Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [158]
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Puri hissed. Her husband walked in, and along with him came Ibrahim Kudwa.
“He rang the bell and asked for you.”
“I know what is going on,” Kudwa said. “No one told me, but I’m not as stupid as you think. And I know you didn’t tell me because you thought a Muslim wouldn’t want to help you.”
“Nothing is going on, Ibby.”
Kudwa sat beside her on the cot. “Don’t treat me like a child. Ajwani is going to do something. Tonight.”
The Secretary looked at the Puris.
“What’s the point of hiding it from Ibrahim?”
“We know it’s dangerous, Ibby. That is why we kept you out of it.” Mrs. Puri reached for his forearm and stroked it. “The only reason. We know you have Mumtaz and the children to take care of.”
Her husband moved protectively in front of her. “Will you tell the police about us now?”
“No!” Ibrahim Kudwa winced. He slapped his breast pocket, brimming with heart-shaped antacid tablets. “You’re my friends. Don’t you know me by now? I want to save you. How can Ajwani get away with this?” he pleaded with folded palms. “Ram Khare will be watching from his booth. Someone passing on the road might see. Masterji might cry out. It’s a trap—can’t you see? The builder has trapped all of you. From the day he paid the money to Tower B ahead of schedule: this is what he wanted you to do.”
“And he’s right, Ibby,” Mrs. Puri said. “That man walked into Bombay with nothing on his feet, and look at him now. And look at us. We should have done this a long time now.”
“Don’t raise your voice,” the Secretary said. “Speak to Ajwani when he gets here, Ibrahim. Me, I don’t want the money. I just want to make sure that no one goes to jail. That is my sacred responsibility here.”
The lynx-lines spread wide around his eyes; he grinned.
He picked up the big crescent knife from the basket and scraped it against the nuts.
“Ajwani is an expert at this. I’m not quite sure how it’s done.” Selecting a large coconut, which was still attached to the brown connective tissue of the tree it had been hacked from, Kothari held it out at arm’s length: then he stuck the knife into it. Three hesitant strokes, then it came to him. Thwack thwack thwack. The white flesh of the coconut exposed; fresh water spilling out.
“Not for me,” Kudwa said, pointing to the antacid tablets in his translucent shirt pocket. “Bad stomach.”
“Have it, Ibrahim. All of us are going to. It will cure a weak stomach.”
Kudwa had a sip, and then offered the coconut to Mrs. Puri, who sipped and passed it to her husband. When he was done, the Secretary reached in with his knife, and carved out the white flesh of the coconut, which he offered to Mrs. Puri.
“It’s there, why waste it?”
“All right.”
Mrs. Puri scooped the coconut flesh with her fingers, and passed it to Kudwa, who did the same, and licked the white slop off his fingers.
The Secretary pitched the coconut into the corner. Kudwa pointed at the knife that he had just placed over the coconuts.
“Is Ajwani going to do it with that …?”
The Secretary pushed the basket away with his foot.
“We don’t know anything about it, Ibby. We’re just here to give Ajwani some support.”
“That’s right,” the Secretary said. “We’ll say we were here with him when it happened.”
They sat there, in the inner room: the chiming of the Daisy Duck clock from outside told them it was a quarter past seven.
Kudwa stretched his legs.
“What is that you’re humming, Ibrahim?”
With sly fingers the Secretary pinched the strip of heart-shaped antacid tablets from the shirt pocket and examined them.
“ ‘Hey Jude.’ ”
The Secretary put the antacid tablets back into Kudwa’s shirt pocket. “What is that?”
“You don’t know? How is it possible?”
“I’m a Mohammad Rafi man, Ibrahim.”
“Here,” Kudwa said. “It’s an easy song. Here, I’ll show you.” Clapping his hands together, he began to sing.
“Voice is so beautiful, Ibby,” Mrs. Puri said.
He blushed.
“Oh, no, no. It’s terrible now, Sangeeta-ji. I don’t practise. But you should have heard it in college ….” Kudwa moved his hand over his head, to indicate past