The Mountain Shadow

‘People like us . . . ’ she said, a Scandinavian accent bumping the words from her lips with a pleasant little music that didn’t match the sadness in her eyes.

I walked away.

I looked back. She was still cringing in that shocked flinch, her shoulders curved inwards.

I went back.

‘Look,’ I said more softly, glancing around in both directions to check the street. ‘Forget it.’

I handed her a roll of notes, the profit I’d made that day, and began to leave, but she stopped me. She held the money in her closed hand.

‘What . . . what are you talking about?’

‘Forget it,’ I said again, taking a step backwards. ‘Keep the money. Forget I said anything.’

‘No!’ she pleaded, folding her arms in on herself protectively. ‘Tell me what you’re talking about.’

I stopped, and sighed again.

‘You have to leave this guy behind, whoever he is,’ I said at last. ‘I know how this plays out. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I don’t care how much you love him, or how nice a guy he is –’

‘You don’t know anything.’

What I knew was that the next picture she’d sell to someone would be the one in her passport. I knew she still had her passport, because it hadn’t come to me yet. But she’d sell it, I was pretty sure, if her boyfriend asked her to. She’d sell everything, and when there was nothing left to sell, she’ll sell herself.

And her boyfriend would feel bad, but he’d take the money she made from selling her body, and he’d buy dope with it. I knew that, just like every street tout, shopkeeper and pimp around us knew it. It was the truth of addiction, waiting to happen, and they were the truth of the street, waiting to use her.

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything.’

I walked to the bike, and rode away. Sometimes you buy in, sometimes you don’t: sometimes you try, and sometimes you ride past. A gold chain and a photograph connected me to the girl, somehow, but there were too many girls, in too much trouble, waiting somewhere for troubled boyfriends. And anyway, I was a troubled boyfriend myself.

I wished the girl in the locket well, and stopped thinking about her by the time I parked my bike at home.

Lisa was preoccupied and quiet as I shaved, showered and dressed. I was glad. I didn’t want to talk. The dinner with Ranjit and Karla hadn’t been my idea.

Although we both lived in the narrow peninsula of the Island City, I hadn’t seen Karla in person since I’d been living with Lisa. I saw pictures of her and Ranjit from time to time, in Ranjit’s newspapers, but Fate never crossed our paths.

Karla haunts the mansion of my life, too, Lisa said. I understood what she meant, but Karla wasn’t a ghost. Karla was more dangerous.

‘How do I look?’ Lisa asked me, standing near the front door of the apartment.

She was wearing a very short, sleeveless blue silk dress. She had a shell necklace, the shell bracelet I’d given her, and her Roman-style sandals laced all the way up to the knees.

Her make-up was more elaborate than usual, but it suited her: sky-blue eyes in a black aurora. Her thick, blonde curls were as loose and free as ever, but she’d cut the fringe of her hair herself with a pair of kitchen scissors. It was irregular, haphazard, and brilliant.

‘You look great,’ I smiled. ‘Love what you did to your hair. Did you put my throwing knife back, when you were finished with it?’

‘Let me show you where to put your throwing knife, buster!’ she laughed, punching me hard in the chest.

‘Are you serious, about seeing other people?’ I seriously asked her.

‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘I am. And you should, too.’

‘Is that what this sudden dinner party is about?’

‘In a way. We can talk about it later.’

‘I think we should talk about it now. And about other things.’

‘First, talk to Karla.’

‘What?’

‘She’ll be there tonight. Talk to her. Find out what she’s

thinking, and then we’ll talk about what you’re thinking.’

‘I don’t see –’

‘Exactly. Let’s ride, cowboy, or we’ll be late.’

We rode to the Mahesh hotel during a lull in the rain, arriving at the covered entrance just as a new shower began. I parked the bike in an alcove, away from the main entrance. It was strictly forbidden to park there, so it cost me fifty rupees.

At the bank of entry doors Lisa stopped me, her hand in mine.

‘Are you ready for this?’ she asked.

‘Ready for what?’

‘Karla,’ she said, her lips a bright, brave smile. ‘What else?’

We found Ranjit sitting at a table set for ten. Two mutual acquaintances, Cliff De Souza and Chandra Mehta, were with him. The men were partners in a Bollywood film production company. My association with them had begun a few years before, when they’d approached me to help them dump some of their undeclared, untaxed rupees, in exchange for black market dollars, with which they could bribe taxation department officials, because the taxmen only accepted dollars.