The Pledge Read Online Free Page B

they be counted? If more than five million had already perished, then there were at least a million or two or three more who had come into the city, hoping for a few grains of rice to sustain their lives another day, another hour, and in the middle of this, wealth, palaces, tropical gardens, and dozens of elegant restaurants where people dipped into platters of steaming food, as they had this evening in what was called the Jewish restaurant. And that night, as Bruce crawled under his mosquito netting, he decided that, including all the days he had spent in North Africa and in England and on the Continent with the invasion, this was by all means one of the strangest. But not the strangest. That happened a few days later.
    Bruce never slept well during his time in Calcutta. Between the sickening wet heat and the things he had seen, even a few hours of sleep in his sweat-soaked bed was a blessing. Waking by night, he yearned for morning and release from the mosquito netting, which he felt covered him like a shroud, and as a result, when dawn broke he was out of bed and in the shower. By six o’clock, he would be dressed and breathing the somewhat cooler morning air, either in the garden behind the palace or on the front steps, where he could stretch out in the shade of the cool stone building. It was there, in front of the old palace, that Ashoka Majumdar found him.
    â€œGreetings, Mr. Bacon. So early. I was prepared to wait. Do you ride a bicycle?” Majumdar was steadying two ancient bicycles, each with one hand.
    By now, Bruce was accustomed to the apparent non sequiturs that were an integral part of Bengali thinking. Actually, they were not non sequiturs at all, but the result of a slightly different use of logic. Since Majumdar had appeared with two bicycles, it must be apparent to Bruce that they would take off on said bicycles, and regardless of his agreement or disagreement, the first question to be answered was whether or not he could ride a bicycle. He nodded and examined the bikes, old single-speed Raleighs that had been patched and wired and taken apart and put together so many times that it was doubtful whether they still deserved their original name.
    â€œYes,” he replied, “I ride a bicycle — at least I did once.” He shook his head. “But these?”
    â€œPerfectly serviceable. But perhaps I presume. We are so happy you are interested in our sad picture here that we felt I should round it out. You know that I work for our newspaper, Prasarah. I also read for it. That is how I earn my keep.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œAh. I explain poorly.” Majumdar opened a small bag attached to his bicycle and took out of it a rolled-up sheet of paper. He unrolled it. It was half the size of the Tribune’s front page, and it was covered with tight print. The other side was bare. “Of course it is in Bengali,” Majumdar said, “but I will sum up the stories for you as we go — if, of course, you will come with me. I can promise you that it will be enlightening.”
    â€œWhere? Where are we going? And why? You know something, Majumdar? I can’t help feeling that I am being hustled.”
    â€œWhat is ‘hustled’?”
    â€œForget it, forget it.”
    â€œWe should have some bottles of spring water from the bar. I drink ordinary water anywhere, but it could make you ill, since you have not made your peace with all the small, angry bacteria that live in Bengali water.”

    â€œThat makes sense.” The bar was closed, but in the kitchen a dollar bought him three bottles of water, which claimed to be as pure as a virgin, drawn from a sparkling spring high in the mountains of Kashmir.
    â€œYou must forgive our hyperbole,” Majumdar said as he read the label. “This is very good water.” He stowed the bottles in his canvas bag, placing the Bengali newspaper in the folds of his dhoti. “We are both