The Mountain Shadow

Ahmed shaved me with a razor as sharp as a Cycle Killer’s moustache. When you live on the wrong side of the legal tracks, the number of people you trust to shave you with a straight razor dwindles to not many. Ahmed was trustworthy, because he was so true to his craft that he couldn’t possibly kill me with a straight razor. It was against the barbers’ code.

If he wanted to kill me, he’d have to use one of his guns, like the gun he’d sold me a few months before, which was in Tito’s vault. Safe in the laws of his guild, I opened my throat to his honour and relaxed in absolute trust, and got myself shaved.

He wrapped my freshly skinned face in towels hot enough to force confessions. Satisfied that the punishment fit the crime, he whipped off the towels, and removed the shroud with a bullfighter’s flourish.

He brushed me off skilfully, powdered my neck where he’d shaved it, then offered me the entire range of his only aftershave, Ambrosia de Ahmed.

I was calm. I was cosseted by Ahmed’s professionalism. I was healed, and feeling serene. And I was just rubbing my face down with Ahmed’s ambrosia, when Danda walked in the door, calling me a motherfucker.

Danda: and me with aftershave.

I didn’t let him finish his tirade. I didn’t care what he called me, or why he called me it. I didn’t care what he wanted, or why he wanted it. I grabbed his shirt and slapped a cologne-wet palm at his red ear, and kept on slapping it until he broke free and ran away, taking a fair portion of my testiness with him.

I opened the door of the barber shop, and waved goodbye.

‘Allah hafiz, Ahmedbhai.’

‘Wait!’ Ahmed said, coming to join me at the door.

He turned up the collar of my sleeveless denim vest, and curled it into place.

‘That’s better.’

I walked outside and met Gemini George, on the step. He grabbed me by my carefully arranged vest.

‘Thank God, mate,’ Gemini said, coughing, panting and falling into a hug. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘How’d you find me?’

Gemini George knew it was a professional question.

‘A pimp, in First Pasta Lane. He’s been following you around. They say you’re acting testy. He’s been betting you won’t last another two days, without visiting a girl.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I just got cured.’

‘Good,’ he said nervously.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s Scorpio,’ he replied quickly. ‘He’s gone crazy. You’ve gotta help me.’

‘Slow down. Scorpio can’t go crazy. Scorpio’s already crazy.’

‘Way, way crazier than Scorpio crazy. Twilight Zone crazy. He’s freaked out, man.’

‘Maybe we should talk about this somewhere.’

We sat in the Madras Café. We had idli sambar, followed by two rounds of strong, sweet tea. Gemini was a street guy, even though his friend was a millionaire: he ate first, and talked later.

When he sipped at his tea, washing down the last flavour of chilli and coconut, he told me the story. It began, as so many stories in India do, with a parade of saints.

The previous day there’d been a procession through the streets to venerate the memory of a local saint, who happened to be a lover of hashish. The streets were filled with devout holy men. It was the only day in the year when the cops couldn’t bust anyone for smoking, because most of the people smoking were holy men.

It was a festival designed for the Zodiac Georges, and Gemini had used it to lure Scorpio from his eagle’s nest at the Mahesh, and get out in the fresh air. It went well, at first, Gemini said. Scorpio found his street-shuffle walk again, remembering the rhythm of the road as Gemini walked beside him. He even got talkative. He began to tell his four bodyguards, hired from the hotel by the hour, about the doorways and alleyways they passed, and the adventures that he and Gemini had experienced in each one of them.

Then they turned a corner and found a sadhu, a holy man, barring their path. His hands were raised, one holding a knotted staff, and the other stained sacred red.

‘What happened?’ I asked him.

‘I said, Namaste, ji. Like to swap dope? I’ve got some Manali.’

‘Did he smoke with you?’

‘He didn’t get a chance. Before he could reply, Scorpio tried to step away, but the sadhu stopped him.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He said, Give me a thousand dollars.’

‘How much?’

‘A thousand dollars.’

‘What did Scorpio say?’

‘He said, Are you crazy?’

‘Did he have a thousand dollars in his pocket?’

‘That’s exactly what the sadhu asked him,’ Gemini said. ‘Do you have a thousand dollars in your pocket?’

‘Did he?’

‘He had twenty-five thousand on him, Lin. He showed it to me, to explain why we had to have four security guards from the hotel with us.’

‘What did Scorpio say?’