Departure (21 page)

Then the light changed and he turned onto Madison.

“Why didn't you go across to Fifth?” she asked.

He noticed how his knuckles stood out, like white spots.

“I said, why don't you go to Fifth?”

“I figured Madison was better,” Tully said softly.

“I'm late—can't you understand that?”

He was talking now; it was no use to try to stop talking. “Look, lady, I know my business. It's bad on all the avenues this time of day.”

“I ought to take your number,” she said.

“What the hell—” He put the car into gear and moved slowly down Madison.

“What did you say?”

He didn't answer; then he looked over his shoulder and saw that she had her purse open and was writing down his number.

“Don't do that,” he said. He didn't glance back until the next light. She was completing the information from his card.

“Look, lady,” he said. “It don't make sense to turn me in.”

“Shut up and tend to your driving.”

“That's what I'm doing, lady,” he said evenly. “The cab ain't got wings.”

The traffic started again, and Tully made two blocks before the light changed. In those two blocks, Tully thought of all the hacks who made a practice of recounting experiences with women like this one; but Tully never had any such experiences, and he always thought of the hacks as liars. In two blocks, underneath his fury, underneath the mounting rage that made him tremble, that made his gizzards and his bowels tremble, he couldn't get out of his mind the crazy fancy of a woman like this one telling him to take her somewhere, and then telling him to come upstairs to an apartment with her. He couldn't get it out of his mind, not even when the light turned and she said to him:

“You cheap chiseler.”

He couldn't get it out of his mind as he deliberately opened the door of his cab, walked back to her, opened her door and called her some of the filthiest names he knew. As she screamed, flecks of the spittle blew in his face, but he still couldn't get the picture out of his mind. Not even when he saw the cop coming; it still sandwiched in between her angry screams, sandwiched in between the reflection that this was it, that all the time it was coming to a poor fat slob, whose only virtue was that he woke up happy in the morning.

The Police Spy

T
HIS IS THE
tale of a police spy who became something other than a police spy, and his name was Bondar Shar. He was a young man, but you would not have thought so to look at him, what with circles under his eyes and the worries stamped on his brow. It was not alone due to the fact that he had a wife who was always ailing and five children who never had enough to eat, but also because he was the special police spy of Widee Shimer.

Widee Shimer was District Organizer for the Communist Party of India in the central are of the northwest; which meant that his territory stretched from the Sind in the west to the Punjab in the northwest, to Tibet to Nepal. In truth, a kingdom, and even an empire, as some might style it; but a Communist Party organizer in India being neither a king nor an emperor, Bondar Shar most often considered that central area to be an abomination, pure and simple.

For all of this immense area, Widee Shimer did not have an automobile; indeed, not even a tonga, not even a bullock cart, only his own two feet, and occasionally a ride on a train if he was going a real distance, like a hundred or two hundred miles. For the most part, he walked. Shimer was small and brown and wiry, and the skin on the bottom of his bare feet was tougher than leather. When he set out to go from one place to another, he moved at a sort of dogtrot that ate up a steady six miles an hour, even in the hot weather of the summertime, when the alcohol in the thermometer rises to one hundred thirty and even one hundred forty degrees. Down the dusty roads he would trot, with a cheerful good morning for everyone, for the bullock drivers whom he passed as if they were standing still, for the tonga drivers, whom he passed as if they were moving just a little, for the workers in the fields, for the water carriers, for the fat priests and for the skinny children, and for the young girls who smiled at him so shyly and sweetly.

And behind him came Bondar Shar, his police spy, cursing or growling or grumbling—and sometimes literally weeping with fatigue and rage. It is said that in other countries, where the rulers are rich and powerful and have money to burn, police spies work only eight hours a day, and panderers and informers even less. That may be; but in India, a police spy works the clock round. The rule is: for one Communist, one police spy. The resident police chief himself laid down the law. “After all,” he said, “the empire is not what it used to be. If a bloody red can carry on, it seems to me a police spy should damn well be able to carry on, too.”

So Bondar Shar carried on, sometimes weeping aloud with rage at the life he led and the calling he pursued. Sometimes, in desperation, when Widee Shimer set out on one of his journeys, Bondar Shar would hire a tonga, but the tonga driver would have to whip his little horse to keep up with Shimer, and sooner or later that led to an altercation between Bondar Shar and the driver. Often enough, hot words led to blows, and Bondar Shar would find himself in a fight while Widee Shimer trotted merrily away.

It was enough to depress a tougher man than Bondar Shar. Every morning, he had to rise before it was light. Drugged with weariness, he would plod through the back alleys of Old Delhi, to the little shed outside and behind a bearer's hut, where Widee Shimer spread his pallet and slept. Slept, but did not live; as Bondar Shar would whimper to his wife, “The cursed man lives in a thousand places at once.”

And Bondar Shar had to be there early, for at 5
A
.
M
., as by the clock, Shimer would be up and going, off to party headquarters, where the red flag flew, or out into the countryside to a meeting of peasants, or deep into the rat race of Old Delhi to one of the printing depots.

It reached the limits of human endurance, and though some say otherwise, a police spy is human. It reached a point where Bondar Shar had to act, and for days he deliberated upon various courses of action. There were certain bad men in Old Delhi who did things for a price, but Bondar Shar was not certain that they would kill a Communist organizer; and, even if they were willing, where would he find the price? A killing is not a tonga ride; twenty rupees would be scarcely enough, and if word got out, the government might not approve. It was true that in the Punjab, when the government grew tired of a Communist organizer, they broke both of his legs and then tied him to a bed so that the bones knit crookedly, so that forever after one who saw a bearded Sikh waddling like a duck would recognize him for what he was; and it was also true that in Bengal they tore the fingernails out of Communist organizers and now and again cut off their thumbs. But right now the party was legal in the central area, and it might be a month or a year before it was illegal once more. And, being neither a yogi nor a fakir, the thought of a month or a year more of this drove Bondar Shar insane with despair. How many times did he say to himself, “Was ever a man so cursed?”

Still, he deliberated, considering this and setting that aside, until finally he arrived at the only practical thing a man might do. And, having arrived at a decision, he kept his peace, told neither his wife nor his cronies, but put it into action the very next morning.

It was still dark early that morning when Widee Shimer trotted out of the shed behind the bearer's hut on his way to work, pausing only a moment to nod good morning to the police spy. But that morning, Bondar Shar did not wait until Shimer had reached the approved thirty paces of space, and then proceed to follow; rather did Bondar Shar reach out and grasp the sleeve of Shimer's thin cotton shirt, telling him:

“Hold on there. Now wait a moment.”

Wait a moment, indeed, Shimer thought, wondering whether a surprise move for the suppression of the party had been decided upon overnight, and what his chances were for knocking Bondar Shar over and tying him up with strips of his dhoti. But Bondar Shar had forced a more ingratiating smile than any police spy would have allowed himself if he were about to make an arrest.

“I thought we might talk,” Bondar Shar added quickly. “Here we are, the two of us, going here and there and everywhere together, and yet never a word passes between us.”

It was true, and Shimer was forced to acknowledge it. He did usually nod good morning and smile in recognition at other times, but never a word had been passed.

“But a police spy is a police spy,” he said, choosing his words carefully and stifling any desire to indulge in invective.

“And a police spy is human,” Bondar Shar returned.

“True,” which was as far as Shimer would go; yet he found himself looking at the other, calculating his caste, which was probably Brahmin, his age, which could not be more than thirty, and his appearance, which was not uncomely, dark skin and clear brown eyes and good features, but woefully skinny, just as skinny as Shimer himself, and in that hungry land, there is a bond between skinny folk.

“Human,” Bondar Shar repeated. “How many meetings have I sat through, listening to you speak and lead discussions, wedging myself in between walls, crawling on roofs and hanging onto windows? How many reports have I written? How many?”

“A good many, no doubt,” Shimer said. “But I am already late, for there is an important conference at six o'clock. If you would walk along with me—”

“And if I should walk the prescribed thirty feet behind, we would have to shout. On the other hand, if I am seen speaking with you—”

“Who but bheesties and coolies will see us at this hour?” Shimer shrugged. “And who will they tell?”

Bondar Shar nodded in resignation, and plodded along at Shimer's side. “It is not that I listen without hearing,” he said petulantly, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You speak of the masses and of the people. You speak of the workers and of those who eat too little. You speak of how you must help the people, know the people, come close to them. You speak of a better life for the people. How many times have I heard that and written it in my report thus:
Widee Shimer assured the cotton workers that abetter life can be won
.”

“Many times, I am sure,” Shimer admitted.

“And what of me?” Bondar Shar demanded. “Am I not human?”

“You are a police spy, and even a police spy is human.”

“True. But let me tell you, Widee Shimer, the life I live is not a life for a human being but for a dog. If I changed places with the lowliest coolie, I would be better off. Up before dawn to be here when you awake. Out to a peasant village, back to town. One, two, three meetings, one after another. A planning commission, where you whisper so low, I must invent words for my reports. A mass demonstration. A strike, where God knows whether my head will not be broken along with yours. Out to the villages again. Back. Into New Delhi, back to Old Delhi. Do you know how many miles you walk in one day?”

“A good deal, I suppose,” Shimer said, a little uncomfortably.

“Twenty, thirty, forty miles in one day. Yes, only last week, forty miles in one day. And then meetings and conferences far into the night—until one and two in the morning. Do I see my children? Do I ever have a kind word from my wife? Better to be dead than a police spy in this miserable place. Yet what else do I know? For two years I studied to pass the examinations for the police. I am a civil servant, yet I would be happier as a water carrier.”

Shimer's quick pace slowed. His small, bright eyes were narrowed, and he nodded his head. “You might be happier as a water carrier. I never thought of that. First you tell me you are human, and then you tell me you are unhappy. Yet you are a Brahmin, so you will not be a water carrier. Can you cook?”

“Worse than an Englishman,” Bondar Shar said miserably.

“A shame. I always think, if worse comes to worse, a Brahmin can be a cook. Tell me, what do they pay you as a police spy?”

“Thirty rupees a month,” Bondar Shar said.

Widee Shimer came to a stop and whistled softly. “Thirty rupees a month! Now, look here, I am a Communist organizer, alone, who needs no more than a bowl of rice and a pallet somewhere, and the money I am paid comes from the hands of workers and peasants, yet I am paid thirty-five rupees a month. How can you live on thirty rupees a month?”

“I can't,” Bondar Shar admitted. “Seven mouths to feed, and when have any of us had enough? When the children are sick, we can't call a doctor. Not even a pice for a sweet. Four years, my wife wears the same sari. In the winter, we shiver because there is no money for charcoal. In the summer we roast. If I were a police spy among the prostitutes, I would make a rupee here, a rupee there. If I were a police spy among the grain profiteers, my belly would never be empty, nor would the bellies of my children be empty. But to be a police spy on a Communist organizer—death would be better—I tell you, death would be better.”

“Death is never better,” Shimer said softly. “Now I will tell you something. There are no quick cures for such deep-rooted cancers as the question of police spies. But we can make things a little better. We can make it possible for you to see your family now and then, to rest a little. By now, you know what generally goes on at our meetings. When I go into a meeting, you can go home. Then I will meet you later and give you a full report. And when I have a late meeting, you can go home to sleep. The next day I will help you with your report.”

Dubious at first, Bondar Shar finally accepted Shimer's suggestions. He came home, listened to his wife's scolding, and played for two hours with the children, especially Santha, the youngest, who was like a little doll cut out of weather-stained ivory. He did it once, and he did it again and again, and life became more bearable. And, in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that he knew it was wrong, that he knew it would lead to no good, he conceived a sort of affection for Widee Shimer. As a servant of the state, a civil servant, an officer of the crown, he knew that even to think such thoughts was rank treason. There was a table of wrongdoers, a ladder of crime, so to speak. A petty thief was worse than a rice profiteer, and a pimp was worse than a prostitute, and a murderer, of course, was worse than any—but murderers and pimps did not have police spies attached to them, and the Communists did. Actually, Bondar Shar was fairly well convinced that even to think well of a Communist was tantamount to a crime. He tried to remember that, when Widee Shimer asked him, some days later: