Garden of Dreams (4 page)

Eli lay in his bed and waited for them to come for him. No clue what time it was; they’d taken his watch, along with all his other things. Left him just the clothes on his body, his black jeans, Zoo York T-shirt and striped boxers, his sneakers and socks. His clothes hadn’t been washed since he arrived; he’d been permitted only one bath. He could barely stand his own smell, ripening in the morning heat. He studied the nails on his left hand, ignored the dirt but noticed how long they were: couldn’t play with those. With his eyes closed for a moment he could see his guitars – the classic black-and-white Epiphone, the tobacco Washburn acoustic – the shapes of his life. He longed to hold each one, to make them sing and cry and wail under his touch. His fingers played a few riffs, in the air. Here, deep in the lair of this crazy bitch, there was nothing beautiful to hold on to.

Not quite awake, he tried to think of home. Home had changed a lot over the years; they had moved from house to house like gypsies, when bad fortune had driven them out and on, in the search for new work or, in his mother’s case, for a new place to light her fire. Everywhere disappointed her after a while. He thought of their small house by the sea, which had held them the longest, and wondered if he would ever see it again. Hopefully his mother wasn’t there. Hopefully she was with his father, looking for him, getting closer. It pained him to think of his dog Max, maybe home alone, faithfully waiting for him.

He didn’t like where his thoughts were going, so he got up and went to the door, still locked, of course. Then he went to the window and peered out through the grillwork. The shopkeepers below were just rolling back their metal storefronts, banging like dozens of garage doors. As they did every morning – he’d counted four since he’d been here. Their junk intrigued him: all sorts of bathroom stuff, but mostly toilets, toilets and more toilets and signs everywhere to advertise them. The whole street was a toilet, as far as he could tell. He nearly smiled at the thought of what the shopkeepers might tell their customers:
Go for a fuck and buy a toilet on the way out …

The rain blew in suddenly, moving the street traffic along only slightly faster. It was deafening; he could hear nothing from the other rooms. Nothing from Auntie Lakshmi’s room, no music, nothing. Nothing from the hallway. It seemed the girls slept till noon, after all that night action. He wondered if they ever liked any of it. He still hadn’t met any of them; Lakshmi had kept him all to herself. She touched him, yes, but only on his face and hair, occasionally on his thigh. Her touch, the way she talked to him, made him sick but he could take it. He was her pet, her little dog, but, unless you were really weird, you didn’t fuck a dog. Jesus, if she ever went any further …

The key turned in the lock and the door flew open. Anand, in another pathan suit, midnight blue this time, strode into the room, towards him. Still wearing the mirrored shades, still chewing gum, ferociously.

‘Those clothes have to go,’ Anand said, appraising him. ‘Peel them off, at this stage.’

‘Can I have a bath, then?’

‘Can you? I’ll throw you in the rubbish if you’re not down there in two seconds!’

Anand grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him into the hallway. ‘Hurry up,
chutiya
! Plenty girls needing baths after you.’

The bathroom looked even dingier than last time, but the old claw-footed tub was relatively clean and there was a fresh blue towel on the toilet seat. The towel rack next to the tub, empty before, now held rows of girls’ underwear, bras and panties in rainbow colours, lots of lace, thongs mixed in with the bikinis. While Eli waited for the tub to fill, comforted by the stream of hot water, he fingered one of the bigger bras, black lace, padded, so big he could wear it as a hat. He imagined the breasts that fitted into those cups and who they belonged to. When the tub was full, steaming, he sank into the water, wanting it to wash away the last few days. Of course it couldn’t. But for now, at least, he was alone, and alive. Nobody was bothering him, or threatening him; he had the bath and the room totally to himself and was in charge of his own body. He scrubbed himself all over with a pathetic piece of pink soap, then sank to wet his hair. There was no shampoo, soap would have to do. He surfaced, eyes closed, blinded by the rivulets streaming from his hair, searching for the towel with his left hand, when the door opened and someone entered the room.

‘You were too quiet!’ shrieked a young girl’s voice. ‘What are you doing?’

Obvious, he thought, but said nothing, merely dried his eyes so he could see. What he saw was a girl, maybe his age, in Indian pyjamas,
lime green and orange. Barefoot, dark hair thick as a horse’s tail down to her shoulders, one arm lifted to hide her face, perhaps instinctively to protect herself. ‘What are
you
doing here?’

‘My things!’ she said, waving her finger towards the towel rack. ‘I need my things.’

Eli eyed the lacy goodies hanging over his head. ‘Which ones? Look if you want to.’

‘Don’t be a donkey, I am not looking!’ The girl kept her arm up as she reached for her dark pink bra and matching bikinis, but he was sure she snuck a glance at his privates. He caught a glimpse of her face: a decisive chin, a full mouth. Thought he saw old needle marks on the inside of her right elbow.

‘I’m Eli …’

‘My name is Sanjana,’ she said, leaving and slamming the door.

He lay back, wondering about her –
my name is Sanjana
… her standard introduction to clients? Her real name?

Pounding on the bathroom door brought him up short. ‘Auntie-ji is waiting for you, boy! Fuckin’ make it snappy! No dilly-dallying!’

The door flew open and Anand hurled a pile of clothes on to the floor. ‘Wear those.’

When he was dressed, in a sand-coloured pathan suit and a new pair of leather sandals, the nagging thong between his toes, Eli followed Anand grudgingly but obediently to Auntie Lakshmi’s door. No Mozart this time. Anand knocked, and without waiting for a reply, they entered.

Auntie Lakshmi emerged from her bedroom, decked out in an amber sari, matching ribbons running through a long braid down her back, and jewelled bronze slippers. She glided up to Eli and grazed her ring-heavy fingers against his cheek, surveying him. She liked what she saw, if the flash of her smile was any indication. Standing up, she was quite small, less intimidating.

‘What are you staring at, Anand?’ she said abruptly. ‘Go fetch us some lassis and gulab jamun –
jaldi
!’

As Anand left, sulking, she beckoned Eli to sit down with her on the day bed, side by side. He tried not to look at her boobs, just a foot away, at the folds of her tummy spilling over the amber silk. At the pitch-dark eyes that wanted to suck him in, hold on to him. Suddenly she took his left hand in both of hers; he felt faint.

‘
Chutiya
,
chutiya
, Auntie Lakshmi has big plans for you!’ she said, tickling his palm. It felt obscene. He wanted her to let go but didn’t dare to wrench his hand away.

‘Auntie-ji’s own photo-wallah! You can take photos of all the girls, captivating photos in different poses, and we will become worldwide famous!’ She took a strand of his hair and twirled it around her finger. ‘It could be just the ticket!’

‘You want photos of all this?’ Eli asked, pulling away from Lakshmi’s touch and looking vaguely around the room. ‘Isn’t this illegal?’

Auntie-ji ignored him. ‘The only malkin on G.B. Road with a photo-wallah of her own!’

She clapped her plump hands together like a child; Anand, back with the sweets and lassis, smiled at her smugly from the doorway. For a moment Eli thought this wouldn’t be so bad – maybe he could get along with these people, take a few photographs and talk his way out of here.

‘But what are the photos for?’

‘You are not worrying about that,
chutiya
. Let us just say that they are to show people what beautiful girls we have here and that they are welcome …’

‘Welcome to what?’

‘Well, welcome, of course, to come meet them, to share the pleasure of their company, for chai, lassi, what what what …’

Eli shrugged; he actually didn’t give a damn if the girls were spreading their legs or for whom. But he did care about this: ‘If I take the photos, all the ones you want – will you let me go?’

‘For heaven’s sake, my boy, such silly questions. Look me in the eye and tell me if I would keep you here against your will …’

‘But you are!’

‘Once you deliver the photos, we’ll talk. Tell me,
chutiya
, what do you see when you look at me? A monster?’

She pressed her face towards him, her black eyes agog; he felt the urge to laugh, and to spit, simultaneously. But he did neither. ‘Don’t kiss me!’ he said, and jumped back a few inches on the daybed.

‘Silly boy! Why would Auntie Lakshmi want to kiss you? Silly little
chutiya!
Now go and take your photos and take bloody good ones!’ She pulled his Canon PowerShot out of her top, from the crevice between her breasts, and handed him the camera. It was warm. ‘Chop-chop! Anand will lead you to the girls.’

Anand, still standing at the door with a tray of creamy drinks and sticky little fried dough balls, wondering what to do with everything, cracked his gum loudly.

Auntie Lakshmi motioned to him to set the tray down on the little table near the daybed. ‘Come back when you’re done,
chutiya
, and show me what you’ve got.’

Eli looked longingly at the tray of refreshments; he hadn’t eaten that morning. But Anand was walking at a clip down the hallway, then down a dark set of stone stairs, worn in one direction. ‘We start on the first floor,’ he said, ‘and work back up. Most girls are down here.’

‘How many floors are there?’ It seemed an innocent enough question.

‘Nosey-mister, keep your interrogations to yourself.
Jaldi!
’

The first floor was right over a machine and tool shop at street level, noisier than the floor above. Eli could hear the buzz of a saw, someone testing one for a customer most likely. Normal people doing normal things, just under his footsteps. He thought of banging on the floor and crying out, calling attention to himself, possibly being rescued. But if they didn’t hear him, Anand certainly would. So he kept following Anand down the corridor, a long row of rooms with doors closed or slightly ajar.

Anand stopped suddenly and shoved open a lime-green door, banging it against the inside wall. It was a small room, bubblegum pink, mostly covered in torn-out magazine pages, photos of naked or barely dressed girls, women in all sorts of nasty poses, with every now and then a smiling or frowning Hindu god staring back at him. A three-quarter bed, unmade, was squished into one corner, and a dressing table and mirror into another. A skinny girl with curly black hair, in only her sapphire blue lace panties, sat at the dressing table, fiddling with her make-up. Eli stared at her pointy breasts in the mirror.

‘This is Lola,’ Anand said. ‘Not so much to look at, but see what you can do with her.’ He leaned against the doorway with his cigarette, to observe.

The girl, covering her breasts with her arms, was about to speak, but Anand intercepted her. ‘Auntie-ji wants some photos of you girls. Stand the fuck up and take your arms off your boobies …’

A whack to the head from Anand sent Eli flying forward, nearly tripping. ‘And you,
chutiya
, start shooting!’

Eli looked at Anand with hatred, but then turned to the girl. She was standing now, still covering her breasts, hugging herself tightly. Anand was right, she wasn’t much to look at, a bit bony in fact, pale, and so much make-up on her face that he couldn’t really see it. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, like a heron in a swamp, and said something in Hindi to Anand.

‘Never mind,
chut
, who he is, just do what I say – drop the arms!’

It was best to work fast, get this over with. Eli wished he had a bigger camera, to hide behind, not this small, flat one that nearly fit in the palm of his hand. But he held up the PowerShot and began clicking. Then moving around to get different angles.

‘Raise your head,’ he said to Lola, who had dropped her arms now. ‘Please —’

‘Oh, for fuckin’ heaven’s sake, Lola, you corpse,’ Anand said. ‘Move! Shake your arse, your feet, stick out your tongue, even!’

Anand, by way of demonstration, was sticking out his tongue and gyrating like Mick Jagger.

Lola didn’t imitate him, but tentatively struck a more seductive pose, hips angled, left foot forward, hands on her hips.

‘Is that enough?’ Eli asked, looking at Anand, and then to the girl.

Anand wobbled his head, yes. ‘Come, yaar, this one’s finished.’

Eli smiled meekly at Lola, who had quickly turned her back on them and gone to the bed to sort out some clothes. He could see her shoulder blades and ribs from behind.

The next room was similar to Lola’s – orange, though, with the same plastering of trashy girlie-magazine photos. Here, a curvy, slightly plump girl with hennaed hair and tiered gold earrings, wearing a black bra and a pair of shiny silver trousers, reclined on the bed, reading a Bollywood magazine.

‘Danita’s a hot number!’ said Anand, and the girl looked up and smiled. ‘Most popular girl in the kotha this year!’

Eli looked for a sign to tell how old she was; she was certainly stacked, so maybe older, who knew. She also had on too much make-up, with blackened eyes and red lips like a gash in her face. Were any of these girls actually pretty? Maybe the jerks who came here never looked at their faces.

‘Dance for us, Danita!’ Anand clapped his hands and smooched the air. ‘Give us some hoochie-coochie for the photo shoot!’

‘Does she even know why we’re here?’ Eli asked.

‘She knows, she knows, don’t you bother. Turn on the boom box!’

Danita pressed the button on a giant boom box next to the bed and a tape began playing, Hindi disco. There was a strong downbeat and lots of synthesiser in the background. Danita was thrusting her pelvis and shaking her boobs and her earrings and her hair all around. ‘You like?’ she asked Eli.