Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie [162]
I was alone on the balcony. Mary Pereira was in the kitchen helping Pia to prepare sandwiches and cheese-pakoras; Hanif Aziz was immersed in his search for the thirteen hearts; and now Mr. Homi Catrack came out to stand beside me. “Breath of fresh air,” he said. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “So,” he exhaled deeply. “So, so. Life is treating you good? Excellent little fellow. Let me shake you by the hand.” Ten-year-old hand is swallowed up by film magnate’s fist (the left hand; the mutilated right hand hangs innocently by my side) … and now a shock. Left palm feels paper being thrust into it—sinister paper, inserted by dexterous fist! Catrack’s grip tightens; his voice becomes low, but also cobra-like, sibilant; inaudible in the room with the green-striped sofa, his words penetrate my one good ear: “Give this to your aunty. Secretly secretly. Can do? And keep mum; or I’ll send the police to cut your tongue out.” And now, loud and cheery. “Good! Glad to see you in such high spirits!” Homi Catrack is patting me on the head; and moving back to his game.
Threatened by policemen, I have remained silent for two decades; but no longer. Now, everything has to come out.
The card-school broke up early: “The boy has to sleep,” Pia was whispering, “Tomorrow he goes to school again.” I found no opportunity of being alone with my aunt; I was tucked up on my sofa with the note still clutched in my left fist. Mary was asleep on the floor … I decided to feign a nightmare. (Deviousness did not come unnaturally to me.) Unfortunately, however, I was so tired that I fell asleep; and, in the event, there was no need to pretend: because I dreamed the murder of my classmate Jimmy Kapadia.
… We are playing football in the main stairwell at school, on red tiles, slipping sliding. A black cross set in the blood-red tiles. Mr. Crusoe at the head of the stairs: “Mustn’t slide down the banisters boys that cross is where one boy fell.” Jimmy plays football on the cross. “The cross is lies,” Jimmy says, “They tell you lies to spoil your fun.” His mother calls up on the telephone. “Don’t play Jimmy your bad heart.” The bell. The telephone, replaced, and now the bell … Ink-pellets stain the classroom air. Fat Perce and Glandy Keith have fun. Jimmy wants a pencil, prods me in the ribs. “Hey man, you got a pencil, give. Two ticks, man.” I give. Zagallo enters. Zagallo’s hand is up for silence: look at my hair growing on his palm! Zagallo in pointy tin-soldier hat … I must have my pencil back. Stretching out my finger giving Jimmy a poke. “Sir, please look sir, Jimmy fell!” “Sir I saw sir Snotnose poked!” “Snotnose shot Kapadia, sir!” “Don’t play Jimmy your bad heart!” “You be quiet,” Zagallo cries, “Jongle feelth, shut up.”
Jimmy in a bundle on the floor. “Sir sir please sir will they put up a cross?” He borrowed a pencil, I poked, he fell. His father is a taxi-driver. Now the taxi drives into class; a dhobibundle is put on the back seat, out goes Jimmy. Ding, a bell. Jimmy’s father puts down the taxi flag. Jimmy’s father looks at me: “Snotnose, you’ll have to pay the fare.” “But please sir haven’t got the money sir.” And Zagallo: “We’ll put it on your bill.” See my hair on Zagallo’s hand. Flames are pouring from Zagallo’s eyes. “Five hundred meelion, what’s one death?” Jimmy is dead; five hundred million still alive. I start counting: one two three. Numbers march over Jimmy’s grave. One million two million three million four. Who cares if anyone, anyone dies. One hundred million and one two three. Numbers march through the classroom now. Crushing pounding two hundred million three four five. Five hundred million still alive. And only one of me …
… In the dark of the night, I awoke from the dream of Jimmy Kapadia’s death which became the dream of annihilation-by-numbers, yelling howling screaming, but still