Spirit of a Mountain Wolf (16 page)

A knock on the door woke him, but he ignored it. It came again. It would be that terrible girl. Then he remembered how she had barged in; she wouldn’t knock. He heard his name called. It didn’t sound like Neelma. He pulled back the quilt and padded to the door. He pulled on the knob and miraculously it opened.

Tahira stood there. “Razaq,” she said, “you look dreadful.”

He half-grinned. “Shukriya, kind princess.”

Her face darkened. “Don’t call me that.”

He sobered. “I am sorry.”

She touched his arm. “I knew you wouldn’t like to be locked up. Mrs. Mumtaz did it because you’re a boy, and she needs to be sure you will cooperate.” She stumbled over “cooperate” and Razaq frowned. He could hear Mrs. Mumtaz’s words in Tahira’s mouth. “I told her if she let you out in the afternoons, you would do the right thing.”

“I wish you hadn’t done that.” He imagined the begging Mrs. Mumtaz would have made her endure.

“But look at you—you are so dark and sad. You have lost your light, like you’ve been under a rock all week.”

Razaq remembered Zakim saying he had light in his eyes. “Has it truly been a week?” he asked.

“Almost.”

“Does Mrs. Mumtaz know you are here?”

She nodded. “You can’t have breakfast with the girls, but you can sit in the courtyard later on, or go on the roof if the girls go outside.”

Razaq felt a lifting sensation inside him. “You are a true friend, Tahira.” It made her smile. “Have you . . . have you started work yet?”

The smile faded. “I had to start dancing last night. I danced in the room with the women and girls, and then I danced for a man in my room. After that,” she said softly, “another came.”

“I am sorry,” Razaq said. “I wish I could do something.”

Her eyes were large. “I pray to Yesu and I feel less.” Then she said, “I never dreamed this. I wanted to go to high school. There is a boarding school for Christian girls in the mountains. My friend Hadassah went—an Angrez paid for her fees. That would have happened for me, too, for I gained the same marks as Hadassah. Then I would become a teacher. After that . . .” Her voice trailed off, but Razaq knew what should have come after: a shadi, a wedding. “None of that will happen now,” she whispered.

Razaq didn’t trust himself to say anything. The anger that men like Mr. Malik could take everything away from girls like Tahira rose up behind his eyes and consumed him. He could have punched the wall, but he didn’t want to frighten her.

Instead he said, “I was meant to be married in three years.”

She frowned at him. “Aren’t you too young?”

He glanced up the corridor before he said, “Boys marry young in the mountains, at seventeen even. I am older than Mr. Malik thinks. I just didn’t tell him. I got away with it because I am not tall.”

“You are growing,” she said. “You are taller than when you first came to Mr. Malik’s house.” Then she added thoughtfully, “All I can hope for is to become a tawaif, a high-class prostitute, with only one man looking after me. It is a kind of shadi.” She made a sad sound. “The only way out of this life now would be to marry, but who will marry a girl like me?”

Razaq wanted to say that he would like to, but would it change everything if he told her? Now she knew he was older than she was, she might keep away from him, and they both needed this friendship.

“What was your dream?” she asked.

He grinned. “Look after the land we worked and build up a herd of sheep from our ram Peepu that every man in the mountains would want for his own herd. But the earthquake changed all that.”

“I must go,” she said suddenly, as if she heard a noise. “I will try to see you if you come to the courtyard.”

Razaq didn’t have a chance to check out the courtyard because Mrs. Mumtaz visited him next.

“I didn’t think you would like to be locked in, but that is what will happen if I have any tuklief from you.” She put a folded shalwar qameez and a towel on the bed. “Wash and put this on. I see you have your bottles of oil. Good. A customer will come shortly. At first there will only be a few customers until it becomes known we have a malishia.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do a good job and make me happy.”

Razaq thought it was a good time to ask about his pay. “Will you be putting aside money for me each time?”

“God, you mountain people think you own the world, don’t you?”

“With respect, bibi, Mr. Malik put aside money for me each time a customer came. Do you have it?”

She stared at him so long that Razaq couldn’t tell whether he’d offended her or if she would start laughing. Finally, she said in a strangely controlled voice, “Is that what he told you?”

“Ji.”

“He didn’t give me your little bank account, so you had better start afresh. Teik hai, I can put aside money for you, but half of what you earn has to go to Malik, and half to me for looking after you and housing you. I can put away twenty rupees each time.”

“But the customer pays so much more, and I am the one doing the work.”

She put a hand on the door and looked back at him. “But you do not work for yourself, do you? Malishia work is a very profitable business, and this is the first I’ve heard of one working for someone else.”

“I could work for myself,” Razaq said.

“I’m sure you could, but Malik needs his lakh first. That will take twice as long since you are working here.”

She smiled, showing her jackal fangs, then swung out of the room as though she was as young as Neelma. Razaq listened carefully, but there was no sound of a bolt drawn across. It was amazing how good that felt: he could open the door if he wanted.

Instead, he washed himself and combed his hair, put on the clean suit of clothes. It was embroidered with light pink thread and had a neck shaped like a valley. His father always wore qameezes with buttons and collars, and so had he. Then his door opened and a good-looking young man ushered in an older man. The younger man saluted Razaq before he closed the door again.

The customer stood by the door. “I’ve never had a massage before,” he said, “but I have hurt my shoulder. Could you ease it?”

Razaq was lost for words for a moment. “You want an upper back massage?” he finally said.

The man nodded.

“I shall try. Please, take off your qameez and lie here.” Razaq spread the towel on the bed.

The man winced as he took off his shirt and lay down. As Razaq worked on the man’s shoulder, he felt his first twinge of self-respect since he had entered Mr. Malik’s house. He would like to be able to make people feel better in this way. His mother had a talent with herbs yet Razaq had never paid attention. He thought it was women’s business, for his mother was called upon if a friend was giving birth. He massaged the rest of the man’s back as well—he was sure it would all be connected. The man groaned, but he didn’t sound displeased.

When it was finished and the man put on his shirt, he smiled. “It feels much better. Thank you, what is your good name?”

“Razaq.”

He felt a prickling behind his eyes; that was the way his father asked the name of a man. None of his customers had ever thanked him like that either, and there had been no “whatever.” If only all his customers could be like this one.

“If I get any more pain I shall return,” the man said.

When the door opened, Razaq saw the young man sitting on the floor in the hallway. He stood up to escort the customer outside.

“Who are you?” Razaq asked when the young man returned.

“I am Bilal and I am your madadgar, your helper.” He grinned. “Actually, now that men are coming into the house in the afternoons to see you, I have to provide security.”

Razaq’s mouth dropped open. “Truly?”

Bilal was a heavy young man. Even though his voice sounded like a boy’s, Razaq could imagine him “providing security” like Murad did, but he was nicer than Murad.

“Mrs. M doesn’t want any trouble,” Bilal said. “Besides, it beats sitting around. I am here in the evenings as well to watch that no one hurts the girls. The customers need to know there is a man in the house.” He grimaced.

Razaq was amazed he hadn’t known there was another male here. Hadn’t Mrs. Mumtaz said Razaq was the only boy? Why hadn’t she mentioned Bilal?

“Don’t you find it difficult living here with the girls?” he asked.

A shadow passed quickly over Bilal’s face. “I manage.” Then he said, “Come, I will show you something.”

He took Razaq down the corridor and out a door. The brightness made Razaq squint his eyes.

“We have to go behind this screen so you don’t see the girls in the courtyard,” Bilal said.

Razaq wondered why Bilal didn’t include himself in that rule. He led Razaq up two flights of steps until they stood on the flat concrete roof. Razaq gasped. It was like being given a gift. A breeze blew his hair. It was cold, and he hadn’t brought his vest, but he didn’t care. He lifted his arms wide, threw back his head, and laughed at the sky. He could hear the tabla playing and danced, then realized it was Bilal clapping. He stood still and looked out over the gali with its street stalls and people milling about. Between buildings he could see a kite flying. He kept turning until he saw everything: the minarets, the clouds, hills in the distance. He sighed.

Bilal pointed out landmarks. “There’s Qila Fort. Moti Bazaar. The Christian girls’ college.” He watched Razaq. “I thought you would like it up here. You look like someone used to being outside. I used to bring your food when you wouldn’t get out of bed.”

“Neelma brought it the first time.”

“That fox, she tricked me to let her do it that morning because it was Eid, but I’m not getting into trouble for her.”

“Shukriya.” Razaq squinted at the northern horizon. “I come from the mountains, but they are so far away I cannot see them.”

Bilal grunted.

“What about you?” Razaq asked. “How did you come here?”

“I was the same age as you. Came to the city for work. Slept in the bus adda, sold shoelaces to travelers. I made enough to buy food in the evening. Then a driver offered me a job cleaning his bus. Twenty rupees a day. It sounded like a fortune.”

Razaq thought of Saleem’s boy and tried to keep the pity from his face. How many did it happen to? “And how did you get here?”

“My bus driver had an accident. He didn’t return and I ran. I was more careful after that, but not careful enough. I took a job with the wrong man and now I am here.” He sighed. “At least this place is better than a low-class kothi khana in the city—they are run by men, and they beat you. And you get ten, twelve customers all day and night, and they don’t want dancing or massages, they just give you diseases.” He paused and took out a pouch with cigarette papers and tobacco in it. “Here I have a place to sleep, food, a job.”

But no life
, Razaq thought,
no future
. He wanted to carry on his father’s line, have descendants who would honor his father’s name, and he wanted to do that with Tahira. But how could he now? He saw the years stretch out before him—a gray wasteland.

“I had dreams,” Bilal said, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “Want one? It will make you feel better.”

He held out the pouch. Razaq declined with his hand.

“Maybe the movies,” Bilal went on. “Be an actor. I would be famous, have money to help kids like me, but it was stupid.”

“It happens to some,” Razaq said.

“Only a few. But they might still be slaves.” He blew smoke into the air.

Razaq wrapped his arms around his knees. “I want to be free,” he murmured.

Bilal narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t let Mrs. M hear you say that. She thinks she’s a rani ruling over her little kingdom, and she can’t be crossed. If she orders me to beat you, I will have to do it.” He stared at Razaq a moment too long, and Razaq looked away. “Besides, there is no way to get free unless a miracle happens and someone buys you out. Or you just wait until you have paid your debt.”

“I will be old by then,” Razaq said.

How long before he could pay off the lakh? Could he even trust Mr. Malik and Mrs. Mumtaz? Was anything written down? How much had he lost already by Mr. Malik not giving him what he had earned in the white house? By the look on Mrs. Mumtaz’s face, none of it had been true anyway, and would she put money aside for him even though she had said she would? He’d never be sure of them, never free. Maybe he should just try to run. Then he thought of Tahira. How could he leave her alone?

“You are a beautiful boy,” Bilal said.

Razaq glanced at him sharply but saw no guile in his stare.

“Be careful,” he continued. “Some people cannot understand beauty, and what they don’t understand they destroy.”

There was such bitterness in Bilal’s tone that Razaq didn’t feel he could ask what he meant.

Javaid had used his cell phone to call all the places he had found on the Web—organizations that helped find missing children and nongovernment agencies working against trafficking. He had even found some centers for street children set up by Western aid agencies. No one had seen Razaq, but he was now listed in their databases. All Javaid could do was keep looking. He had to believe Razaq was still in the city.