Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [163]
Now she sat at the dinner table with her sister and the sweet imbecile boy holding his green sign saying “NO NOISE.” His sword had become a piece of crushed cardboard on the floor.
Catherine had never seen her sister like this.
Mrs. Rego sat at the table with her right hand lying on a black mobile phone.
Frank, Catherine’s American husband, looked out from their bedroom. He gestured with his head towards the children screaming at their PlayStation.
She glared at him.
Some things men could not understand. Her sister had never done this before—come here at such short notice, bringing along her children and this neighbour’s son.
Catherine knew she had never done enough for poor Georgina.
She understood that an important call was going to be made from that mobile phone. Her job was to take care of the children until the call was made, and Frank could go to hell.
“Come, Ramu,” she said, drawing the imbecile boy away from her sister. She touched him and withdrew her hand almost at once.
“Georgina,” she whispered. “I think he’s soiled his trousers.”
The boy parted his lips, and began to emit a soft, high-pitched whine.
Mrs. Rego picked up her mobile phone and dialled.
“Is that you, Mrs. Puri?” she asked, when the call was answered.
Catherine came closer to listen.
“No, it’s Mr. Puri,” a man’s voice said. “My wife will call you in half an hour. The police are asking her some questions—there has been an unfortunate incident at the building. Is Ramu safe?”
Frank, opening the door of the bedroom to send another message, saw Mrs. Rego break down and sob, while her sister stood over her, patting her back and whispering: “Georgina, now, now ….”
Bowing to the golden Ganesha on the lintel, Shanmugham walked through the open door of his employer’s home in Malabar Hill.
He heard Kishore Kumar’s “Ek Aise Gagan Ke Tale” on a tape recorder.
The living room was deserted. A plate full of chewed crusts lay on the dining table; he recognized the marks of his employer’s teeth on the toast.
The fragrance of gutka guided him to the bedroom.
Dharmen Shah lay in a nest of printed papers, scratching on a pad with a pencil. The plaster-of-Paris model of the Confidence Shanghai sat beside him near the bedside lamp.
“What?”
Shanmugham did not know how to say it. He felt a strange fear of incriminating himself with any word he might use.
Looking up from his calculations, Shah saw his assistant’s hand rising up in a fist.
The fist opened.
“How?”
“He fell, sir. From the terrace. About one hour ago. They say it’s suicide.”
Shah opened his red mouth. Eyes closed, he pressed his head back against the white pillow. “I thought it would be a push down the stairs, or a beating at night. That’s all.”
He caressed the soft pillow.
“I forgot we were dealing with good people, Shanmugham.”
Scattering papers, the fat man climbed off the bed.
“You drive back to Vakola. Find out from your connection in the police station what is happening with their investigation. I’ll call the astrologer in Matunga and get an auspicious date to start the demolition.”
7 OCTOBER
MUMBAI SUN
Suicide in Santa Cruz (East)?
By a staff reporter
Mr. Yogesh Murthy, a retired teacher at the famous St. Catherine’s School in the neighbourhood, allegedly committed suicide last night from the rooftop of “Vishram” Society in Vakola, Santa Cruz (E).
While there is no suspicion of foul play in the matter, the Santa Cruz police said they are not ruling out any possibility at this stage. An investigation is underway.
It is believed, however, that the deceased had slipped into a state of extreme depression following the death of his wife almost exactly a year ago. Residents of the neighbourhood say that he had been progressively losing his mind under the pressure of diabetes and old age, withdrawing into his room, talking to himself, engaging in anti-social behaviour and fighting with his entire Society over