The Mountain Shadow

‘Lin!’ a different voice said. ‘Lin brother! Let him go!’

It was Abdullah. The strength drained from my arms and legs, and I let Andrew slide away from me, onto his side. He gasped, choking and coughing, as Hathoda and several young gangsters crowded into the corridor to assist him.

Abdullah reached out and pulled me to my feet. Breathing hard, I followed him to the rows of hooks where I’d left my things.

‘Salaam aleikum,’ I greeted him. ‘Where the fuck did you come from?’

‘Wa aleikum salaam. From heaven, it seems, and just in time.’

‘Heaven?’

‘It would certainly have been hell, if you had finished him, Lin. They would have sent someone like me to kill you for it.’

I gathered my shirt, knives, money and watch. In the entrance to the gym I used a wet towel to wipe down my face, chest and back. Strapping on the knives, I threw the shirt over my shoulders, and nodded to Abdullah.

‘Let us ride, my brother,’ he said softly, ‘and clear our minds.’

Andrew DaSilva approached me, stopping two paces away.

‘This isn’t over,’ he said.

I stepped in close and whispered, so that no-one else could hear.

‘You know what, Andy, there’s a lane at the back of this gym. Let’s get it over with, right now. Just nod your head, and we’ll get it done. No witnesses. Just us. Nod your head, big mouth.’

I leaned back to look at his face. He didn’t move or speak. I leaned in again.

‘I didn’t think so. And now we both know. So back the fuck off, and leave me alone.’

I gathered my things, and left the gym with Abdullah, knowing that it was a foolish thing to humiliate Andrew DaSilva, even privately. A wolf had escaped: a wolf that would probably return, when the moon was bad enough.

Chapter Nineteen

We rode together in silence to Leopold’s. Breaking with the discipline that usually kept him out of any place that served alcohol, Abdullah parked his bike next to mine, and walked inside with me.

We found Didier at his usual table near the small northern door, facing the two wide entrance arches, showing the busy causeway.

‘Lin!’ he cried, as we approached. ‘I was so alone here! And drinking alone is like making love alone, don’t you think so?’

‘Don’t take me there, Didier,’ I said.

‘You are an unordained priest of denied pleasures, my friend,’ he laughed.

He gave me a hug, shook hands with Abdullah, and called for the waiter.

‘Beer! Two glasses! And a pomegranate juice, for our Iranian friend! No ice! Hurry!’

‘Oh, yes sir, I’ll rush, and give myself a heart attack just to serve you,’ Sweetie growled, slouching away.

He was on my list of top five waiters, and I knew some good ones. He ran the black market franchise in goods that moved through one door at Leopold’s and went out the other, without the owners knowing. He took franchise fees from every store on the street, hustled a couple of pimps, and ran a small betting ring. And somehow, he drove the whole thing on nothing more than surliness and pessimism.

Didier, Abdullah and I sat side by side with our backs to the wall, watching the wide bar and the crowded street beyond.

‘So, how are you, Abdullah?’ Didier asked. ‘It has been too long since I’ve seen your fearsome, handsome face.’

‘Alhamdulillah,’ Abdullah replied, using the expression that meant Thanks and praise to God. ‘And how goes it with you?’

‘I never complain,’ Didier sighed. ‘It is one of my sterling qualities, as the English say. Mind you, if I did complain, I could be a master of the complaining arts.’

‘So . . . ’ Abdullah frowned. ‘It means . . . you are well?’

‘Yes, my friend,’ Didier smiled. ‘I am well.’

The drinks arrived. Sweetie slammed the beers in front of us, but carefully wiped every trace of moisture from Abdullah’s glass of juice, placing it in front of him with a generous portion of paper napkins to the side.

As Sweetie backed away from Abdullah he bowed, slightly, with each backward step, as if he were leaving the tomb of a saint.

Didier’s mouth wrinkled with irritation. He caught my eye, and I laughed, spluttering beer foam from the top of my glass.

‘Really, Lin, these people are insupportable! I sit here every day, and every night, year after year. I have urinated rivers in the lavatories here, and subjected myself to food so miserable, for a Frenchman, that you cannot imagine, and all in the cause of a dedicated, and I think it not too immodest to say, magnificent, decadence. Me, they treat like a tourist. Abdullah comes only once in a year, and they are dying of love for him. It is infuriating!’

‘In the years that you have been here,’ Abdullah said, sipping his fresh juice, ‘they have come to know the limit of your tolerance. They do not know the limit of what I will do. That is the only difference.’

‘And if you stopped coming here, Didier,’ I added, ‘they’d miss you more than anyone else in the place.’

Didier smiled, mollified, and reached for his glass.