River of Smoke - Amitav Ghosh [187]
Dinyar?
‘Yes, Fuaji.’ Holding out his hand he gave Bahram an energetic handshake. ‘How are you, Fuaji?’
Bahram saw now that he was wearing a a pair of well-cut trowsers and a coat made of the finest Nainsook; his cravat was perfectly tied and on his head, instead of a turban, there was a glossy black hat.
Dinyar had brought presents from Shireenbai and his daughters, mostly new clothes for Navroze, the Persian New Year, which was coming up in March. After handing them over, he wandered around the daftar, examining its contents with a slightly amused smile. All the while he kept up a flow of chatter, in English, passing on greetings and messages from various people in Bombay.
Amazed by his fluency, Bahram said, in Gujarati: Atlu sojhu English bolwanu kahen thi seikhiyu deekra – Where did you learn to speak English so well, son?
‘Oh Puppa kept a tutor for me – Mr Worcester. Do you know him?’
No.
Dinyar in the meanwhile had made his way over to the window and was looking down at the Maidan. ‘Grand view, Fuaji! I’d love to rent this room some day.’
Bahram smiled: You’ll have to get your business going first, deekra – a room like this is expensive.
‘It’s worth it, Fuaji. From here you can keep an eye on everything that’s going on.’
That’s true.
‘That affair in December: you must have seen it all from up here, no?’
What affair?
‘When they tried to execute someone down there? What was his name – Ho-something, wasn’t it?’
Kai nai – Never mind.
Bahram sank back into his armchair and wiped his forehead. ‘Sorry, beta – I have some work to finish …’
‘Yes of course, Fuaji. I’ll come by again later.’
For the rest of the day Bahram averted his eyes from the Maidan and stayed away from the windows. But just as he was about to go to bed, he heard an unfamiliar noise outside, a kind of chanting, accompanied by the tinkling of cymbals.
It was impossible not to look out now. Parting the curtains he saw that some dozen people had gathered at the centre of the Maidan. A clump of flickering candles was planted in front of them and the flames threw a dim light on their faces: they were all Chinese but not the kind of men who usually came to the Maidan – a couple of them were dressed in the robes of Taoist priests, including the man who was leading the chanting.
Suddenly Bahram remembered witnessing something similar on one of Chi-Mei’s boats: she had always had a great dread of unquiet spirits and hungry ghosts and some trivial incident had led her to summon a priest. Looking out of the window now, Bahram began to wonder whether the men in the Maidan were performing an exorcism. But for whom? And why there – at the very spot where the gibbet had been erected that day?
He reached for the bell cord and tugged it hard, setting off an insistent clanging in the kitchen downstairs.
A few minutes later Vico came running up, wearing a look of concern. Patrão? What’s the matter?
Bahram beckoned to him to come to the window.
Look at those people down there, Vico. See how they’re chanting? And look there – isn’t that some kind of priest, waving his hands and lighting incense?
Maybe, patrão. Who knows?
Isn’t that exactly the place where they had brought that fellow that day?
Vico shrugged and said nothing.
What are they doing down there, Vico? Is it an exorcism?
Vico shrugged again and would not look into his eyes.
What does it mean, Vico? said Bahram insistently. I want to know. Have other people seen what I saw that night, in the fog? Have you heard of anything like that?
Vico sighed and pulled the curtain shut. Listen, patrão, he said, in the kind of tone that men use to soothe children. What is the point of thinking about all this? What good will it do, ha?
You don’t understand, Vico, said Bahram. It would make me feel better if I knew I wasn’t the only one who had seen it – whatever it was that I saw.
Oh patrão, leave it na?
Vico went to Bahram’s bedside table and poured out a stiff measure of laudanum.
Here, patrão; take this,