Читаем The Mountain Shadow полностью

The artists were a different story, told by a tall, handsome sculptor, gathering fuel in vacant lots of millionaires.

The gallery had flourished. Scandal is always a seller’s market. The scent of it, attached to works that fanatics had attacked, works that had been banned or threatened with bans, seared the sated senses of a wealthy clique of buyers. People with enough money not to queue anywhere waited for appointments, and paid in black market rupees. Taj, the sculptor, was managing the gallery, and making money faster than he could swing a mallet.

He was talking to a ledger of patrons when I walked in with Karla one day, a few weeks after the lockdown. Rosanna was at a desk, working phones.

Taj nodded to Karla, and continued his discourse to the patrons. We walked through to the back room. It had been transformed from motorcycle lights to red fluorescents, a dozen of them, strewn around the room.

We sat on a black silk couch. There were paintings leaning against the walls, a sleeve of one becoming a frame for the other. Anushka brought us chai and biscuits.

When she wasn’t in character as a body-language artist, Anushka was a shy young woman, eager to please, and the gallery was a second home for her.

‘What’s happening, Anush?’ Karla asked her, when she sat down on the carpet beside us.

‘Same old same old,’ she smiled.

‘Three days ago you said that the new show of Marathi artists was ready,’ Karla said. ‘And I don’t see it being prepped.’

‘There’s . . . there’s been some argument.’

‘Ar . . . gu . . . ment?’ Karla said, growling syllables.

Taj walked in and sat down next to Anushka, folding his long legs under him elegantly.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I had to finish with those clients. Big sale. How are you, Karla?’

‘I’m hearing about some argument,’ she said, staring him down. ‘And feeling argumentative.’

Taj looked away from her quickly.

‘How are you, Lin?’ he asked.

Every time I looked at Taj, I thought of the two mysterious days he’d spent with Karla, somewhere outside Bombay: the days she’d never told me about, because I wouldn’t ask her about them.

He was the kind of tall, dark, and handsome that makes the rest of us think jealous thoughts. It’s not their fault, the handsome guys. I’ve known quite a few handsome guys who were great guys, and great friends, and we ugly guys loved them, but even then we were still a little jealous of them, because they were so damn good looking.

It’s our fault, of course, not theirs, and it was my fault with Taj, but every time I looked at him, I wanted to interrogate him.

‘I’m fine, Taj. How you doin’?’

‘Oh . . . great,’ he said uncertainly.

‘Argue me, Taj,’ Karla said, pulling his attention. ‘What’s the problem with the exhibition?’

‘Can we get stoned first?’ Taj asked, gesturing to Anushka, who rose immediately in search of psychic sustenance. ‘I’ve had back-to-back buyers for the last four hours, and my head is just spinning numbers.’

‘Where is it?’ Karla asked him.

‘Anushka’s bringing it,’ Taj said, pointing helplessly at the door.

‘Not the dope,’ Karla said. ‘The Marathi artists exhibition. Where is it?’

‘Still in storage,’ Taj said, looking at the door, and calling Anushka with his mind.

‘In storage?’

Anushka returned, smoking a very large joint, which she passed to Taj urgently. The sculptor held his hand out to Karla, pleading with her to wait while he smoked his way into a small cloud, and finally offered the joint to me.

‘You know I don’t smoke with Karla on the bike,’ I said, not moving to take it. ‘I’ve told you that before. Stop offering it to me.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Karla said, swiping the joint from his hand. ‘And I’ll take that explanation, Taj.’

‘Look,’ Taj said, stoned enough to pretend well again. ‘People feel that devoting an exhibition to one group of artists, from one language group, is not the direction they want to go.’

‘People?’

‘People here at the gallery,’ Taj said. ‘They like the Marathi artists exhibition, but they’re just not comfortable with it.’

‘You’ve been running a Bengali artists exhibition here for the last two weeks,’ Karla said.

‘That’s a different context,’ Taj struggled.

‘Explain me the difference.’

‘Well, I, that is . . . ’

‘I love this city, and I’m damn glad to live here,’ Karla said, leaning toward him. ‘We’re on Marathi land, living in a Marathi city, by the grace of the Marathi people, who’ve given us a pretty fine place to live in. The exhibition is for them, Taj, not you.’

‘It’s so political,’ Taj replied.

‘No, it’s not. All of these artists are good, and some of them are terrific,’ she insisted. ‘You said so yourself. I hand-picked them, with Lisa.’

‘They’re good, of course, but that’s not really the point here.’

‘The point for you, and me, and Rosanna, and Anushka,’ she said, ‘and all the others in the team who weren’t born here in Bombay, is that it’s simply the right and grateful thing to showcase talent from the city that sustains us.’

‘Karla, you’re asking too much,’ Taj pleaded.