Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [92]
“Can I get you something to drink, Masterji? We have Coca-Cola, Pepsi-Cola ….”
Ajwani came in behind them.
“Black Label for me,” he said.
“Only Mr. Shah can open his drinks cabinet. You’ll have to wait.” Shanmugham turned to his other guest. “Are you sure, nothing for you? Not even a Pepsi?”
Masterji sat hunched over on the beige sofa, looking at the floor.
“I have to go to the toilet,” he said, getting up.
“The guest-room toilet is out of order. But if you have no objection”—Shanmugham paused, and added with a significant smile, “you can use Mr. Shah’s. That’s his bedroom there.”
Entering a dark room with a double-bed, Masterji located the toilet and closed the door behind him.
Here, at last, he could urinate.
If someone could see me now, he thought, wouldn’t they say, this is exactly what Masterji had planned from the start. To carry on a show so convincing even his son, his neighbours, would be taken in by it: and then allow himself to be driven here, in a chauffeured car, to the builder’s home, drink his water, piss in his piss-pot, and be “persuaded” by him, for a few extra lakhs?
He splashed water on his face. His eyebrows were damp and matted. He changed his pose to see his face from another angle.
Closing the toilet door behind him, he walked on tiptoe. The two of them were whispering on the sofa like old friends.
“… I’m telling you, no traffic of any kind. What can ….”
“And did you have to talk of drinks in the old man’s presence?”
“He drinks. He’s quite modern. I know him, he’s my neighbour.”
“Why is he taking so long, by the way?”
“He pissed just before we headed out. He has that disease, which is called D-something. It weakens the lower organs.”
“Diarrhoea?”
“No, sir. Another D-word.”
“Dementia?”
“Not that.” Ajwani tapped his forehead. “Listen, pour me something, won’t you? I am the man doing all the work here, remember that. And tell your boss”—he dropped his voice—“one lakh is not enough as a sweetener. I want two. In cash.”
The two stopped talking. On a table in the corner of the room Masterji saw a sheaf of papers lying under a golden paperknife. What was the story about Mrs. Rego’s Uncle Coelho and the builder who stole his property … didn’t it involve a knife?
“May I recommend the view from the terrace, Masterji? It is the best view of the city you have ever seen, I guarantee it.”
“Of course Masterji will appreciate the view,” Ajwani giggled. “Such a sweetened view it is of Bombay.”
Masterji followed the men through glass doors onto a rectangular balustraded terrace, where the sea breeze blew into his hair. An agglomeration of skyscrapers, billboards, and glowing blocks spread before the old teacher’s wondering eyes. He had never seen Bombay like this.
A cloud of electric light enveloped the buildings like incense. Noise: a high keening pitch that was not traffic and not people talking but something else, something Masterji could not identify. A huge sign—“LG”—stood behind the main bulk of towers; beyond it, he recognized the white glow from the Haji Ali shrine. To his left was dark ocean.
“Breach Candy,” Masterji reached for it with his finger. “This used to be the dividing line between Malabar Hill and Worli island. During high tide the water came in through there. The British called it the Great Breach of Bombay. I’ve seen it in old maps.”
“Masterji knows everything. About the sun and moon, the history of Bombay, so much useful information.”
Ajwani turned and whispered to Shanmugham, who leaned down towards the short broker and listened.
His hands on the balustrade of the terrace, Masterji looked at the towers under construction in the dark. He thought of the shining knife on the desk. Each building seemed to be illuminated by its price in rupees per square foot, glowing like a halo around it. By its brightness he located the richest building in the vista.
“Why have you come before us?” the towers asked. Each glowing thing in the vista before him seemed like the secret of someone