"Shantaram" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gregory David Roberts)

"Well... that was the business price. The really price-the friendship price-is only fifty rupees for one tola Afghani charras." He lifted his arms, and then let them slap down at his thighs. "I charged it fifty rupees too much."
"I see," I answered quietly. The matter was so trivial, from my point of view, that I was tempted to laugh out loud. It was obviously important to him, however, and I suspected that he wasn't often moved to make such admissions. In fact, as he told me much later, Prabaker had just then decided to like me, and for him that meant he was bound to a scrupulous and literal honesty in everything he said or did. It was at once his most endearing and most irritating quality, that he always told me the whole of the truth.
"So... what do you want to do about it?"
"My suggestion," he said seriously, "we smoke it that business price charras very fast, until finish that one, then I will buy new one for us. After from now, it will be everything friendship prices, for you and for me also. This is a no problem policy, isn't it?"
I laughed, and he laughed with me. I threw my arm around his shoulder and led him into the steamy, ambrosial activity of the busy restaurant.
"Lin, I think I am your very good friend," Prabaker decided, grinning happily. "We are the lucky fellows, isn't it?"
"Maybe it is," I replied. "Maybe it is."
Hours later, I lay back in a comfortable darkness, under the sound-strobe of a ceaselessly revolving ceiling fan. I was tired, but I couldn't sleep. Beneath my windows the street that had writhed and toiled in daylight was silent, subdued by a night- sultriness, moist with stars. Astounding and puzzling images from the city tumbled and turned in my mind like leaves on a wave of wind, and my blood so thrilled with hope and possibility that I couldn't suppress a smile, lying there in the dark. No-one, in the world I'd left behind me, knew where I was. No-one, in the new world of Bombay, knew who I was. In that moment, in those shadows, I was almost safe.
I thought of Prabaker, and his promise to return early in the morning to begin my tours of the city. Will he come? I wondered.
Or will I see him somewhere later in the day, walking with another newly arrived tourist? I decided, with the faint, impersonal callousness of the lonely, that if he were as good as his word, and turned up in the morning, I would begin to like him.
I thought of the woman, Karla, again and again, surprised that her composed, unsmiling face intruded so often. If you go to Leopold's, some time, maybe you'll find out. That was the last thing she'd said to me. I didn't know if it was an invitation, a challenge, or a warning. Whatever it was, I meant to take her up on it. I meant to go there, and look for her. But not yet. Not until I'd learned a little more about the city she seemed to know so well. I'll give it a week, I thought. A week in the city...
And beyond those reflections, as always, in fixed orbits around the cold sphere of my solitude, were thoughts of my family and my friends. Endless. Unreachable. Every night was twisted around the unquenchable longing of what my freedom had cost me, and all that was lost. Every night was pierced by the spike of shame for what my freedom continued to cost them, the loved ones I was sure I would never see again.
"We could'a beat him down, you know," the tall Canadian said from his dark corner on the far side of the room, his sudden voice in the whirring silence sounding like stones thrown on a metal roof.
"We could'a beat that manager down on the price of this room.
It's costin' us six bucks for the day. We could'a beat him down to four. It's not a lotta money, but it's the way they do things here. You gotta beat these guys down, and barter for everything.
We're leavin' tomorrow for Delhi, but you're stayin' here. We talked about it before, when you were out, and we're kinda worried about you. You gotta beat 'em down, man. If you don't learn that, if you don't start thinkin' like that, they're gonna fuck you over, these people. The Indians in the cities are real mercenary, man. It's a great country, don't get me wrong. That's why we come back here. But they're different than us. They're... hell, they just expect it, that's all. You gotta beat 'em down."
He was right about the price of the room, of course. We could've saved a dollar or two per day. And haggling is the economical thing to do. Most of the time, it's the shrewd and amiable way to conduct your business in India.
But he was wrong, too. The manager, Anand, and I became good friends, in the years that followed. The fact that I trusted him on sight and didn't haggle, on that first day, that I didn't try to make a buck out of him, that I worked on an instinct that respected him and was prepared to like him, endeared me to him.
He told me so, more than once. He knew, as we did, that six of our dollars wasn't an extravagant price for three foreign men to pay. The owners of the hotel received four dollars per day per room. That was their base line. The dollar or two above that minimum was all Anand and his staff of three room boys shared as their daily wage. The little victories haggled from him by foreign tourists cost Anand his daily bread, and cost them the chance to know him as a friend.
The simple and astonishing truth about India and Indian people is that when you go there, and deal with them, your heart always guides you more wisely than your head. There's nowhere else in the world where that's quite so true.
I didn't know that then, as I closed my eyes in the dark and breathing silence on that first night in Bombay. I was running on instinct, and pushing my luck. I didn't know that I'd already given my heart to the woman, and the city. And knowing none of it, I fell, before the smile faded from my lips, into a dreamless, gentle sleep.

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CHAPTER TWO


She walked into Leopold's at the usual time, and when she stopped at a table near me to talk with friends, I tried once more to find the words for the foliant blaze of her green eyes. I thought of leaves and opals and the warm shallows of island seas. But the living emerald in Karla's eyes, made luminous by the sunflowers of gold light that surrounded the pupils, was softer, far softer.
I did eventually find that colour, the green in nature that was a perfect match for the green in her lovely eyes, but it wasn't until long months after that night in Leopold's. And strangely, inexplicably, I didn't tell her about it. I wish now with all my heart that I did. The past reflects eternally between two mirrors - the bright mirror of words and deeds, and the dark one, full of things we didn't do or say. I wish now that from the beginning, even then in the first weeks that I knew her, even on that night, the words had come to tell her... to tell her that I liked her.
And I did-I liked everything about her. I liked the Helvetian music of her Swiss-American English, and the way she pushed her hair back slowly with a thumb and forefinger when she was irritated by something. I liked the hard-edged cleverness of her conversation, and the easy, gentle way she touched the people she liked when she walked past them or sat beside them. I liked the way she held my eyes until the precise moment when it stopped being comfortable, and then smiled, softening the assail, but never looked away.
She looked the world in the eye and stared it down, and I liked that about her because I didn't love the world then. The world wanted to kill me or catch me. The world wanted to put me back in the same cage I'd escaped from, where the good guys, the guys in prison-guard uniforms who got paid to do the right thing, had chained me to a wall and kicked me until they broke my bones. And maybe the world was right to want that. Maybe it was no worse than I deserved. But repression, they say, breeds resistance in some men, and I was resisting the world with every minute of my life.
The world and I are not on speaking terms, Karla said to me once in those early months. The world keeps trying to win me back, she said, but it doesn't work. I guess I'm just not the forgiving type. And I saw that in her, too, right from the start. I knew from the first minute how much like me she was. I knew the determination in her that was almost brutal, and the courage that was almost cruel, and the lonely, angry longing to be loved. I knew all that, but I didn't say a word. I didn't tell her how much I liked her. I was numb, in those first years after the escape: shell-shocked by the disasters that warred in my life. My heart moved through deep and silent water. No-one, and nothing, could really hurt me. No-one, and nothing, could make me very happy. I was tough, which is probably the saddest thing you can say about a man.
"You're becoming a regular here," she teased, ruffling my hair with one hand as she sat down at my table.
I loved it when she did that: it meant that she'd read me accurately, that she was sure I wouldn't take offence. I was thirty then-ugly, taller than average, with wide shoulders, a deep chest, and thick arms. People didn't often ruffle my hair.
"Yeah. I guess I am."
"So, you went around on tour with Prabaker again? How was it today?"
"He took me to the island, Elephanta, to see the caves."
"A beautiful place," she remarked quietly, looking at me, but dreaming of something else. "If you get the chance, you should visit the Ajanta and Ellora caves, in the north of the state. I spent the night there, once, at Ajanta, in one of the caves. My boss took me there."
"Your boss?"
"Yes, my boss."
"Is he European, your boss, or Indian?"
"Neither one, actually."
"Tell me about him."
"Why?" she asked with a direct, frowning stare.
I was simply making conversation, trying to keep her near me, talking to me, and the sudden wariness that bristled in the single word of her question surprised me. "It's no big deal," I replied, smiling. "I'm just curious about how people get work here, how they make a living, that's all."
"Well, I met him five years ago, on a long-distance flight," she said, looking down at her hands and seeming to relax once more.