Dishonored (20 page)

“You are well, Shivaji?” Shiva folded his palms and bowed his head. Viki turned to Rami who did the same.

“You missed a good ride last week, eh, Rami?” The advisor leaned in toward the maharajah and whispered something, Viki nodded
and then dismissed the man. “No matter,” he said, continuing where he had left off, “we must arrange for you to try out these
ponies soon! In the next week, eh? I want your opinion, Ramesh!” He turned toward the garden. “Come, we are lunching on the
terrace today, there is a good breeze to cool us!” He led the way out through the water garden and onto the far terrace.

“Shiva, how is business?”

“Very good thank you, sir. We are about to open an office and showrooms in New York.”

Surprised, Rami turned to his grandfather. He had heard nothing of this before.

“Excellent, excellent!” They had crossed the terrace and the maharajah nodded to the bearer as they approached the table.
“Please, Shiva, Rami, be seated.”

Two uniformed servants stepped forward and both men took their places.

“So,” Viki said, “we shall have a drink and then we must talk.” He clicked his fingers and a servant stepped forward to pour
the
nimbupani
. “We have important things to discuss.”

Rami took a sip and glanced sidelong at his grandfather while Shiva drank and chatted to Viki. He felt that Shiva knew what
this lunch was for but hadn’t told him and it made him uneasy.

“Well, Rami,” Viki crossed his long legs and the silk tie of his brocade cummerbund fell to the side. He waved his hand casually
in the air and dismissed the servants with one sweep. Then he leaned forward and Rami saw that the buttons on his
kurta
were set with tiny rubies in an intricate pattern; he recognized Shiva’s work. He felt the atmosphere change.

“Rami, I have asked you here today because I have something important that I would like to talk with you about.” Viki glanced
over his shoulder and saw one of the servants lingering by the drinks table. He clapped his hands and motioned for the boy
to leave them. He waited several minutes, then, sure they were alone, he said, “Your grandfather and I have been discussing
the problems with Pakistan, Rami, and the implications for Baijur, being so close to the border.” He reached for a gold cigarette
case and flipped it open, offering a cigarette to Rami. “It is a difficult subject,” he said, “a delicate one.” He lit up
and smoked for a few moments. “We are vulnerable here, Rami; the state is stable insomuch as the house of Singh stays in power.
And power is wealth.” He sat back and looked at the young man in front of him as if weighing him up. “I have a job for you,”
he said, “an obscure job but one that I am positive is vital to the security of my position here.” He glanced over his shoulder
again before he leaned in close to the table. “Your grandfather has told you that there have been threats to my life?”

“No!” Rami stopped and lowered his voice. “I don’t believe it!” He hissed. “Who? And why?”

“This business with Pakistan, the Muslims everywhere are unhappy, here in Baijur even.” He shrugged. “I don’t know who, I
can only guess that it is political, religious.” Viki was silent for a few moments, then he said, “I need to protect myself,
Rami, take precautions. If something should happen to me I need to be sure that Aeysha, the new maha-rani, would be safe.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and Rami noticed that his face changed when he spoke of his wife-to-be. “This is where you can
help,” he said. “You have a part to play. I have discussed it at great length with your grandfather and we were decided many
months ago on the course of action.” Viki paused. “Shiva and RJ International started work for me at the beginning of the
year. They have been making copies of every item of jewelry that we own; part of it is already finished. They are making a
counterfeit of the entire wealth of the Singh house.”

“My God!” Rami shook his head; it was almost unbelievable. The work involved was incredible, the collection of the old maharani
alone was said to be worth millions.

“The work has been carried out overseas, Rami,” Shiva said. “In my workshops in Paris and London. It is a matter of utmost
secrecy.”

“But I don’t understand, I—”

Viki held up his hands to interrupt Rami. “I have done it for safety, Rami,” he said. “I intend to hide the originals, at
least until I know it is safe in Baijur.” He sat back and again looked at Rami as if weighing him up. He was silent for some
time, then he said: “I have chosen you to carry out this task.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I would like you to take care of it, to, how can I put it, to plan a route for the originals. It is not a simple case
of hiding, there is too much at stake to take the risk of that. What I had envisaged is a serious and complicated procedure,
Ramesh, something that you will have designed, using your skills, your knowledge of the land here, your verse perhaps, your
intellect, something that only you know the answer to.”

Viki stopped talking and Rami sat motionless for a moment He was dumbfounded. “I’m not sure if I really understand you,” he
said. “You mean that you want me to set up some sort of maze, a puzzle of some kind, to where I decide to hide the wealth?’

The maharajah nodded.

Rami sat back. It was ludicrous, he couldn’t possibly do it. He shook his head. “It is far too great a responsibility, Viki,
I can’t…” He broke off and looked at his grandfather.

“You are trusted, Ramesh, with the life of the maharajah, and you think of refusing?” His dark eyes were like granite, cold
and hard, impenetrable.

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” Again he stopped. “How could you possibly trust me with all of this? What if something went
wrong? What if someone found out what I was doing?’

Viki lit another cigarette and looked at Rami over the trail of smoke. “You would have to ensure that these things didn’t
happen, Rami.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know if I can do it!” He shook his head again helplessly and sat silent for a while. Then, looking
up, he said, “How long would I have, if I were to do it?”

“I want it settled by the date of my wedding,” Viki answered. “It is a big event, dangerous to some degree.”

Rami nodded. “And if only I know the answer?”

“You will have prepared a text for me.”

“What? Like some kind of trail?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps a book of verse and illustrations. I don’t know, that is up to you, Ramesh. But it must be ingenious, that
is why I have asked you.”

Rami bowed his head and smiled tensely, acknowledging the compliment. “Can I use someone to help me? If I were to make a book
of some sort?”

Viki’s face darkened. “You must think carefully, Rami, it has to be someone you would trust your life with.” He stubbed out
his cigarette. “That is what you would be doing.”

Rami nodded and fell silent again. The burden of what he had been asked to do was enormous. He looked at Shiva. It was a burden
but it was also a challenge and already the swift intellect of his mind had risen to that challenge. It was the chance to
prove himself, to be a bonus to his grandfather. It was a task that no one else could do. He looked again at Shiva. “Dadaji?”

“It is a great honor, Ramesh, you do not need me to tell you that,” Shiva said.

“No.” Then he looked across at Viki and realized that this responsibility was only a small portion of what the maharajah had
to bear. And for the first time in his life he clearly saw Vikram Singh, Maharajah of Baijur, behind the charming, easygoing
Viki. He was an Indian; he knew what he had to do.

“I will be happy to serve you always,” he said quietly.

Viki leaned forward and touched his arm. “Thank you, Ramesh.” He smiled briefly for the first time since they had sat at the
table. “I knew that I could trust you.”

J
ANE CAME OUT OF THE BUNGALOW AND WAVED TO KHANSAMA,
holding her small packet up in a gesture of thanks. The cook waved back, smiling and nodding, and as Jane placed the waxed
paper bag in her basket, he opened the kitchen window and called, “Namaste, memsahib!” standing with two house boys to wave
her off. Jane grinned, climbed on to her bicycle and adjusted her hat, making sure it was quite secure on her head. She had
this procedure every morning, with one or another of the servants waving her off, but it never ceased to delight her. Turning
her bike around and setting her feet on the pedals, she glanced back, waved a final time and cycled off down the drive, out
on to the main driveway to the palace and then toward the city.

Ramesh was early in the city. He stood outside the bookshop waiting for the man to open it, and watched the business of the
street going on around him. He was in the poorer section of Baijur; it was the only place a poetry bookshop could afford to
have premises and he stared at the day-to-day living of the people as they started another day of life on the pavements—their
cooking over small charcoal fires, their washing at the taps on the street corner, the rolling up of their bedding and the
repairs to the plastic sheeting, the strips of canvas that covered them at night, as they started another day of life on the
pavements. It wasn’t unusual, it was a sight to be seen all over Baijur, all over India, with so many people living on the
streets but he had been away for too long; it shocked him every time he saw it, and it filled him with helplessness.

Turning away toward the bookshop, Rami looked at the posters pasted across the window to take his mind off the scene behind
him but it was impossible; the noise level was a constant reminder. He listened to the din, the loud incessant chatter, the
shouts and laughter of the children, the motor rickshaws, cars and cattle, and in the end gave up trying to distract himself.
He turned, leaned back against the wall and watched.

The next thing he saw made him stand bolt upright,

“My God!” He stepped forward and waved his arms in the air. “Jane? Jane! Over here!” He hurried to the edge of the road and
called her again. Finally she looked up.

“Rami! Hello!” She straightened and put her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the sun. “Wait there! I’ll come across.”
She said something to the woman squatting on the pavement, who smiled and reached out to touch her hand, then she wheeled
her bicycle to the edge of the road, waited for a break in the traffic and crossed.

“Good morning, Rami!” Jane propped her bicycle up on the curb. ‘What are you doing here?”

Rami glanced behind at the poetry bookshop. “I came to buy a couple of books.” He looked at her face and smiled. Every time
he left her he expected that she would be different the next time he saw her but she wasn’t, not ever, she was always exactly
the same; the honesty of her smile, the clear, open look of her face charmed him. “What about you? What are you doing here?”

Jane took off her hat and dropped it in the basket. She flicked her hair back in an attempt to make herself look a little
more appealing. “I come here to draw, quite often.” She had forgotten how attractive Rami was, or maybe not forgotten, she
thought, avoiding his gaze, deliberately ignored. “I’ve made a few friends,” she said, glancing back at the woman she had
been talking to. “People pose for me, I give them a few rupees.” She blushed as she said this, waiting for Rami’s disapproval.

“That’s very kind,” he said.

Jane looked at him. “Phillip says it’s stupid. He says it’s not my problem.” She dug her hands in her pockets and glanced
away again. “I bring a bit of food most days, for the children, a few sweets, some fruit,
khansama
packs me a little bag.” Her cheeks were burning but she felt she’d been caught out so she might as well confess the whole
thing. “I don’t tell Phillip, I don’t think he would understand.”

Rami was silent for a few moments, then he said, “You would make him feel ashamed, Jane, as you do me.”

Jane looked up and Rami smiled at her. “I think—”

“Mrs. Mills, Mrs. Mills!”

They both swung around.

“Mrs. Mills, Mrs. Mills!” A small gang of children chanted at Jane from across the road, breaking off into fits of giggles.
Jane laughed. “Wait there!” she called across. “I have something in my basket for you!” She turned to Rami. “If you’ll excuse
me?”

He grinned. “Of course!”

Jane reached into her basket and took out the bag, glancing across the road as she did so. “No!” she shouted at a little girl
who had jumped off the pavement. “Wait there! I am coming across to you!” She hurriedly looked right and left but couldn’t
see a break in the traffic.

“Usha! Wait there!” The little girl had darted into the middle of the road and was waiting to run across to Jane. Jane stepped
off the pavement but the traffic was relentless. She saw a break, a van some way off, and hurried forward. She didn’t look
left and nor did the little girl who had seen the same break. She was two paces away when she heard Rami’s voice. Glancing
back, she saw his face, the look of horror, then turning her head sideways she caught sight of the truck. It was the last
thing she saw. Diving forward, she caught the child off balance and pushed her back with such force that the little girl’s
body cracked as it hit the ground. The child screamed. The screech of brakes, the scream and Rami’s voice were all she remembered.
Then she felt a thud, then nothing. The sky went black.

“Oh my God! Jane!” Rami had run out into the road but it was too late. He heard the wailing of the child, saw her mother scoop
her up, but Jane lay motionless, inches away from the truck. He knelt, his hands shaking, and gently brushed the hair from
her face. He put his fingers on her neck, felt her pulse and, moments later, bent his head. “Thank God for that,” he murmured.
He looked up at the crowd that had started to form. “She’s alive! You, run into the bookshop and get the owner! It’s over
there.” He pointed behind him and took his
kurta
off, rolling it up and gently placing it under Jane’s head. “Hurry!” he shouted after the man.

Seconds later the owner ran across the road to Rami. “Rameshji! Who is it? A friend, eh?” He knelt by Rami’s side.