The Mountain Shadow

Their stone-silent stares were grim. Malevolence rippled outward from their dark, staring eyes: waves so intense that it seemed I could feel them settle on my skin, like misted rain.

And then, as if they sensed my awareness of them, they turned as one and stared directly into my eyes, with clear, unreasoning hatred. We held the stare, while the happy crowd cooed and murmured their pleasure, while limousines drew up in front of us, and cameras flashed.

I thought of Lisa, still inside the gallery. The men stared, willing darkness at me. My hands moved slowly toward the two knives fixed in canvas scabbards in the small of my back.

‘Hey!’ Rosanna said, slapping me on the shoulder.

Reflex sent my hand whipping around to grab her wrist, while the other hand shoved her backwards a step.

‘Whoa! Take it easy!’ she said, her eyes wide with surprise.

‘I’m sorry.’ I frowned, releasing her wrist.

I turned quickly to search for the hate-filled eyes. The three men were gone.

‘Are you okay?’ Rosanna asked.

‘Sure,’ I said, turning to face her again. ‘Sure. Sorry. Is it about done in there?’

‘Just about,’ she said. ‘When the big stars leave, the lights go out. Lisa says you’re not a Goa fan. Why not? I’m from there, you know.’

‘I guessed.’

‘So, what have you got against Goa?’

‘Nothing. It’s just that every time I go there, somebody asks me to pick up their dirty laundry.’

‘That’s not my Goa,’ she countered.

It wasn’t defensive. It was simply a statement of fact.

‘Maybe not,’ I smiled. ‘And Goa’s a big place. I only know a couple of beaches and towns.’

She was studying my face.

‘What did you say it was?’ she asked. ‘Rubies and what?’

‘Rubies and love letters.’

‘But you weren’t in Goa just for that, were you?’

‘Sure,’ I lied.

‘If I said you were down there for black market business, would I be close to the mark?’

I’d gone to Goa to collect ten handguns. I’d dropped them off with my mafia contact in Bombay, before searching for Vikram to return the necklace. Black market business was close to the mark.

‘Look, Rosanna –’

‘Has it occurred to you that you’re the problem here? People like you, who come to India and bring trouble we don’t need?’

‘There was a lotta trouble here before I came, and there’ll be plenty left when I’m gone.’

‘We’re talking about you, not India.’

She was right: the two knives pressing against the small of my back made the point.

‘You’re right,’ I conceded.

‘I am?’

‘Yeah. I’m trouble, alright. And so are you, at the moment, if you don’t mind me saying it.’

‘Lisa doesn’t need trouble from you,’ she said, frowning hard.

‘No,’ I said evenly. ‘Nobody needs trouble.’

She studied my face a little longer, her brown eyes searching for something wide enough or deep enough to give the conversation a context. Finally she laughed, and looked away, running a ringed hand through her spiked hair.

‘How many days does the show run?’ I asked.

‘We’re supposed to have another week of this,’ she remarked, looking at the last guests leaving the exhibition. ‘If the crazies don’t close us down, that is.’

‘If I were you, I’d pay for some security. I’d put a couple of big, sharp guys on the door. Moonlight a few guys from one of the five-star hotels. They’re pretty good, some of those guys, and the ones who aren’t still look good enough.’

‘You know something about the show?’

‘Not really. I saw some men out here before. Seriously unhappy men. I think they’re seriously unhappy with your show.’

‘I hate those fucking fanatics!’ she hissed.

‘I think it’s mutual.’

I glanced toward the gallery to see Lisa kissing Rish and Taj goodbye.

‘Here’s Lisa.’

I swung a leg over the bike, and kick-started the engine. It growled to life, settling into a low, bubbling throb. Lisa came to hug Rosanna, and took her place on the back of my bike.

‘Phir milenge,’ I said. Until we meet again.

‘Not if I see you first.’

We rode down the long slope to the sea, but when we stopped at a traffic signal, a black van pulled up beside us, and I turned to see the men with the hateful stares. They were arguing among themselves.

I let them pull away when the signal changed. There were political stickers and religious symbols on the rear window of the van. I turned off the main road at the first corner.

We rode through back streets for a while, and I worried for the changes I was seeing. Rosanna’s faux-bronze panels told a brutal Bombay story, but less brutal than the truth, and less brutal than the politics of faith. The violence of the past was just sand in the swash of a new wave, breaking on the Island City’s shores. Political thugs travelled by the truckload, brandishing clubs, and mafia gangs of twenty or thirty men had grown to hundreds of fighters. We are what we fear, and many of us in the city feared reckless days of reckoning.

Chapter Four

Riding slowly, we made our way back to the sweeping curve