Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [73]
He began to think of the woman again. Mrs. Rego. Maybe she was not going to come? No. No. A social worker needs a builder. We make each other: she can be so pure only if I am so evil. She will come to me.
He spat out shell and cartilage onto the porcelain plate. With a finger he checked the colour of the mucus that covered the shell.
The restaurant door opened: Shanmugham stepped in from blinding light, like a figure in a revelation.
He’s come alone, Mr. Shah thought. So she said no. He could not breathe.
The restaurant door opened again: silhouetted against the painful white light, Shah saw a middle-aged woman.
He wiped his lips and stood up.
“Ah, Mrs. Rego, Mrs. Rego. How nice of you to come. I assume the traffic kept you so long?” he asked, looking at Shanmugham.
Who made a quick negative movement of his head.
Mrs. Rego did not sit down.
“Why have you brought me here, Mr. Builder? What is the business?”
Shah spread his arms over the dishes on the table.
“This is the business. We Gujaratis don’t like to eat alone. Would you like some fresh-lime soda, Mrs. Rego?—and you must sit down, please.”
“I’m not hungry. I may go back now.”
“No one is stopping you at any time, Mrs. Rego. There are autorickshaws right outside. You will be back in Vakola in ten minutes.”
Mrs. Rego looked around the restaurant; she looked at the vaulted ceiling, at the bas-relief, and stared at the fish. “But why have you brought me here?”
Shah shared the joke with his food.
“She is frightened I will do something to her. With that shark nearby: I must look like some James Bond villain. Shanmugham, please call the manager of the restaurant here.”
Who came, with folded hands, leaning forward, eager to please.
“Mr. Shetty: this is Mrs. Rego. You have seen her with me at … what time is it? One twenty p.m. I want you to write it down in your register. Mrs. Rego, resident of 1B, Vishram Society Tower A, Vakola, seen in the presence of Mr. Shah. I want that down, word for word—do you have that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And please send a waiter for our order.”
The builder looked at his nervous guest.
“Now: if anything happens to you, I will go to jail. You are a social worker: the press and the television people will show me no mercy. I took the liberty of ordering some dishes of seafood and crab before you got here. Shanmugham, you too sit down, and eat.”
Mrs. Rego did not move. She stood staring at Mr. Shah’s plate, on which gristle, bone, flesh, had piled up around bread, rice, and red curry.
“You’re my guest, Mrs. Rego. You may not like my offer, but you must eat the food at my table. A lady like you, who grew up in Bandra, must know not to snub her host. If it’s too much you can take it back for your boy. You have two boys, don’t you? A son and daughter, sorry. Well, you’ll take it back for both of them.”
Pulling out a chair, Mrs. Rego sat.
A waiter cleared the napkin from her plate. Mr. Shah himself served a portion of curried lobster, and offered Mrs. Rego a naan, which she declined.
She never had carbohydrates in the afternoon.
Sunil Rego, coming home dirty from his cricket, found his mother sitting on the bed, with Sarah on her lap. The bedside lamp had been turned on.
“There’s food for you in the fridge, Sunil. It’s wrapped in silver foil.”
Mrs. Rego looked at her daughter. “Very good, isn’t it?”
Sarah nodded.
“Why did you buy it, Mother?” Sunil sat next to them.
“I didn’t buy it. You know we don’t have money to spend on restaurant food.”
Mrs. Rego whispered: “The builder sent it. Mr. Shah. He has made us an offer.”
“Yes, Mummy. I know.”
“No, Sunil. He has made us a separate offer. This afternoon.”
Sunil listened to everything—how Shah had ordered food, listened to her life story, sympathized with her life story, then pushed a folder and a blank envelope over to her.
Not a bribe; a first instalment of the money to come—that was all. Don