MONEY TREE (29 page)

‘You’ve got a fan club,’ said
Erin.

‘I tho
ught you’d never come get me. I was beginning to think there was a back way out of the hut.’

Great quarter moons of sweat soaked his back and sides, a dark ring stained his hat.

‘I see you found the bar.’

‘It’s just a beer
for chrissake. Warm, at that.’

As if warm beer didn’t count. He didn’t raise his voice, just kept smiling, and turned to Meera.

‘How was it?’

‘
I think Anila Jhabvala is – how do you say it? – the right stuff?’

‘
I
have your wife on the line Mr Stanstead. Do you want to take it or are you in conference?’

‘Where’s she phoning from Pat? Somewhere on Madison I’d guess.’

‘My dial says she’s at home sir.’

‘I’ll take it.’ There was a pause and a click. ‘Hi honey, what’s up?’

‘I’ve just had your mother on the phone. She was reminding me it’s her birthday. She wants us over to celebrate. You know what that means.’

‘Charmaine, there’s no way I can find the time to flip up to the Vineyard to eat birthday cake. What’s the boyfriend sitch? Is it still Big Benny or was that last month?’

‘That’s why she’s so keen for us to come over. She’s temporarily out of men. No-one to get laid with, no-one to get canned with.’ The voice dripped distaste.

‘And how would either of us fill those roles? You want I should pimp for her? Look, talk to Pat and arrange a big party for her. Get her lush friends along. Spend some money on something glittery. She’ll never know we weren’t there. You know the score.’

‘I know the score, baby.’ The voice softened, became wheedling. ‘And this is going to cost you, my precious. This isn’t what you pay me for you know.’

‘Some day we need to talk about what exactly I
do pay you for, my angel. What’ll it take?’

‘There’s a new line of Manolo
s coming out next week. I so need new shoes.’

‘What happened to the other three hundred? Ok, ok, just do it. Anything else,
honey child?’

The sarcasm bled down the line.
When the call was over Warwick sat back thinking about wives and mothers. He could – and did – change the former, but he was stuck with the latter. He wondered if Charmaine was getting over greedy and whether he was getting as much out of the deal as she was. She still turned heads, and she
gave
great head whenever he called for it, but there were definite lines round the mouth and eyes and there just seemed less enthusiasm than he really should expect. Like it was a duty or something. She joined in the powder parties with him at weekends but was squeamish about mainlining. Her loss.

On the other hand she did take care of his mother and she didn’t tr
y to change him. A big plus. Not like wife number one. Donna had had everything going for her: figure, face, family, and money of her own. It had been the society wedding of the year. But turned out she was cuckoo. She thought she could improve him. That he needed help. Her own therapy bills were sky high and she wanted to justify them by getting him to admit something wasn’t working in his head either.

He’d played along for
a while to keep her quiet. It had amused him at first to wind up this jerk with an alphabet of letters after his name. Then it began to irk him – partly the time, partly the price. But mainly the way he was digging into his head.

‘I don’t want to talk about my father. It’s such a fucking cliché, Doc.’

‘That in itself suggests we should, don’t you think?’

They sat facing each other in big soft chairs that swivelled – deliberately low key, informal – the ambience had to be right of course for ‘relating’. Dr Young – ‘call me James, please’ – was mid forties, dressed in dark slacks and black crew-necked top. He was clever with his silences. Though Warwick considered him a quack, he wanted value for his money, so felt obliged to fill the conversational gaps.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What do you want to tell me?’

‘For Christ’s sake
, Doc!’ Warwick knew the title annoyed him. ‘I don’t have time for these games! Where are we trying to get to with this?’

‘Nowhere. We’re not trying to
get anywhere. We’re here. We’re just talking. I’m interested. That’s all. Interested and just happy to listen.’

James Young eased back in his chair, hands loose on the arms and his glasses slipping casually down his nose.
Warwick thought of the fee clock ticking away.

‘He was like most dads. Never around much. You know how it is if you’re
a big name in business. Running a global corporation and travelling a lot. Preferred to keep the family home in Maine instead of moving to New York. So he didn’t get back much. . .’

Warwick let the soft afternoon light seduce him into talking about his father and how he loved to see him and how he looked for him – or a sign of him - on the special days. Sometimes Dad made it, though it happened on even fewer occasions when Warwick was at boarding school. But he always sent a real expensive present; like a BMW 3 series on his 17
th
birthday. The other guys were so green at that! He remembered the big cigars and the sharp suits and the way other men stood around him; like he was the epicentre of their world.

‘Did you talk?’

‘Sure. About lots of stuff. He taught me everything I know about business. We weren’t into all that hugging and bonding stuff; didn’t need to; we knew where we stood with each other. All that ostentatious declarative shit wasn’t our style. In fact I guess that summed up my old man: style.’    

What he didn’t say, what was none of a quack psychiatrist’s business to know, was that because of the rules between them he’d never told his father about
his mother. How can you say, ‘Oh by the way pop, I caught mommy getting screwed by the pool cleaner last week,’ or ‘Your old pal Prizio, the one you set up in business? Yeah, good old Prizio was round again for cocktails and blowjobs with your wife.’ And that he’d first caught his beautiful, golden, whore of a mother at it when he was twelve.

He’d been dropped home early from a friend’s party and had wandered round the house looking for her and had found her – heard her first – heard the gasping and the rhythmic smack of wood against wood – in the changing room down by the pool. He’d found the crack in the wall that he’d made before to spy on others changing. Through it, he could make out the bench and the shunting body of his naked mother being pounded by ‘Uncle’ Andy, another good friend.
They were in vivid profile to him barely six feet away. He could see his fat arse pumping between the scissoring legs of his mother and the look of pain on Andy’s face and the lost look on hers, like she was dreaming with her eyes open. . .

‘Do you miss him?’

‘What kind of dumb fucking question is that? Course I miss him. He was my father, wasn’t he?’

‘Why?
Can you say why you miss him?’

His voice was so soft it was almost like Warwick was hearing it inside his head. Warwick thought it was a good question, one that went on echoing, and which he couldn’t answer then or now. All he remembered
of that last session was the sun sifting through the blinds, the leather under his palms growing warm and sweaty, the smell of tall white lilies and the wetness running down his cheeks.

He blamed the quack for the dreams starting up. Or for making him notice them.
For a while, he’d thought about suing him. But how can you sue for opening up your own memory?

T
hey ate by the jeep under a tarpaulin stretched from the roof. Erin and Ted slapped on factor 50 an hour too late. Erin’s face, devoid of make-up, was already taking on a glow and more freckles were appearing. Meera reviewed with Ted what she’d learned from Anila.

‘My god, Meera, this is some story. Can I talk to her my self? See if I can use it?’

‘I will ask her. But remember, this woman has lost everything. You must be mindful.’

They cleared up and Meera drove back through the village to park outside Anila’s hut. They ignored the crowds as best they could and set up the tarpaulin to span the roofs of the jeep and the hut. She then snaked a cable from under the jeep’s bonnet through the hole in the wall made by the thief. She and
Erin hauled equipment and luggage inside.

Ted
set himself up on the LR’s footplate under the shady awning. He was left to cool his heels for half an hour until finally Meera brought out Anila’s mother. The tiny woman squinted up at his towering bulk. Formal introductions were made, enough to satisfy the conditions of Purdah. The old lady went back inside and held the door open to let Ted duck in. Once inside, the old woman returned to her place by the fireside where she had been beating dough on a metal cooking plate. Ted looked around and found some very serious business already underway. A little girl was seated at a table made from two boxes from the jeep. In front of her, a computer screen glowed with colour. Behind her were Anila and Erin.

Erin
looked up and came over. She looked much better, as though she’d had a transfusion. She whispered. ‘We’re up. I tell you, it makes the whole thing seem like magic when you look through someone else’s eyes. But the kid took to it like she’s grown up in front of a computer screen.’

‘What’s her name?’
Ted had just got a flicker of a smile from the little girl, and a longer one from Anila.

It was Anila who answered, in
careful English. ‘She is named Aastha. It means hope.’

‘It is a beautiful name. And I can see she is an expert already.’

Anila smiled, catching most of what he said. Meera translated fully and she smiled again. Ted continued now he had her attention.

‘Anila? May I call you that? Can I talk to you for a little while please? I want to hear how you got involved with the bank. Is that possible?’

Anila grasped most of it but turned to Meera to check if she should speak to this man. Meera gave her blessing and Anila came and kneeled in one fluid motion in front of Ted inviting him to sit opposite. Ted struggled down to the ground and hauled his legs under him to sit cross-legged. He pulled out his little notepad and pencil for old times’ sake – the electronic version had been discarded at the bottom of his pack - and began his interview. It progressed in a halting, smiling way for some time. Ted listened rapt, as she told him why she needed to get the loan in the first place. It got through to him that this young woman had been prepared to risk her very life on this venture.

‘You mean you went all the way to Delhi, you and your two friends, and you weren’t even sure the bank was real or that they would see you? Far less help you?’ Meera had to translate this for her.

‘I had no choice. Sometimes that is better, is it not?’

Her big sad eyes left him stripped bare.
Ted continued with his questions, but he had already heard all he needed. After a time they were finished, and he eased himself upright feeling his knees creak and grind.

‘Thank you Anila. I think you are a remarkable lady.’ He turned to the others at the table. ‘When you guys are finished, I’d like to get online and check what’s happening with Oscar. I also need to
file a report.’ Ted waved his notebook.

‘We will be done soon,’ replied Meera. ‘I just wanted to show Anila how easy it is. Aastha is already an expert. I think Anila will have no problems.’

Ted wondered what she meant, but then he took in Erin’s face.

‘You look better. Did you catch some sleep or something?’

Erin grinned. ‘Anila noticed I was a bit low. The stomach pains were still pretty bad.’ She pursed her mouth. ‘Look, I have IBS – Irritable Bowel Syndrome. So – I kid you not - she gave me some tea made from the leaves of this neem tree of theirs. Like the big trees down by the well. It tasted simply awful – really bitter, despite the three spoons of sugar - like a good medicine should. A local concoction by their medicine woman. Meera says it’s ok. It’s standard prescription round here. But if I die, save the air fare and bury me out here, will you?’

‘You mean you took the stuff?!’

‘Have you checked out the restrooms? Actually it seems to have done something. My stomach’s gone quiet. Before the storm maybe. But frankly, I was ready to perform a colectomy on myself if I thought it would’ve helped.’  

Five minutes later Meera had gently pulled Aastha back from the screen. The child still held some of the light in her eyes, and shyly wrapped herself back round her mother.
Ted took over the keyboard. He opened out his notepad on the box. It was covered in scribbles. Only occasionally did he have to turn to it as he typed in his despatch to Stan:

Customer Care

If you want to find out how a bank works, ask the customer. That’s what your reporter has been doing in an effort to get to the reality behind the myths about the People’s Bank. Here in a village in the heart of India, in a dust bowl that used to be a fertile valley, we see first hand how this bank’s customers are
being served.