Baumgartner's Bombay Read Online Free Page A

office and howl like babies. Friends come, take them away, give them hashish. Next day, again post office, again: My money come? No? Look again, you pig, you swine, you Indian ass, they shout, my money must come, my daddy will send, he love me, my mummy love me. But no letter – Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, no letter. So then they go to Anjuna beach, sell rucksack, sell watch, sell everything. Just like fisherwomen,’ Farrokh laughed with contempt, ‘fisherwomen selling prawn, pomfret, in basket, on head. Then they have little money, buy ticket for Bombay, come here, say they will buy ticket and go home. But how? How to get money in Bombay, Bommgarter
sahib
? You know?’
    Baumgartner licked his lips, trying to smile, wishing Farrokh’s diatribe did not have these personal references.
    ‘You don’t know,’ Farrokh said, with satisfaction, as if he had always suspected Baumgartner of such basic ignorance. ‘No, and he also not know. Then – then,’ he went on, his voice picking up power, ‘they begin
stealing
. Yes, pickpocket in cinema house, pickpocket in market. Burglary in old people’s home. In shops. Even killing, even murdering. Police tell me – I know many police – they tell me how much murder is going on in Bombay. No longer black man killing white man for money, Bommgarter
sahib
, it is now white man killing and robbing black man. And white man killing white man too.’ He glared into Baumgartner’s face with ugly triumph, defying him to challenge his claim.
    Baumgartner could not look into his face any more. He looked down at his feet, shuffled them uneasily. He had no intention of standing up for the white man’s reputation here in Farrokh’s café while he had his morning tea and his cats got their food, none whatsoever. It embarrassed him that anyone should think he ought to or would try to protect the white man.
    Farrokh’s voice dropped to the level of reasonableness. ‘So when they come here, to my Café de Paris, do you think I will say welcome, welcome,
sahib
, lord, master, come and do me the honour of eating in my café? Let me give you tea, cake, omelette, what you want. Not Farrokh Cama,’ he shook his head and beamed at the strength of his moral stand, his ability to withstand moral rot. ‘I, Farrokh Cama, go tell my waiters, tell Rashid and Domingo, no cake, no tea, no omelette. Push them out. Out, into the gutter. Tell them, go and beg in the market-place, go live like lepers in the street, but not come to Café de Paris please.’
    Having turned out the foreign scum, at least verbally, at least in his imagination, Farrokh sat in silence for a while, seemingly satisfied. But then he began to drum those flat, thickened fingertips on the table in impatience, with the sound of large flies drumming on a windowpane. ‘Not always listening to me, Domingo and Rashid,’ he sighed. ‘So when I come in this morning – little bit late, last night big party for my sister’s grandson, big Navjote party in Parsee gymkhana, so little bit late today – I find Café de Paris already open, Rashid and Domingo cleaning, sweeping, washing – and that fellow sitting there.’ He glared over Baumgartner’s shoulder into the far dark corner. ‘Just sitting, sleeping. I think, let him rest, I will do my accounts, have my cake and omelette, read my paper. But still the boy is sleeping. No waking. What is matter? Is he sick? No. I know what is matter, Bommgarter
sahib
. He – is – DRUG – ADDICT !’ Farrokh hissed into Baumgartner’s ear, rolling up his fists as if to crush the life out of such a worm.
    An involuntary sound came from Baumgartner’s mouth – of anger, of alarm, of commiseration – he allowed Farrokh to interpret it as he liked. He felt nothing for either Farrokh’s dilemma or the boy’s, only that he was pressed between the two, against his will, miserably.
    At that moment another customer came in. Fortunately a known, old one, and a Parsi as well. As Baumgartner hoped,