Read Online The Mountain Shadow by Gregory David Roberts - Free Book Online
Authors: Gregory David Roberts
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people, one way or another, they’re all going to need or want some paperwork that gives them a better chance in America, or London, or Stockholm, or Sydney, you know?’
‘It’s a big market, huh?’
‘It’s a huge market. Huge. We only set this up two weeks ago, and we’re already working two full shifts to meet our commitments.’
‘Two shifts, huh?’
‘Flat out, baba.’
‘And . . . when one of our clients, who buys his engineering degree instead of studying for it, is called upon to build a bridge, say, that won’t fall down and kill a couple hundred people?’
‘No tension, baba,’ he replied. ‘In most countries, the fake degree only gets you in the door. After that, you have to do more study to meet the local standards, and get accreditation. And you know our Indian people. If you let them in the door, they’ll buy the house, and then the house next door, and then in no time they’ll own the street, and start renting houses to the people who used to own them. It’s the way we are. Count on it, yaar.’
Farzad was a gentle, open-faced young man. Relaxed with me at last and unafraid, his soft brown eyes stared from a place of unruffled serenity, deep within his sanguine opinion of the world.
His round, full lips parted slightly on the permanent quiver of a smile. His skin was very fair: fairer than my tanned face beneath my short blonde hair. His Western-chic jeans and silk designer shirt gave him the look of a visitor, a tourist, rather than someone whose family had lived in Bombay for three hundred years.
His face was unmarked, his skin showing no scar or scratch or faded bruise. It occurred to me, as I listened to his genial chatter, that it was likely he’d never been in a fight, or even closed his fist in anger.
I envied him. When I allowed myself to look into the half-collapsed tunnel of the past, it seemed that I’d been fighting all my life.
My kid brother and I were the only Catholic boys in our tough, working-class neighbourhood. Some of our tough, working-class neighbours waited patiently for the arrival of our school bus every evening, and fought us all the way home; day after day.
And it never stopped. A trip to the shopping centre was like crossing a Green Line into enemy territory. Local militias, or street gangs, attacked outsiders with the viciousness that the poor only ever visit on the poor. Learning karate and joining the local boxing club were the life-skills classes in my neighbourhood.
Every kid who had the heart to fight learned a martial art, and every week gave him several opportunities to practise what he learned. The accident and emergency department of the local hospital was filled, on Friday and Saturday nights, with young men who were having stitches put into cuts on their mouths and eyes, or having their broken noses repaired for the third time.
I was one of them. My medical file at the local hospital was heavier than a volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies. And that was before prison.
Listening to Farzad’s happy, dreaming talk of the car he was saving to buy, and the girl he wanted to ask out, I could feel the pressure of the two long knives I always carried at my back. In the secret drawer of a cabinet in my apartment there were two handguns and two hundred rounds of ammunition. If Farzad didn’t have a weapon, and the willingness to use it, he was in the wrong business. If he didn’t know how to fight, and what it feels like to lose a fight, he was in the wrong business.
‘You’re lining up with the Sanjay Company,’ I said. ‘Don’t plan too far ahead.’
‘Two years,’ Farzad said, cupping his hands in front of him as though he was holding the chunk of time and its promises. ‘Two years of this work, and then I’ll take all the money I’ve saved, and open a small business of my own. A consultancy, for people trying to get a Green Card in the US, and whatnot. It’s the coming thing! Count on it.’
‘Just keep your head down,’ I
‘It’s a big market, huh?’
‘It’s a huge market. Huge. We only set this up two weeks ago, and we’re already working two full shifts to meet our commitments.’
‘Two shifts, huh?’
‘Flat out, baba.’
‘And . . . when one of our clients, who buys his engineering degree instead of studying for it, is called upon to build a bridge, say, that won’t fall down and kill a couple hundred people?’
‘No tension, baba,’ he replied. ‘In most countries, the fake degree only gets you in the door. After that, you have to do more study to meet the local standards, and get accreditation. And you know our Indian people. If you let them in the door, they’ll buy the house, and then the house next door, and then in no time they’ll own the street, and start renting houses to the people who used to own them. It’s the way we are. Count on it, yaar.’
Farzad was a gentle, open-faced young man. Relaxed with me at last and unafraid, his soft brown eyes stared from a place of unruffled serenity, deep within his sanguine opinion of the world.
His round, full lips parted slightly on the permanent quiver of a smile. His skin was very fair: fairer than my tanned face beneath my short blonde hair. His Western-chic jeans and silk designer shirt gave him the look of a visitor, a tourist, rather than someone whose family had lived in Bombay for three hundred years.
His face was unmarked, his skin showing no scar or scratch or faded bruise. It occurred to me, as I listened to his genial chatter, that it was likely he’d never been in a fight, or even closed his fist in anger.
I envied him. When I allowed myself to look into the half-collapsed tunnel of the past, it seemed that I’d been fighting all my life.
My kid brother and I were the only Catholic boys in our tough, working-class neighbourhood. Some of our tough, working-class neighbours waited patiently for the arrival of our school bus every evening, and fought us all the way home; day after day.
And it never stopped. A trip to the shopping centre was like crossing a Green Line into enemy territory. Local militias, or street gangs, attacked outsiders with the viciousness that the poor only ever visit on the poor. Learning karate and joining the local boxing club were the life-skills classes in my neighbourhood.
Every kid who had the heart to fight learned a martial art, and every week gave him several opportunities to practise what he learned. The accident and emergency department of the local hospital was filled, on Friday and Saturday nights, with young men who were having stitches put into cuts on their mouths and eyes, or having their broken noses repaired for the third time.
I was one of them. My medical file at the local hospital was heavier than a volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies. And that was before prison.
Listening to Farzad’s happy, dreaming talk of the car he was saving to buy, and the girl he wanted to ask out, I could feel the pressure of the two long knives I always carried at my back. In the secret drawer of a cabinet in my apartment there were two handguns and two hundred rounds of ammunition. If Farzad didn’t have a weapon, and the willingness to use it, he was in the wrong business. If he didn’t know how to fight, and what it feels like to lose a fight, he was in the wrong business.
‘You’re lining up with the Sanjay Company,’ I said. ‘Don’t plan too far ahead.’
‘Two years,’ Farzad said, cupping his hands in front of him as though he was holding the chunk of time and its promises. ‘Two years of this work, and then I’ll take all the money I’ve saved, and open a small business of my own. A consultancy, for people trying to get a Green Card in the US, and whatnot. It’s the coming thing! Count on it.’
‘Just keep your head down,’ I
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