Hullo, Das said, sticking out his hand, I’m—
Yes, Jai Lal said, tapping his hand perfunctorily, we’ve met, haven’t we?
Jal Lal waved a few cards with careless arrogance and they were soon out of the airport. The air outside was like hot steam, and the sweat leapt from Das’s pores. He followed Jai Lal to his car, suppressing an urge to linger in the airport and watch the extraordinary assortment of people. But Jai Lal was already at his car, arguing with the porter in Hindi.
As soon as Das had shut his door, Jai Lal said: What happened, Das? Why did you take so long? I must have sent you over a dozen telexes. Couldn’t you have come a little earlier?
With an effort Das wrenched his eyes away from the billowing concrete folds of the airport’s tent-like roof. He sighed: You don’t know what trouble I’ve been having. My DIG wanted a replacement, one particular replacement, for my post, and it took months and months to arrange the transfer. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Let me just say I’m lucky to be here at all. But forget all that. Have there been any developments in the case?
Lal laughed acidly. He reached out and pressed a button. He waited until the metallic twanging of an electric guitar had filled the car. Yes, he said, you could say there’ve been developments in the case. In fact you could call your case overdeveloped. Your man’s dead.
Oh? After the plane and the airport, Das could find no stronger reaction in himself. I suppose, he said, I’d better telex back to stop them sending next week’s foreign allowance.
Lal thought for a moment. No, he said, there’s no hurry. But maybe we’d better telex them to approve your return ticket. You know, to tell you the truth, frankly, I don’t think there was any need to send you all the way here. I could easily have handled it myself. After all, it’s my job. I even wrote to HQ. But your boss was very keen to keep his fingers in the case, and the higher-ups insisted. But, if they were going to send you, at least they could have sent you earlier.
With an aching sense of loss, Das watched the shining metallic bulbs of al-Ghazira’s desalination plant diminishing in his window. Anyway, he said, tell me what happened. I might as well know.
Nothing much, said Lal, as far as I can tell. I only heard about it yesterday, from one of our sources — someone really reliable, who’s been living in the same house as your suspect. You see, that’s the thing: we chaps in the field do all the work, build up our sources and our networks, and then they send you people out, with no experience of local conditions. And that, too, when it’s too late. There really wasn’t any need.
Lal frowned at the road, his mouth a thin white line. Yes, thought Das, there wasn’t any need at all. You could have sent in a few reports; your uncles in the Ministry would have made sure everyone saw them; you’d have got a couple of quick promotions and an ‘A’-class posting — Bonn or Brussels or something. No need at all for anyone else to come along.
Aloud he said: What happened?
Oh, just an accident really, said Lal. The chap was working with some kind of construction gang. They used to do distempering and whitewashing and things like that. They were working in a building when it collapsed. It happened about four days ago. The collapse was in all the newspapers, because the building was meant to be a real showpiece. They called it the Star. These collapses happen all the time here. The contractors save money on material and so the buildings fall down. There was nothing in the newspapers about a death. Apparently your man was the only one, and even the authorities probably don’t know. My source says the gang he was working with wants to keep it quiet, because he was here illegally, and they could all have got into trouble. Anyway, you can hear all about it yourself; we’ll go and see my source this evening and find out if there’s anything to clear up.
Lal looked at Das, and saw him staring out of the window in silent disappointment. He gave him a consoling slap on the shoulder. Never mind, yar, he said. You’ve had a good ride on a plane, you’ll get to see al-Ghazira and buy a few nice things and, besides, you’ve got your travel allowance and foreign allowance for a week, so you’ll get something out of it. Don’t feel too bad about the whole thing.
Certainly not, thought Das. A week’s travel allowance and foreign allowance for me and an Italian car for you. Clearing his throat, he said: Yes, that’s true. When do we go to meet your source?
This evening, said Lal. I’ll pick you up from your hotel. You must have dinner with us afterwards.
They drove in silence for a while, past fountained roundabouts, and vast pitted construction sites and jungles of steel scaffolding. Soon they were caught in snarling traffic and Lal’s little car was lost among sports cars, and limousines with heavily curtained windows, and dust-spattered articulated trucks as long as trains, come all the way from Europe. Then, frowning thoughtfully, Lal asked: Who did you say your DIG is?
Das told him.
And what’s your replacement’s name?
Das told him, a little puzzled by his curiosity. Lal smiled when he heard the name: Let me see … I think they’re related; uncle and nephew in fact. Yes, I seem to remember hearing that. I suppose he couldn’t think of any way of getting him into the Secretariat without shifting you from your post for a bit.
Das felt as though he had been hit in the stomach. He propped himself upright with an outstretched arm, resisting the temptation to double up.
He had known but he had not noticed.
Oh, he said, I didn’t know. What else was there to say?
No, Lal said kindly, I suppose you didn’t. I remember hearing that you’re always very busy with birds and painting and things.
Jyoti sat out the rest of the drive in silence. He could not bring himself to ask Lal about the Barbary falcon, as he had meant to.
His name’s Jeevanbhai Patel, Lal said, hurrying Das through the Bab al-Asli, past the evening crowds strolling through the Souq’s main passageway. Das looked around him at the robes and headcloths of the Ghaziri men, at the black masks of the women, at gold watches and silver calculators, jewelled belts and silk shirts. He wanted to stop and look at everything properly, but Lal was ushering him rapidly along.
My predecessor passed him on to me, Lal said. He came here years ago — God knows when — long before the oil anyway. They say that once upon a time nothing happened in al-Ghazira that he didn’t know about. He’s a businessman. I believe he was quite successful once, but he got involved in something and lost all his money. That’s the odd thing about him. Your usual Indian bania’s first instinct is to stick to his shop or his trade and not get involved in anything, whichever part of the world he may be in. He knows he can make more money that way. But this man’s different: he jumps into things. That was his undoing. He’s an old man now of course, and his life’s behind him, but he still keeps his ears open. He drinks too much nowadays but, still, I must say we’ve had some very useful material from him.
They stopped at a shop — the Durban Tailoring House, Das read, on a board hanging askew over the door. It was a very dilapidated shop, in sharp contrast with its glittering neighbours. A figure materialized somewhere in the murky interior and advanced towards them: a man well past middle age, thin and slightly stooped, his face delicately lined, like a walnut, but nondescript except for large, decaying teeth that stuck almost horizontally out of his mouth.