Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie [92]
“Good news,” Ismail Ibrahim is saying, “I always thought you should fight the bastards. I’ll begin proceedings at once … but it will take cash, Amina. Have you got cash?”
“The money will be there.”
“Not for myself,” Ismail explains, “My services are, as I said, free, gratis absolutely. But, forgive me, you must know how things are, one must give little presents to people to smooth one’s way …”
“Here,” Amina hands him an envelope, “Will this do for now?”
“My God,” Ismail Ibrahim drops the packet in surprise and rupee notes in large denominations scatter all over his sitting-room floor, “Where did you lay your hands on …” And Amina, “Better you don’t ask—and I won’t ask how you spend it.”
Schaapsteker money paid for our food bills; but horses fought our war. The streak of luck of my mother at the racetrack was so long, a seam so rich, that if it hadn’t happened it wouldn’t have been credible … for month after month, she put her money on a jockey’s nice tidy hair-style or a horse’s pretty piebald coloring; and she never left the track without a large envelope stuffed with notes.
“Things are going well,” Ismail Ibrahim told her, “But Amina sister, God knows what you are up to. Is it decent? Is it legal?” And Amina: “Don’t worry your head. What can’t be cured must be endured. I am doing what must be done.”
Never once in all that time did my mother take pleasure in her mighty victories; because she was weighed down by more than a baby—eating Reverend Mother’s curries filled with ancient prejudices, she had become convinced that gambling was the next worst thing on earth, next to alcohol; so, although she was not a criminal, she felt consumed by sin.
Verrucas plagued her feet, although Purushottam the sadhu, who sat under our garden tap until dripping water created a bald patch amid the luxuriantly matted hair on his head, was a marvel at charming them away; but throughout the snake winter and the hot season, my mother fought her husband’s fight.
You ask: how is it possible? How could a housewife, however assiduous, however determined, win fortunes on the horses, day after racing day, month after month? You think to yourself: aha, the Homi Catrack, he’s a horse-owner; and everyone knows that most of the races are fixed; Amina was asking her neighbor for hot tips! A plausible notion; but Mr. Catrack himself lost as often as he won; he saw my mother at the racetrack and was astounded by her success. (“Please,” Amina asked him, “Catrack Sahib, let this be our secret. Gambling, is a terrible thing; it would be so shaming if my mother found out.” And Catrack, nodding dazedly, said, “Just as you wish.”) So it was not the Parsee who was behind it—but perhaps I can offer another explanation. Here it is, in a sky-blue crib in a sky-blue room with a fisherman’s pointing finger on the wall: here, whenever his mother goes away clutching a purse full of secrets, is Baby Saleem, who has acquired an expression of the most intense concentration, whose eyes have been seized by a singleness of purpose of such enormous power that it has darkened them to a deep navy blue, and whose nose is twitching strangely while he appears to be watching some distant event, to be guiding it from a distance, just as the moon controls the tides.
“Coming to court very soon,” Ismail Ibrahim said, “I think you can be fairly confident … my God, Amina, have you found King Solomon’s Mines?”
The moment I was old enough to play board games, I fell in love