18
MALIK
Jaipur
It’s the morning after the Royal Jewel Cinema tragedy; the street sweepers have not yet started swiping at the dust with their long-whiskered jharus. After only a half hour of exhausted, numbing sleep, I wake with a start, the images of horror that I’d witnessed coming back to me: a man’s leg bent in an unnatural angle; the fleshy arm of a matron pierced with rebar, gushing blood; a gaping wound on a child’s forehead. In the night, I got up several times to pace my room, drink another glass of water, look out the window at the street—deserted but for stray dogs settling to sleep in the cool night dust.
Then the images of Sheela Singh’s naked hip, her brown nipple, float through my mind. What will Ravi say the next time he sees me? Will he tell Manu I was trying to seduce his wife? It isn’t true, but Ravi wouldn’t hesitate to stir up trouble—for Manu or for me—if it took the heat off him. Another thought: Does she know something about Ravi’s role in the construction? Is that why she was defending him to me? Or was she pardoning him for something he’d done?
It’s six o’clock, but what’s the use of trying to sleep in when sleep won’t come? I’ve been home three hours. I meant to call Auntie-Boss to tell her I’m all right, but the guesthouse has no phone. I’m sure Kanta would have called Lakshmi the moment she got home last night. I worry about Nimmi. She can’t read the Hindustani Times, but she’ll surely hear about what happened from the Aroras or from vendors at Shimla Mall, or from Lakshmi the moment Auntie-Boss finds out.
I bathe, then head off to the office just before eight. Employees usually traipse in between nine and nine thirty, but today, almost all of them are at their desks when I arrive.
Last night was a big occasion for the palace, and most of the facilities staff were present at the event. As I pass through, I nod to colleagues here and there. Engineers and secretaries huddle in clusters, talking quietly among themselves. The mood is somber, thick with uncertainty. Like me, they’re probably assuming Manu will call for an all-hands meeting about last night’s events to find out what went so wrong that the balcony could fail. Will there be an investigation, or an inquiry? Who pays for the injuries? Who among us is responsible in some way or another for the accident?
I settle at my desk and ask the operator to dial Auntie-Boss. It’s long-distance, but I don’t think Hakeem or Manu would object. I let the phone ring several times, but no one answers. So I call Kanta Auntie, who picks up at the first ring. She sounds drained, as if she, too, has not slept well, but she’s relieved to hear from me. She tells me that she spoke to Lakshmi last night, who promised to take the first train out from Shimla. I’m to pick her up at the train station this evening.
The news that Auntie-Boss is coming down floods me with relief. She’s someone I can always count on to keep a level head during a crisis.
As Kanta chatters on, I see the Maharani Latika leaving the conference room on the far side of the floor. Her eyebrows are drawn in a frown. On either side of her are gentlemen in suits. My guess is they’re her lawyers. Her Highness’s face is slightly flushed, as if she’s angry. Samir Singh and Ravi, shoulders slumped, follow her out of the conference room, and after them come Manu and two of his engineers. I interrupt Kanta to tell her I’ll stop by later and hang up.
Neither of the Singhs looks my way, which is just as well; I’m still irritated by Ravi’s late appearance last night and his callous disregard of Sheela’s feelings. He must have known she’d figure out where he’d been. Did he even bother to make up some excuse or just ask for her forgiveness?
At the front doors of the facilities offices, Her Highness stops and turns to shake the hand of everybody behind her. She’s as tall as every man, and her presence is commanding. A turbaned attendant dressed in white holds open the double doors while she goes through; he must be from the palace. Manu and his engineers watch everybody leave, then Manu says a few words to them before releasing them to return to their desks. When he catches my eye, he gestures with a pointed finger toward his office.
I step outside the office to buy two small glasses of tea from the chai-walla across the street. Then I bring the tea to Manu’s office as he’s draping his suit on a coatrack in the corner.
“Close the door,” he says.
I set the chai on his desk and do as he says.
It’s eighty-five degrees outside, but Manu is warming his hands on the steaming glass when I sit down opposite him. His skin is sallow. There’s a fresh cut on his cheek where he must have nicked himself shaving. He looks like a man being sent to his funeral pyre before his time. Does he think what happened yesterday is his fault?
He is staring at his tea as he says, “Last night was a tragedy no one could have anticipated. Kanta called Lakshmi to let her know what happened and that you were okay.”
I nod.
“Mr. Reddy confessed to selling far more tickets than the balcony could support. He’d been instructed to limit the number, but so many people wanted a glimpse of the actors onstage that he...” Manu throws up his hands as if he were the theater manager giving up on the situation. “Singh-Sharma will pay for a new balcony—time and materials—and replace anything else that was damaged, and the palace will pay the medical bills for the injured. They’ll also look at compensation for families of the deceased. Nevertheless...”
He downs his tea in one gulp, then sets his glass carefully on his desk as if he doesn’t want to mar the mahogany finish. Finally, he meets my eyes. “Everything is settled. We will make a formal announcement about who will pay for what. Reporters called my house last night for comment, but I had to clear what we’d say publicly with Her Highness.” He attempts a smile.
I can tell he feels enormous guilt. “It wasn’t your fault, Uncle. It sounds like the theater manager is to blame.”
Manu clears his throat and fiddles with the pens on his desk. He doesn’t look at me. “Well, the maharani is beside herself. And with good reason.” He scratches the top of his head delicately, with one finger, where a bald spot is growing. “Two casualties. One woman. And Rohit Seth—the actor. His fans are in an uproar. Can’t blame them. This shouldn’t have happened, Malik.”
Manu picks up the glass again, realizes it’s empty and sets it down. I haven’t taken a sip from mine, so I push it toward him. He clutches it as if it’s a lifeline.
“Uncle...” I pause delicately. “Wasn’t Mr. Reddy recommended by Singh-Sharma? If he let more people into the theater than was safe, why aren’t they paying the medical costs, as well?”
He shrugs. “We share the burden—that’s business.” He finishes the second cup of chai and pushes himself away from his desk, as if we’re finished. “Now go help Hakeem. He has work for you.”