Staying On: A Novel (Phoenix Fiction) by Scott Paul

Author:Scott, Paul [Scott, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780226068176
Publisher: University of Chicago Press
Published: 2013-02-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

WHEN HE SLIPPED out of the hotel half-an-hour later it was in a spirit more of desperation than of lingering rebellion. Used though he was to bad Monday mornings there was usually the pleasure to look forward to of Lila’s midday departure for bridge at the club and a convivial evening with Tusker. But today, even if Lila managed to despatch her business with Mr Pandey in time for him to catch the midday train and for her to recover sufficiently to welcome the idea of expending the rest of her temper over cards, he did not think he could face an evening chatting amiably to a man whose days themselves might be numbered and whose days at The Lodge certainly looked like being. He would not dare tell him. And, who knew, perhaps what he had said to Lila that caused her to refer to her prospective partners as crooks would spur her to actions that would delay completion of the contract or even lead to its cancellation.

Wishful thinking, no doubt; but any thought that gave a glimmer of hope had to be cherished. He cycled to the bazaar and spoke to his old friend, Mr Mohan Lal the photographer (Weddings, Home Portrait Specialists, Passport Photographs) and did a deal with him to take a couple of time exposures of the interior of the church and a series of exteriors. The deal was for a cut rate if Mr Mohan Lal was credited in Father Sebastian’s magazine article, and for the shots to be taken today when the Sunday flowers on the altar would still be fresh.

“I will send young Ashok right away,” Mr Lal promised, which Mr Bhoolabhoy knew meant in about an hour. As for ‘young’ Ashok, he must be well over thirty years old. Ashok was an untouchable, although you were supposed nowadays to call him a member of the Scheduled Castes. He had been an orphan and a ragamuffin who as a kid ran wild in Pankot picking up jobs here and there including jobs running errands for Mr Allah Din the previous owner of the Paramount Photo Studio (motto: Time passes, a photograph Remains) who had packed up in 1947 and gone to Pakistan. Mr Lal (coming the other way and leaving his studio behind) had been accosted by young Ashok on the first day he opened for business, had let the boy make himself useful and, as he grew, begun to teach him the trade and the art, until now, as Mr Lal’s Outside Man, he was a familiar face behind his camera at weddings, christenings, coming of age parties and at grander occasions accompanying Mr Lal to regimental sports days, receptions at the Shiraz and speech days at the Chakravarti College. As an untouchable he was potentially a convert and Mr Bhoolabhoy wondered whether he ought not to do more to urge him into the fold. Perhaps today a seed could be sown because Ashok had never been inside the church.

Reaching Church road, Mr Bhoolabhoy dismounted and pushed his bicycle up the incline.

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