The Mountain Shadow (129 page)

Ahmed looked at me, frowned, and straightened my collar so that it stood up at the back of my neck.

‘When are you going to buy a jacket with sleeves in it, Lin?’

‘When you start selling them at the New House of Style,’ I said. ‘
Allah hafiz
.’

‘
Salaam, salaam
,’ he laughed.

We rode away, and then Karla told me that the mirror was my second birthday present, reminding me, again, that it was my birthday, which I’d happily forgotten.

‘Please don’t tell anyone else,’ I called over my shoulder.

‘I know,’ she called back. ‘You like celebrating other people’s birthdays, and forgetting your own. Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘I love you, Karla. I was thinking that, just before. And thanks, for the mirror. You really got me there.’

‘I always get you there.’

We had more time to get one another, and ride and share a drink and eat meals together, because I sold my money-change operation to Jagat, for the twenty-five per cent he was already giving me. He managed the racket better than I did, and earned more money, respect and discipline from the shopkeeper changers. The fact that a year or so before he ran my bing he’d cut the little finger off a thief who stole from him added a certain sting to his slap.

I couldn’t visit Half-Moon Auntie in the fish market again, because Karla recruited her.

‘You want me to run your books?’ Half-Moon Auntie asked.

‘Who knows more about keeping people’s money safe than you do, Half-Moon Auntie?’ Karla said, facing pointed quarters of the moon.

‘That’s true,’ Half-Moon Auntie replied, considering. ‘But it could be a big job.’

‘Not that big,’ Karla said. ‘We only keep one set of books.’

‘I am accustomed to my regular visitors,’ Half-Moon Auntie said, leaning forward and beginning an orbital drift toward half-moon.

‘What you do behind your closed door is your business,’ Karla said. ‘What you do when the door is open is
our
business. If you’re interested, I have a friend, named Randall, who has a limousine. It’s parked below my building, most of the time.’

‘A limousine,’ Half-Moon Auntie said thoughtfully.

‘With blackout windows, and a long mattress in the back.’

‘I will consider it,’ Half-Moon Auntie replied, lifting one foot effortlessly behind her head.

And a few days later she considered her way into an apartment office, under our rooms at the Amritsar hotel, where Karla had rented the whole floor.

Half-Moon Auntie’s office was next to two others, already painted and furnished. One room bore the title
Blue Hijab Marriage Counselling Services
. The Muslim communist, or communist Muslim, had reunited with Mehmu earlier than expected, and she’d called Karla, asking if the offer of a partnership was still open.

‘She’s not here, yet,’ I said, when the brass sign was attached to the door.

‘She will be,’ Karla smiled. ‘
Inshallah
.’

‘What’s the third office for?’

‘Surprises,’ she purred. ‘You have no idea what surprises I have in store for you, Shantaram.’

‘Can you surprise me with dinner? I’m starving.’

We were having dinner in the front garden of a Colaba Back Bay bistro, when we heard shouting from the street, a few steps away.

A car had stopped beside a man walking on the road. The men in the car were shouting for money he owed them. Two of the men got out of the car.

As we looked at the commotion, I saw that the man was Kesh, the Memory Man. He had his hands over his head as the two thugs began to hit him.

Karla and I got up from the table and joined Kesh. We made enough noise for them to get back in the car, and drive away.

Karla helped Kesh to sit with us, at the table.

‘A glass of water, please!’ she called to the waiter. ‘Are you alright, Kesh?’

‘I’m okay, Miss Karla,’ he said, rubbing a knot of bad debt on the top of his head. ‘I’ll go, now.’

He stood to leave, but we pulled him back into his chair.

‘Have dinner with us, Kesh,’ Karla said. ‘You can test your memory against ours. You’re pretty good, but my money’s on us.’

‘I really shouldn’t –’

‘You really should,’ I said, waving the waiter to our table.

Kesh looked at the menu carefully, closed it and made his choices.

‘The zucchini, black olive and crushed artichoke paste risotto,’ the waiter repeated. ‘The iceberg, seasoned with cracked pepper, ginger and pistachio sauce, and a tiramisu.’

‘You’re incorrect,’ Kesh said. ‘The cracked pepper, ginger and pistachio sauce is with the rocket salad, which is number seventy-seven on your menu. The iceberg is with lemon-garlic, chilli pepper and walnut-avocado sauce, which is number seventy-six on your menu.’

The waiter opened his mouth to reply, but his mental scan of the menu confirmed Kesh’s correction, and he walked away, shaking his head.

‘What’s the problem, Kesh?’ I asked.

‘I owe money,’ he said, smiling from the side of his disillusion. ‘The Memory Man business isn’t what it used to be. People are using phones for everything, now. Pretty soon, the whole world will be able to communicate with anyone, so long as they’re not actually there.’

‘You know what?’ I suggested, as the food arrived. ‘Grab a taxi, and come to the Amritsar hotel after this. We’ll be there ahead of you, on the bike.’

‘What have you got in mind?’ Karla squinted at me, lashes like lace.

‘Surprises,’ I tried to purr. ‘You have no idea what surprises I have in store for
you
, Karla.’

Didier was certainly surprised when I brought Kesh into his office, next to Karla’s at the Amritsar.

‘I do not see the . . .
requirement
for his services,’ Didier said, sitting professionally at his desk beside Naveen’s.

‘Kesh is the best Memory Man in the south, Didier,’ Naveen observed, sitting professionally at his own desk. ‘What did you have in mind, Lin?’

‘You know how you said that people always freeze up when you record their witness statements? They see the recorder and they freeze up?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Kesh can be your recorder. He remembers every conversation he hears. He can be your human recorder, and people will talk naturally in front of him.’

‘I like it,’ Karla laughed.

‘You do?’ Didier doubted.

‘I’ll hire him right now if you don’t, Didier.’

‘Hired,’ Didier said. ‘We have an interview with a millionaire and his wife, tomorrow morning at ten. Their daughter has gone missing. You can attend. But your mode of dress must be more . . .
executive
 . . . in appearance.’

‘See you guys later,’ I said, pulling Kesh with us from their office.

In the corridor outside I gave him some money. He tried to stop me.

‘You have to clear all your debts tonight, Kesh,’ I said. ‘We don’t want those guys showing up around here. And you’re going straight tomorrow morning, remember? Go around and pay everyone off. Get clean, and be here at nine. Be the first one here, and the last to leave. You’ll do fine.’

He started to cry. I stepped back a pace, and let Karla take over. She hugged him, and he calmed down quickly.

‘You know what Didier said, about dressing like an executive?’ I said.

‘Yes. I’ll try to –’

‘To hell with that. Dress like you are. Act like you are. People will talk to you, just like
I’m
talking to you, and you’ll be good at this. If Didier hassles you, tell him I ordered you not to dress like a slave.’

‘He’s right, Kesh,’ Karla said. ‘Just be yourself, and everything will be fine.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Go and pay those debts tonight, man. Get yourself clear.’

He took each downward step on the stairway as if it was a new level of consideration, pausing before taking the next pondered step. His head bobbed out of sight around the curved staircase.

I watched him out of sight thoughtfully, and then turned to see Karla smiling at me.

‘I love you, Shantaram,’ she said, kissing me.

Some time later, Kesh solved two cases within two weeks, and became the star of the Lost Love Bureau. His attention to detail, and retention of detail, proved decisive in solving cases, and no interview proceeded without him.

Half-Moon Auntie and her intrepid clerk did the accounts for the bureau, and safeguarded sums of money for clients from time to time. She was an astute businesswoman, and spent long hours redesigning the business plan, saving money and hours for everyone else.

Her private sessions in Randall’s limousine kept her lunar-starved visitors content.
A talent is how you use it
, she said to me once, using her talents to illustrate the point.

Vinson and Rannveig returned from the ashram bleached of pride, but we didn’t see them often, because they were busy with their plans to open a coffee shop, and the necessary renovations.

When we did manage to catch them mid-renovation for a few minutes, Karla took Rannveig’s arm, leading her to girl talk, and leaving me with Vinson in the unfinished coffee shop.

‘It’s . . . like, you know that
wave
, that perfect wave, that just keeps on going, and won’t let you fall?’ Vinson said.

‘No, but I ride a motorcycle, and that’s like surfing civilisation.’

‘You know that totally, like, forever wave?’

‘I have a gas tank. I know how far forever is.’

‘No, I mean, it’s like that tendency field jelly that Idriss was talking about.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’m, like, surfing the superposition, you know, between equally surfable waves. Rannveig and Idriss, they really opened my mind up so much, man. Sometimes, I feel like I’m so full of ideas they’re falling out of my head.’

‘I’m glad you’re happy, Vinson. And it’s great, the coffee bar thing. Really happy, for you and Rannveig. Well, guess I’d better be getting along. We –’

‘This coffee thing is amazing,’ he said, gesturing toward large sacks, arranged against a wall. ‘I mean, like, if I just explain the difference between Colombian and Ghanaian blends to you, it’ll blow your mind wide open.’

‘Thanks for the warning. But you know, Karla will be along any minute, so I doubt we’ll have time to get into a big story like that.’

‘If she comes back, I’ll start it again,’ he said unhelpfully.

‘How’s Rannveig?’ I asked helpfully.

‘You know that wave, man, the perfect wave that, like, won’t let you fall?’

‘So glad you’re happy. Where do you think Karla and Rannveig got to?’

‘Just
smell
these fresh beans up close once,’ Vinson said, opening a sack. ‘They’re so good, you’ll never drink another cup of coffee again.’

‘Is that your slogan?’

‘No, man, our slogan is our
name
, man.
Love & Faith
, that’s the name of the place, and that’s the slogan.’

There was an innocence in Vinson that Rannveig had lost, when her boyfriend had died from the same drugs Vinson unthinkingly sold. And the innocence she found again, in his willingness to change, was the tender truth in the name they’d chosen for their business,
Love & Faith
.

‘Smell my beans,’ he insisted.

‘Ah . . . I’m good.’

‘Smell them!’ Vinson said urgently, dragging a dead body of beans toward me.

‘I’m not smelling your beans, Vinson, no matter how Colombian they are. Stop dragging that carcass.’

He shoved the bag against the wall again, just as Karla and Rannveig came back to join us.

‘He won’t smell my beans,’ Vinson complained.

‘He won’t?’ Karla scoffed. ‘The Lin I know is a bean fanatic.’

‘Stuart made a special blend,’ Rannveig said proudly. ‘I think it’s the best coffee I ever tasted.’

‘I’ve got it in the other room,’ Vinson said, ready to leave. ‘You can smell it, if you like.’

‘I’m good,’ I said quickly. ‘I can smell it from here.’

‘I told you, my Easter Bunny,’ Vinson said, hugging Rannveig. ‘People will smell our coffee from the street outside, and they’ll be, like,
hypnotised
or something.’

‘Good luck, guys,’ I said, drawing Karla out of the renovated shop.

‘Opening is at full moon,’ Rannveig said, mid-hug. ‘Don’t forget.’

On the street, we climbed onto the bike, but Karla stopped me before I could start the engine.

‘What did you feel from Vinson?’ she asked, her arm on my shoulder.

‘Waves of beans,’ I said. ‘What did you feel from Rannveig?’