
Ghulam shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know how to convince you, Mr. Noble. But it’s true.’
‘OK, suppose it’s true. Does it matter whether he sees me?’ Gustad tried to sound hard. ‘He did not care about me, lying, and using me for his purposes.’
‘You are wrong, he did care. He made sure you did not get into trouble after he was arrested.’