Читаем Shantaram полностью

‘Well, for instance, the official population of Bombay is eleven million, but Prabu says the guys who run the illegal numbers racket have a better idea of the real population, and they put it at anything from thirteen to fifteen million. And there are two hundred dialects and languages spoken in the city every day. Two hundred, for God’s sake! It’s like being in the centre of the world.’

As if in response to that talk of languages, Ulla spoke to Karla quickly and intently in German. At a sign from Modena she stood, and gathered her purse and cigarettes. The quiet Spaniard left the table without a word, and walked toward the open archway that led to the street.

‘I have a job,’ Ulla announced, pouting winsomely. ‘See you tomorrow, Karla. About eleven o’clock, ja? Maybe we’ll have dinner together tomorrow night, Lin, if you’re here? I would like that. Bye! Tschus!’

She walked out after Modena, followed by leers and admiring stares from many of the men in the bar. Didier chose that moment to visit several acquaintances at another table. Karla and I were alone.

‘She won’t, you know.’

‘Won’t what?’

‘She won’t have dinner with you tomorrow night. It’s just her way.’

‘I know,’ I grinned.

‘You like her, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, I do. What-does that strike you as funny?’

‘In a way, yes. She likes you, too.’

She paused, and I thought she was about to explain her remark, but when she spoke again it was to change the subject.

‘She gave you some money. American dollars. She told me about it, in German, so Modena wouldn’t understand. You’re supposed to give it to me, and she’ll collect it from my place at eleven tomorrow.’

‘Okay. Do you want it now?’

‘No, don’t give it to me here. I have to go now. I have an appointment. I’ll be back in about an hour. Can you wait till then? Or come back, and meet me then? You can walk me home, if you like.’

‘Sure, I’ll be here.’

She stood to leave, and I stood also, drawing back her chair. She gave me a little smile, with one eyebrow raised in irony or mockery or both.

‘I wasn’t joking before. You really should leave Bombay.’

I watched her walk out to the street, and step into the back of a private taxi that had obviously been waiting for her. As the cream-coloured car eased into the slow stream of night traffic, a man’s hand emerged from the passenger window, thick fingers clutching a string of green prayer beads, and warning away pedestrians with a wave.

Alone again, I sat down, set my chair against the wall, and let the activity of Leopold’s and its clamorous patrons close over me. Leopold’s was the largest bar and restaurant in Colaba, and one of the largest in the city. The rectangular ground-floor room occupied a frontage equal to any four other restaurants, and was served by two metal doors that rolled up into wooden arches to give an expansive view of the Causeway, Colaba’s busiest and most colourful street. There was a smaller, more discreet, airconditioned bar on the first floor, supported by sturdy columns that divided the ground floor into roughly equal sections, and around which many of the tables were grouped. Mirrors on those pillars, and on much of the free wall space, provided the patrons with one of the bar’s major attractions: the chance to inspect, admire, and ogle others in a circumspect if not entirely anonymous fashion. For many, the duplication of their own images in two or more mirrors at the same time was not least among the pleasures of the pastime. Leopold’s was a place for people to see, to be seen, and to see themselves in the act of being seen.

There were some thirty tables, all of them topped with pearl-smoked Indian marble. Each table had four or more cedar chairs-sixty-minute chairs, Karla used to call them, because they were just uncomfortable enough to discourage customers from staying for more than an hour. A swarm of broad fans buzzed in the high ceiling, stirring the white-glass pendulum lights to a slow, majestic sway. Mahogany trim lined the painted walls, surrounded the windows and doors, and framed the many mirrors. Rich fruits used in desserts and juices-paw paw, papaya, custard apples, mosambi, grapes, watermelon, banana, santra, and, in the season, four varieties of mango-were displayed across the whole surface of one wall in gorgeous abundance. A vast, solid-teak manager’s counter presided, like the bridge of a sailing ship, over the busy deck of the restaurant. Behind that, along a narrow corridor, one corner of the frantic kitchen was occasionally visible beyond the scurry of waiters and the sweating clouds of steam.