Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [93]
“Construction,” Shanmugham said, coming close to Masterji. “Do you know how many cranes there are below us right now? The work continues all night. Dozens of buildings are coming up around us. And when all the work is finished … my God. This part of the city is going to be like New York. You must have been there, sir, to New York?”
He shook his head.
“You can now,” Ajwani smiled. “A holiday.”
“No.” Masterji leaned forward. “Oh, no, I won’t go. I won’t go anywhere. I won’t leave Vishram Society ever again.”
He saw Shanmugham turning to Ajwani, who rolled his eyes.
“Masterji ….” The builder’s assistant came close. “Masterji. May I talk to you, man to man?”
Masterji smelled something bad from the man’s mouth, and thought of the green-covered cage at the zoo.
“There’s a term we use in the business. A sweetener. Another thousand rupees per square foot? We don’t reward teachers enough in this country.”
He understood now. It was the smell of his own cowardice, blown back at him from this creature’s mouth.
“And what was that redevelopment project you were telling me about, Ajwani … where the old couple refused to take the offer, and then one day … did they fall down the stairs? Or were they pushed, or … old people should take care. It’s a dangerous world. Terrorism. Mafia. Criminals in charge.”
“Oh, yes. That old couple in Sion you were talking about, they were pushed. For sure.”
In the light of the towers Shanmugham’s thoughts seemed to crystallize into giant letters in front of Masterji: “This is how I will flatter the old man, and very subtly, bully him. I will show him the kingdoms of the earth and give him a hint of the instruments of torture.” So they had shown him all the kingdoms of Bombay and told him: “Take your pick.” And he knew now what he wanted.
Nothing.
Masterji could see black water crashing into the ocean wall that was meant to keep it out, rolling back and crashing again.
Once before, when Purnima had been threatened by her brothers, he had been weak. Not wanting trouble at his Society, he had again been weak.
“And Masterji—the Pintos want you to agree. For their sake you must say yes.”
“Don’t you speak about the Pintos.”
“Your friend Mr. Pinto is not the man you think he is, Masterji. Until two weeks ago he used to drink Royal Stag whisky. The other morning, a used Blenders Pride quarter-bottle carton turns up in his rubbish. He has started paying fifteen rupees more for a bottle of whisky. Why? Because he loves money more than he loves his wife’s blindness.”
So he is examining our rubbish, Masterji thought. But a man’s rubbish is not the truth about him, is it?
“You don’t know a thing about Mr. Pin … Mr. Pint … Mr. Pint ….”
Masterji felt the floor slipping beneath his feet: “It’s starting again.” He heard his blood sugar chuckling. His left knee swelled up in pain; his eyes dimmed.
“Masterji,” Ajwani reached for him. “Masterji, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” He shook off Ajwani’s hand. “Nothing.”
“Just stay calm, Masterji. And breathe deeply. It will ….”
Look down, a voice said. Look at me. Masterji turned to his left and saw the swirls in the ocean, the foam that was hitting the wall along the shore of Bombay. The foam thickened. The ocean rammed into the wall of Breach Candy like a bull. Look at me, Masterji. The bull came in again and rammed into the wall of the city and back he went to gather his strength. Look at me.
The oceans were full of glucose.
“What are you saying, Masterji?” Ajwani asked. He looked at Shanmugham with a grin.
Shanmugham remembered the sign on the mansion that he saw every morning on his drive up Malabar Hill. “This building is dangerous,