Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [41]
“Yes, sir,” Shanmugham said.
“So they both cost the same to build. Correct?”
“No, sir.”
“Explain.” Shah slurped tea from the saucer.
“The ten-by-two room is thirty-three per cent more expensive, sir. Four plus five is nine, nine nine is eighteen feet of wall to build. Ten plus two twelve, twelve twelve is twenty-four feet of walls to build. You don’t build floors, you build walls.”
“You’re the first man today who has got the answer right. I’ve fired my labour contractor. Do you know how to get me workers for a job?”
“No, but by the evening I will,” Shanmugham had said.
Six months later, Shah had told him at a construction site: “The other day you broke up a fight between the workers. I was watching. You know how to hit a man.”
“I am sorry, sir,” Shanmugham looked at the ground. “I won’t do it again.”
“Don’t say sorry,” Shah had said. “This is not politics we are in: this is construction. We have to speak the truth in this business, or nothing will ever get built. Do you know what a left-hand man is?”
Shanmugham had not known at the time.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re a quick learner,” Shah had said. “You can be my new left-hand man from Monday. But today, I must fire you from my company, and you must tear up all your business cards. If we ever get involved with the police, I have to say that I dismissed you.”
Pushing aside his ice cream, Shanmugham took a small black book out of his pocket, and found a clean white page. Drawing a box with seven columns and twenty rows, he made a small calendar: the last date was October 3. Next to it he wrote: “Shanghai.”
He turned the pages. The first few pages of the book were covered with Mr. Shah’s wise sayings, which he had been recording for months.
When it comes to work—hurry, hurry, hurry. When it comes to payment—delay, delay, delay.
Caste, religion, family background nothing. Talent everything.
Be 10 per cent more generous to people than you feel like being.
He clicked a black ballpoint pen and added one of his own:
Do not trust connections made with bank …
When the sixteenth piece of ice cream melted, he paid his bill and left with a last glance at the actor.
He stopped in the shade of a small park.
A stray black dog loped by the park, a bright red patch of flesh shining near its left buttock. Shanmugham thought of a bank manager with grey oiled hair. Of “a little extra.” With an eye closed, he aimed a sharp rock at the open wound.
His mobile phone began to beep.
At four o’clock, Mrs. Pinto’s left arm reached for solid wall. Her chappal found the first step.
When her eyesight had begun to dim, over a decade ago, Mrs. Pinto had kept a strict count of the steps (even retracing her path when she lost the count), but that was no longer necessary.
The walls had sprouted eyes for her.
She knew she had taken three steps down when she reached “the Diamond”: a rhomboidal crevice in the fourth step. Seven steps and two landings later came “the Bad Tooth.” Sliding along the wall her palm encountered a molar-shaped patch in the plaster, which felt like the back of her teeth when they had cavities in them. This meant she had almost reached the second floor. She angled her body again.
She sensed radiance: the evening sun blazing into the entranceway.
“Is anybody there?” she called. “Be careful when you run; Shelley Pinto is coming down, step by step she is coming down.”
Just five steps to go now to the ground floor: she heard her husband’s weak voice from the plastic-chair parliament.
“… if one person says no, you can’t tear down the Society. That’s the whole idea of a Co-operative Housing Society. One for all, all for one.”
I wish he had said something smarter than that, she thought.
Last night, the moment he had come up the stairs with Masterji and told her of the thing posted on the noticeboard, she had wanted to cry. Their plans for the rest of their lives were set into Vishram Society. What did they need money for? A fixed deposit in the HDFC bank’s Versova branch paid them Rs 4,000 a month, taking care of all expenses; both children were settled