The Mountain Shadow

I climbed the granite and tile steps, crossed the wooden veranda and tapped on the filigreed glass of the main door. In a few moments, the night porter opened the door a crack.

‘Davis,’ I said, flipping easily into a Canadian accent. ‘Jim Davis. I have a reservation.’

He waved me inside, locking the door securely, and led me to the reservations desk, where he copied my passport details into a ledger that was half the size of a pool table. It took a while.

‘The kitchen is closed, sir,’ the attendant said at last, closing the book a page at a time as if he was making a bed. ‘There are very few guests at the moment. The season proper begins in three months. But there are cold snacks, and I can mix you a very nice drink, if you like. The house special.’

He walked across the large hotel reception area and switched on a lamp beside a comfortable, linen-covered couch. Moving nimbly, he crossed the room again, and opened a door leading to the bathrooms.

He switched on another light, and plucked a towel from the rail.

‘If you’d like to freshen up, sir?’ he said.

I was hungry and thirsty. I didn’t want to spend half an hour or longer creating a safe hiding-place in the hotel room for my golden vest. So long as I was wearing it, the vest was safe.

I accepted the towel, washed my face and hands, and then sat down on the couch, where a place had already been set for me.

‘I took the liberty of preparing a drink, sir,’ he said, placing a tall glass in front of me. ‘With coconut, fresh lime, a bite of ginger, a dash of bitter chocolate flakes, and a few secret ingredients of my own. If it’s not to your liking, I’ll prepare another of your choosing.’

‘So far, I’m happy to let you do the choosing, Mr – may I know your name?’

‘Ankit, sir,’ he replied. ‘My name is Ankit.’

‘A nice name. The Complete. I’m Jim.’

‘You know Indian names, sir?’

‘I know Indian names, Ankit. Where are you from?’

‘I’m from Bombay,’ he said, placing a tray of sandwiches in front of me. ‘Like you.’

He was either my contact at the hotel, or he was an enemy. I was hoping for the contact. The sandwiches looked good.

‘Wanna sit down?’

‘I can’t,’ he said, speaking softly. ‘It wouldn’t look right, if someone came in. But thank you, anyway. Are you okay?’

He meant, Did you bring any trouble with you? It was a fair question.

‘I’m good,’ I said, dropping the Canadian accent. ‘We passed through empty checkpoints. We were lucky. There’s a movie star in town, entertaining the troops.’

He relaxed, allowing himself to lean on the back of an armchair.

He was a little taller than I was, thin, perhaps forty-five years old, and had thick, grey hair. His eyes were sharp, and he was fit. I guessed that his confident, graceful movements had been learned in boxing, or some other martial art.

‘I made veg, and non-veg options,’ he said, gesturing toward the tray of sandwiches.

‘Right now I’m hungry enough to eat the napkin option. Mind if I go ahead?’

‘Eat! Eat!’ he said in Hindi. ‘I’ll fill you in, while you fill yourself in, so to speak.’

I ate everything. The cocktail was good, too. My contact, Ankit, a Hindu from Bombay in the middle of a war involving Buddhists, Muslims and other Hindus, was a good host and a valuable resource. While I ate, he listed the requirements for my two- or three-day role of journalist.

‘And most importantly, you have to report to the checkpoint every day before noon, to get stamped,’ he said in conclusion. ‘That’s a must. If you’re here for a few days, and they see a single day missing, you’ll be detained. Have you ever had the feeling that you’re not wanted?’

‘Not recently.’

‘Well, if you miss a day, and they catch you, you’re going to feel like the Universe doesn’t want you any more.’

‘Thanks, Ankit. Doesn’t anyone in this war have a sense of humour? The Universe doesn’t want me any more? That’s such a depressing thought that I insist on one more of your special cocktails, immediately.’

‘Just don’t miss that checkpoint,’ he laughed, returning to the small bar in the lounge area.

He went back to the bar several times, I guess. I lost count after the third time, because everything after that was the same thing, somehow, like watching the same leaf float past on a stream, again and again.

I wasn’t doped. Ankit was a damn good bartender: the kind who knows exactly how drunk you don’t need to be. His voice was soft, kind and patient, although I had no idea what he was saying, after a while. I forgot about the mission, and the Sanjay Company.

Flowers so big I couldn’t put my arms around them tried to press my eyes closed. I was tumbling, slowly, drifting, almost weightless, in feathered petals.

Ankit was talking.

I closed my eyes.

The white flowers became a river. It carried me to a place of peace, among the trees, where a dog ran toward me, frantic with happiness, and pawed at my chest happily.

Chapter Thirty-Four

‘Davis!’