Hot Water Man (15 page)

They walked up the path. At the top of the mound, ahead of them, stood the mausoleum. It was a heavy, pitted building, eight-sided, made of weathered brick with a domed roof. It had arched doorways each side in the Moghul style, a common feature. Closer you could see the decoration. It was built for some minor ruler four hundred years ago, what was his name, he needed to tell Mr Chowdry, there wasn't much else to tell him – Mir Ali Beg or Mir Ali Khan. Behind it, with just its edge jutting out, stood the saint's shrine.

They walked up through the bazaar. There were stalls full of garlands for the faithful, sticky candy and roasted nuts. The hawkers sat in the shade of the bushes. The place buzzed with flies; there were few people about this sleepy afternoon – a mullah; cripples of all ages come to get cured. Along here Minnie had gripped his hand, squeezing it in her anguish. There were plenty of beggars. These Muslims, for the good of their souls, gave away their small change in the holy places. The beggars who could do it clambered to their feet; the ones who couldn't leant forward rattling their tin bowls. ‘Sahib, sahib.' They recognized Duke because he was in the habit of giving five-rupee notes; it had gotten to be embarrassing, walking up here. He guessed the reason might be that soon these stalls would be Translux car park. Mr Chowdry threw little paisa pieces. He looked neat and urbane, with his grey suit and grey hair. Maybe he was superstitious; maybe he was devout.

He tried to concentrate on Mr Chowdry. She was not catching them up. ‘You been here before?'

‘Ah no, though I have visited many places like this. I'm a Punjab man. Lahore for me. We have so many tombs up there.'

‘Plenty of tourists too, lucky fella.' Up in the north of the country the Lahore Translux stood in the centre of town, surrounded by gardens, historic monuments, museums and Kim's cannon. In addition to its natural advantages, tourists passed through on their way to India.

Mr Chowdry glanced around. ‘Certainly a new departure for Translux.' He stepped over a piece of dog dirt. He wore shiny pointed shoes, very small.

Lahore had that kind of old-world Raj atmosphere. It was like India up there. Down here it was just desert, an international airport, a port and a big city full of slums with the multi-storey blocks coming up.

‘This is where the action is, business-wise,' said Duke. ‘So the place is wide open for us. We have to develop the potential, Mr Chowdry, wherever we can find it.' He pointed at the tomb ahead. ‘Make a feature of whatever we can grab.'

Behind them Shamime said: ‘We had a picnic here once, when I was a child. Under that tree up there beside the tomb.'

Duke's throat constricted. She moved no nearer them.

‘My ayah told me about the
pir.
His head found the place first and his body followed after. Down in the pool the fishes always swim with their heads facing him, never their tails.' She paused. ‘It wasn't so run-down then. Nowadays the young bloods don't come here. They hang out at Nazimabad Happyland. That's where the action is.' Her voice was bright and social but still she did not move in beside them, though they had slowed down. ‘Lots of slot machines. The car park's full of studs, ten to a Toyota, revving their engines.'

They reached the top of the hill and paused in the shadow of the old mausoleum. It was quiet. There were some trees up here. Shamime stood a little apart from Duke, facing the breeze. The dupatta blew against her mouth.

Duke turned away. Down there lay patchy scrub, the highway and the asbestos works, surrounded by a wire fence. A truck was bumping along in a cloud of dust. Way beyond was the smudged sky where the city lay.

Beside him Mr Chowdry took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. They sat down on the step. Duke pointed out the site below them: the place where the screened-off staff quarters would be, the tennis courts over there, where the animals' home lay at present. The gardens and steps leading up here to the tomb, where they sat.

Minnie had had to sit down here. She said it was the heat; in fact he knew it was the damaged pilgrims who had upset her; the hopelessness of their case. He knew Minnie. She did not want to spoil things for him, when he was so keen. She had tried to show interest in his site. He remembered her efforts to be chatty, all the while her hands clenching. He wished he could shield her from them. From everything else besides.

He tried to show interest in his site, now. He tried to picture it down there amongst the bushes, for Mr Chowdry's sake. ‘Steps up to this boundary will have fancy railings in rendered concrete, Moghul-style, ending with a pre-fabricated archway.'

A little apart, Shamime lit a cigarette. Her gold lighter flashed in the sun. He smelt the smoke but he did not dare turn his head. She must despise him; a man twice her age. But she gave no clues, acting as if nothing had happened. Maybe she felt humiliated. He could not bear this. Maybe she felt indifferent. He could not bear this either, but that's what he should be hoping for.

He tried to think of something to say to Mr Chowdry. He turned round and pointed at the doorway behind them. It was set in a larger arch, and the intervening space filled in with honeycombed granite – kind of decorative Islamic ventilation. This patterning, he told Mr Chowdry, was going to be the main personality motif of the Translux, found in the screening of the car park and staff quarters. But mainly, of course, in the hotel proper, both externally and internally: in the latter case, in rigid plastic. Mr Chowdry was wiping his neck with his handkerchief, turning his head from side to side. He had not loosened his tie.

His shirt was unbuttoned. Her neat fingers had done it. ‘You're like a grizzly bear,' she had said, stroking his chest. ‘Wall-to-wallfur.' She had laid her head against it. She had rubbed her nose in his hairs. ‘Are they grey? I can't see in the dark.'

‘Pardon me?'

‘I was saying, just how will you incorporate this tomb and the shrine behind?' asked Mr Chowdry.

‘They remain on public property,' said Duke. ‘The Translux land is all to the front of them. There will still be public access from the rear. But even in the public sector, the tourist authorities have undertaken to smarten the place up.'

‘The tomb looks vandalized,' said Mr Chowdry. ‘People always steal, when monuments are unsupervised. Pieces of marble and mosaic tiles; they sell them to the dealers. Another few years and there would be nothing left. We rely on yourselves, as foreigners, Mr Hanson, to preserve our heritage.'

‘Should be a cleaner place for everyone, whether they're Translux guests or not.' He paused, trying to remember what to mention next. Shamime was scratching her leg; the nylon stuff rustled.

Mr Chowdry lit a cigarette. Like most Pakistanis he had beautiful hands. On either side of Duke, Mr Chowdry and Shamime smoked in silence. Duke's hands looked coarse and hairy; freckled slabs. They lay heavily, one on each knee. He felt large and hot and foreign. Perhaps they were bored. How alien was this place to them? After all, they were both Muslims.

Shamime scrunched out her cigarette with her foot. Already he felt protective about her smoking. He wanted to pull her hair loose, where it was caught in her dupatta. He wanted to care for her without being allowed ever to touch her. He wanted to speak to her and explain that it had never happened before, couldn't she tell? And that he hadn't been drunk, no, not that. He had been intoxicated. He was out of his depth. He would die if he never saw her again.

Mr Chowdry cleared his throat. ‘You have had good news, I trust, from Mrs Hanson?'

Duke paused. ‘Sure, I spoke to her last night. She's recovering fine. Two of the boys are with her.' Shamime was bent forward, gazing at her feet. ‘A little discomfort, of course, on account of the stitches.'

Duke scratched his mosquito bites. A small boy approached, barefoot along the platform. Yoked over his shoulders were two pans of nuts. He stepped with care to balance them; they swayed with him.

‘
Gram
, sahib?' He held out a paper cone.

‘They are in the vicinity, your sons?'

‘Sure. One's at college just six blocks away. That's Chester. He'll be graduating in two years.'

The boy stood in front of them, his face sombre. He was wearing shirt and shorts; he had skinny legs, grey and dusty. Chester had been a skinny boy once, before he shot up and filled out. Now he was six feet two, one of the tallest freshmen in his year.

‘He's majoring in business studies.'

‘Two
annas
, sahib.'

‘Sure.' Duke bought three cones, though nobody was hungry. Shamime was unstrapping her high-heeled sandals. He wanted to fold his hands over her feet. He wanted Minnie to be here.

‘He hopes to become a sales executive,' he said.

He climbed to his feet. Shamime rose, the sandals in her hand.

‘Just going to take a look around the shrine,' she said. ‘I'll meet you back at the car.'

Duke stood still with surprise. She turned to go. The shrine lay behind the tomb. They walked a few steps with her; it came into view. It was a turreted building, kind of plain and small. Modern, compared to the mausoleum. Its whitewashed walls were dappled with shadow from the trees. There was nobody about but a man with a basket of flowers. Shamime bought a garland and pulled the dupatta around her face. She ducked her head to enter, her blue robes flapping.

Duke himself had never entered the place. Minnie had put it into words, saying it was their shrine. She was sensitive about that.

‘Would you care to go in, Mr Chowdry?'

Mr Chowdry shook his head with a polite smile. Was this a site visit on Shamime's part, or had she gone in to pray?

They made their way down through the bushes.

‘It must be a little frustrating,' said Mr Chowdry, ‘waiting for the final permission.'

‘You bet. Just one piece of paper. We're raring to go. I've two earthmovers contracted to Translux at three hundred bucks a day. They're just waiting for the word. And the structural steel in a high-security compound back in Karachi. It's getting to be expensive.'

The boy was following them; Duke could hear the creak of the yoke. Amongst the bushes lay a few lesser graves, you always found them clustered around the shrines. They were simple plaster blocks the size of coffins.

‘These, I presume, will be shifted?' asked Mr Chowdry.

‘Sure. We've entered Translux land. They'll be moved round the back of the hill where the village is – leastways those few huts. The tourist office didn't even know they were here.'

‘And the dead, I presume, will make no objection,' smiled Mr Chowdry.

Duke tried to smile, too, at the little joke. He glanced behind him, beyond the bushes and the boy, at the turreted roof of the shrine. Within there stood Shamime. Or maybe she knelt. Was she praying for her lost virtue? Last Sunday he had sat in the chapel, in a congregation of six, and prayed for his.

‘I believe they go there to pray for offspring.'

Duke was startled. Mr Chowdry had also stopped. ‘And the warm water from the tanks, I believe, is also claimed to cure a large number of diseases. Every disease, no doubt. The simpler the worshippers, the more prodigal the claims. But it's mainly for the babies, I've heard.'

Minnie, with your stitched belly. Duke scratched his bites. They ringed his flesh at waist level. It must have been Saturday night they had stung. He had inflamed them with his scratching; he wanted them to get worse. At Mohurrum these Muslim men whipped themselves for their sins, until their backs dripped like meat.

They made their way through the bushes, the boy following. Duke held the paper cornets. He felt warm towards this small, precise man who had sat next to Shamime in the automobile and who was sharing this afternoon. Ahead lay the pool. It was muddy; its shores were pitted with hoof prints. Local goat herds watered here but alternative arrangements, involving pipes, would be made for them. Down this side of the water, right by the shore, stood the hot spring. Duke had been disappointed with this. It was kind of plain: a stone tank with steps leading down into it. But the water steamed, all of its own accord. Three young men wearing loincloths sat on the rim, their legs dangling. They stopped talking and stared at Duke and Mr Chowdry.

‘There are two tanks,' said Duke. ‘One beyond the tomb, without a pond, and this one. The first remains on public land. But this one, and the pond, is what we aim to develop.' It was easier talking without Shamime here to confuse him. He gathered momentum. A few yards up the slope the boy shifted his shoulders, adjusting his yoke, and sat down. Duke could feel his gaze.

‘At the beginning, the personality factor posed some problems. At the Lahore Tranny, of course, you have the Kipling motif, with your illustrated wall-panels, the Mowgli Suite and the rest.'

‘I was telling the charming Miss Fazli about the latest innovation in our Coffee Shop.' Mr Chowdry picked from a cone and started munching. ‘Kim-Burgers. And for this trial month, with every Bumper Kim-Burger we're giving away a free portion of french fries and a cannon ballpoint-stand for the kiddies.'

‘Great.' Duke laid down his cones.

‘
Gram
, sahib?' The boy half-rose.

Duke shook his head, pointing to the remaining cones. The boy sat down again, lowering his pans. He could not be older than eleven, but then you could not tell with some of these kids. They weren't fixed as children, like the snapshots of his boys at eleven.

‘So here we plan to feature the Wishing Well.'

‘Wishing Well?'

Duke pointed to the tank. ‘We keep the steps and rebuild the wall with fancy brickwork, same as the tomb, with coloured plastic inlay in the old style. We build a rail around, for folk to lean over, build a pavilion roof, and there's your Wishing Well. Guests will be encouraged to throw in their small change, paisa pieces like you give to the beggars, but this time it'll be in aid of charity.'