Shadow Play (21 page)

‘I'm sorry if that came out wrong,' I mumbled before he had a chance to reply. ‘Your decisions are none of my business.'

‘It's all right. It's a valid question. Everyone who knows my circumstances looks at me strangely. All I can say in response is that London is full of people like us, who are here for mysterious reasons. You take the weather, the distance, the expenses, and yet it's full of us, and not just for the money. On every bus you hear us, from Brazil, from Africa, from the Middle East and Pakistan. So there must be something we receive in return for everything we give up. I believe that is what we all have in common, something as important as home and family, even though it is often invisible on the outside and we all have a different name for it. I think of it as my music.'

‘That's a good way to express it. I know what you're talking about. I recognize myself in your description, except perhaps my purpose isn't as clear. I have no special gifts or motives.'

‘Maybe you just like the parks, Charles, the long, undisturbed walks. From what I've heard about India, I doubt there are as many green spaces in Bombay. Besides, ours are not countries where one is easily left alone. That's worth coming all this way to find.'

We spoke for a while longer about my options regarding Martina. He asked about her the week after, and I replied that I'd been trying to put her out of my mind since I had confirmed what she did. He seemed sorry for me, and suggested it might still be worthwhile letting her know, since circumstances do change.

When they did, he wasn't there to find out, since he remained in Pakistan for ten weeks, sorting out family matters. He emailed me twice during that time, telling me about the walks he was taking with his sons, Laila seated like a princess on his shoulders, practising tabla on his head. And Khurram was a bit of a hothead as he'd feared, but not to worry, he was working on him to convince him once and for all to fly only for peaceful civilian purposes. Salman was much more law-abiding. He wanted to join the UN. Yet, said Asif, for all the fields and the woods, he could not walk freely with Razia. Not that there was anything wrong, but people would still stare and deem such behaviour odd, typical for a Vilayati. ‘This is why we are in London, Charles,' he wrote. ‘It is the best city for walks.'

 

The two days after our interview, I thought about Sharon whenever I sat down to either of the unfinished projects on my table. Would she have deemed them mutually consistent or incompatible, useful or counterproductive? There was a speech to be delivered at the ICA, about the forked possibilities offered by capitalism when it came to the winning over of Middle-Eastern affections. Apparently some diplomatic phone-card had been lost, and used by a group of locals in Baghdad to call sex-lines to the tune of half a million pounds. I'd come across the anecdote in an article, and was planning to use it as a point of departure, perhaps even a form of hope.

Then there was a story long awaiting completion, about the last evening of a would-be self-detonator in Jenin, wandering through the alleys of his childhood, sitting down to one more home-cooked meal. The sentimental beginning was meant to throw the reader off guard, since the story went on to divulge the degree to which he loathed the poverty of their circumstances, all of which had accrued into a self-hate greater than anything he felt towards the occupiers.

It was a peculiar story to write, since it involved excavating so much that was autobiographical – my own detestation of my childhood home and our helpless entrapment within the family, for which I had always blamed my father. It was the secret wedge that divided us forever, and yet I never admitted it, although my mother would have required no confession. It was him I'd grown to despise, and his influence that I feared above all. Yes, I even feared the genetic taint of his passivity, and somehow in my fervour to escape, this abhorrence of my family had expanded to cloud over my memories and reflexes about India itself. Ridiculous as it sounds today, until my life in London was established on a secure footing, I dreaded constantly that ‘India' would swallow me up and spit me out, after chewing me into an unrecognizable mulch. At their worst these phobias took some strange turns, which culminated in my seething privately against anyone who was weak or unfortunate. I regarded my carefree foreign friends with envy. How did it console me that three hundred years ago my civilization was as creative and glittering as theirs today, and that many forecast the turning of the wheel once more? I would be an old man by then, with nothing but deprivation and anxiety to recall from my youth.

From such unlikely origins, I relocated and drew out the implications of a similar twisted rage, and a futile desperation to escape, that burned within my West Bank protagonist. But these are shaming sentiments that he cannot fully admit even to himself, and somehow he is led by an awful mix of guilt and pain, and sheer hatred of the very sensation of being in his own skin, to volunteer for this particular mode of reprisal.

Sharon showed up without calling on Saturday morning, the twenty-fifth. I'd woken up early to write, and my coffee was
still brewing. Hence I misunderstood her intention at first, and wearily began rehearsing a shrug-off speech. She was calm and bright, although palpably excited. She waited for me to down half my coffee before she announced her decision. That was how she announced it: ‘my decision'.

‘Based on our meeting the other day, I have reached a decision,' she declared, as if it was eight in the evening.

Oh god, was my unexpressed sentiment, oh, god.

My expression must have betrayed me. ‘Are you interested at all?' she asked. ‘I'm sorry, I just assumed you would be interested. I've been inexcusably wrapped up in myself the past few days.'

It gets worse and worse, I feared, still wordless. Then I spoke. ‘Sharon, it's a bit early, and to tell you the truth, I feel somewhat assaulted. I promise I ascend the rungs of evolution quite rapidly after my second cup of coffee, and I suppose it's an impressive sight, but right now you've caught me on the verge of the Homo Erectus stage. Also, I didn't realize we'd grown close enough in one session for such impromptu displays of warmth. If you needed a quote or a clarification, you could have just called.'

‘I'm sorry. There is no decent excuse for my intrusion. But can I please stay, if I promise not to speak until you've finished your coffee? And just so you can savour it with an easy mind, I assure you it's not what you're thinking. This request has nothing to do with the other night; it'll be so left-field you could never have predicted it.'

‘If that's your relaxing formula, you should consider patenting it. You know what, I'll take you up on that offer. If you remain silent until I've had two cups of coffee and look ready to spar and dazzle, I will for my part take my finger off the button
beneath this armrest that opens a trapdoor under your couch. And with that, let peace prevail.'

An hour later I was frantically absorbing her calmly-delivered idea. She had respected all my rules and yet, when she spoke, there wasn't the slightest rush or hesitation. It didn't even take twenty minutes to deliver, after we'd watched
Seinfeld
together, the one where Jerry and George find themselves inadvertently posing as Aryan Nation icons after cadging a lift in a limo under false pretences. How did she sit through it?

‘I have researched and put together a new book, and I'd be very grateful if you provided the foreword.'

She had sounded so disappointed in me the other night. Why would she think of me for her book? ‘I've never claimed to be anything but an enthusiastic amateur when it comes to matters of serious economics. You yourself hinted as much during the interview. How could I be of any use?'

‘It's a book about personalities rather than economics, although yes, in that area generally. But if you hear me out, it'll be clear why you're perfect for the job.'

‘Well then, go ahead, and don't mind me while I fix some yogurt. I'll be listening all the time, even if I'm not facing you, and despite blobs of cherry yogurt on my beard. I hope you realize that everything today is off the record vis-à-vis the interview. That is an absolute condition. Should I turn down your request, you can't have a go at me with retroactive malice. Capisce?'

And so I became the first person to hear about
The Leap
or, rather, the first person its author ever confided in. This is a crucial distinction, I insist, as important (for the police) as discovering how many others learnt of its blueprint, legitimately
or otherwise. No one among you will know anything about it, not yet, and now I'm certain, not ever. It is a book that never had the chance to exist, about which only the sketchiest outline remains (in one fugitive mind). Nonetheless – I claim publicly for the first time – it is a phantom work that killed its author. There is no other explanation.

The very silence surrounding it clinches my case. It could not have gone unmentioned had it been found amongst Sharon's effects. Its disappearance is most eloquent, in the manner of primary witnesses who never testify in major gangster trials because they have all succumbed to purely coincidental accidents.

I can easily visualize her briefing me, striking an unaware silhouette in the morning sunshine; clear, urgent, confident, as if she knew I would not refuse. She was right. She had mapped out her territory well, and I understood this as she spoke. The interview had been a stake-out, a sizing-up. She had deliberately volunteered for the job. Perhaps the ready consent to jump her bones was part of the strategy too. But this proposal was so enticing, I didn't care. I didn't mind being “used” for such a purpose. I only felt warmer towards her, and steadily more excited myself. Excited about not having disappointed her the other night, excited about what was being demanded. The next few hours were gripping, as the implications of her project sank in.

‘My book is about what I term the “quantum leap”, the missing five (or less) years in the lives of several so-called self-made billionaires. It began as a commission to write a biography, about eighteen months ago, very authorized, very well-paid. I won't say whose just yet, though I have to tell you
it's an Indian. The instructions were laughable. I was basically ordered by one of his vice-presidents to produce the new “New Testament”: believe it or not, he told me they were planning to leave copies for guests in every room throughout their chain of hotels! Shamefully though, I coveted the money, and said yes that same afternoon.

‘However, even hagiographies require a minimum of research, and I couldn't bring myself to be glib enough to work solely with the facts and “quotes” his PR team provided. I flew to Bombay, which took them by surprise, since they were quite happy for me to do most of my writing long-distance. They insisted they didn't want to disrupt my life in any way, and that their London office could provide me with any material I sought. Which should help you picture the kind of thing they had in mind.

‘Still, I found a nice all-expenses room awaiting me at the Marine Drive Hilton. Actually, the first meeting was both hilarious and sinister, if you can imagine such an unsettling combination. They were at pains to guarantee they would not interfere with my authorial sovereignty. The PR vice-president even assured me that my own encounter with the “leading light” – as the boss was referred to continually, I kid you not – would make such an impression that I wouldn't need any prompting to write respectfully. It was as if we were waiting for an audience with the head of a cult.

‘When we entered, I was asked by my escorts to “voluntarily” remove my shoes. I noticed the “leading light” was barefoot too. Of course I took a seat immediately, but they touched his feet, two VPs, I swear it, and then stood by the wall behind me. At some point I unthinkingly lit a fag. The “leading light” paused
in his speech, which was about the importance of maintaining integrity, as if slightly startled, then continued droning. Only after we returned outside did both visibly shaken VPs – they were like Thomson and Thompson, completing each other's sentences, each naming a fresh name – stammer to me that no one had ever lit a cigarette in the presence of the “leading light”, not the prime minister, not the country's most important businessmen, cricketers or film-stars, nobody. And yet, he had once more demonstrated his magnanimity by overlooking my blunder. Needless to add,
they'd
touched his feet before escorting me out, as if additionally requesting forgiveness for my sins.

‘Perhaps it's just the way things are done in saffron India, but spurred on by this encounter, I set out to dig some more on my own, fully aware that I would be vetted chapter by chapter, and nothing remotely controversial would be allowed. Our meeting had amply clarified that, no matter what they said. Still, being an ambitious girl who has trouble meeting her own stringent moral demands, I sold it to myself as a win-win situation. I'd pocket the money for now, and enjoy the fringe benefits to follow. And if I unearthed any real nuggets, I would wait poker-faced until I was independent once more. Then who was to stop me dropping them here and there in different articles, and sitting back and watching the fun?