Murder with Bengali Characteristics (21 page)

The boy was smaller than he remembered. One of his spectacle lenses was cracked. Tear streaks stained his face.

Li was shocked by how young he looked. ‘How old are you, twelve?’ he asked.

Phoni-babu felt he had to protest. ‘Nonsense bloody! Don’t be fooled sir!’ he said. ‘Is he a child or something else? Three-three children he could be having!’ He clipped the boy on the side of the head.

‘Fuck you, grandpa,’ said the boy.

Li looked at Big Chen. ‘Kick him downstairs,’ he said. ‘If he tries to come back, do it again.’

Big Chen complied, apologetically. ‘Don’t apply foot!’ said Phoni-babu, as Big Chen’s boot drove him though the corridor. ‘In Indian culture, foot very bad!’ They waited while Big Chen finished. Phoni-babu complained loudly all the way down. ‘Always I’ve been very loyal, but currently I’m reconsidering,’ were the last words they heard him say.

‘Sit down, kid,’ said Li. ‘Get him a glass of water.’

The boy drank thirstily. ‘Clean,’ he said.

‘You seem very calm for a boy who just killed someone,’ said Li.

‘I’d do it again!’ said the boy. ‘Sillyfucker Maoist! All they know is how to eliminate people.’

‘But their intentions are good,’ said Li.

‘When Geju-da got us the robot harvest machine, his intentions were also good, but it harvested the village headman.’

‘Why did he kill him?’ asked Li.

‘Mister Master trusted him, that was his mistake. He was growing old. He wanted others to continue. He thought Debu-da could be the one. We were already continuing for him, where was the need for that? But he was tired. He shouldn’t have trusted a soldier. Soldiers are cowards. They kill other people because they’re frightened of being killed themselves. But Debu-da did not want freedom. All Debu-da wanted was peace. “Isn’t it quiet and lovely in the jungle,” he would say to me, “at last my boys can relax and have babies.” At first, he thought we were a forbidden book club, but slowly he understood what we were doing. He realized that soon, in the jungle, there would be no peace. I don’t know what he saw in the war but he feared it more than anything. He was not like our Mister Master. Mister Master was very old, but he had no fear.’

‘But they both loved books.’

‘They both loved books.’

They sat in silence for a while.

‘Debu-da died because of a book, didn’t he? Not in ten years of fighting, not in the assault on Patna. Because of a book.’

‘Thief!’ said the boy. ‘Not just a murderer, but a thief! The moment I saw the book that you gave back, that very moment, I knew. Mister Master kept those books very carefully. He would never have given them to anyone. He would have smiled gently and said, sit here and read, I’ll make you tea. When I saw that book, I knew. But I waited. First, I called some of the others. I told them what I knew. Kill him, they said.’

‘He did it for his boys, though, didn’t he?’ said Li.

‘Like I said, he was a coward,’ said the boy. He made a face. ‘Everything was nice and peaceful in the jungle, and the flowers smelt so good! He didn’t want to fight anymore. He wanted peace. He could see we were going to make a revolution. He wanted peace and quiet, so his boys and girls could learn how to paint, and write poems, and fall in love. “I did it for Junglemahal,” he said, just before I pushed the knife into his heart.’

‘After Debu killed your Master, he cut off his thumbs,’ said Li, ‘so that no one could stir up trouble again. But why didn’t he just take the phone?’

‘He would never do that,’ said Toobloo. ‘It was too expensive. But he couldn’t resist taking one book.’ He thought about this for a moment. ‘Shitty how things turn out, isn’t it? It’s a rotten world you’ve given us.’

‘Make it better,’ said Li. ‘Go.’

The boy looked at Li with wonder. He stood up slowly, not believing him. He walked to the door. He looked back once before leaving. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

‘He didn’t show any remorse,’ said Big Chen, who was older and less sentimental. ‘Should you have let him go?’

‘There are worse people out there,’ said Inspector Li. ‘Let’s catch them first.’

The waitress banged the cup of coffee down on the table, but Inspector Li had been expecting it, so he leaped back nimbly and avoided splash burns. He gave the girl a grin. The girl gave him the finger. The staff at the Serve The People restaurant hated customers. It was part of their charm. They were part of the largest employment scheme in the history of mankind. Unemployed youth in China were no longer unemployed. Instead, they were sent out across the world, to work at Serve The People. Worldwide, there were now more Serve The Peoples than there were McDonalds. They were poorly paid and poorly tipped. Most of their customers in Calcutta were expatriate policemen. The only reason the police ate there was because they received part of their salary in Serve The People coupons. The service was terrible. The food was worse. The decor was inspired by the Cultural Revolution. The ambient music was revolutionary speeches, backed by a light techno beat. The girls were dressed as Red Guards. They knew this made them look fat. They were locked together, the waitresses and the police, hopelessly spinning in a vicious cycle of misery.

Inspector Li didn’t mind. He found the atmosphere invigorating, and some of the girls were pretty. They reminded him of the working girls back home, who were known to beat up Committee Members if they tried slipping them short.

The girls were in action at that very moment. An evil landlord was being strangled. He wore a dunce cap, and he was being severely beaten by several waitresses. It looked fairly genuine. Inspector Li wondered whether the man was an actual landlord. It would be an unusual way to dispose of someone, in full view of the public, as part of the entertainment. It had the makings of an excellent murder mystery. Granny A would have had a field day. One of the waitresses came back to his table. Inspector Li eyed her warily, but all she carried was a small red flag. She held it out to him.

‘The landlord has made a full confession,’ she said, stonily. ‘You must celebrate by waving this flag.’

Inspector Li took the flag and waved it dutifully.

‘Would you mind very much if I ordered some food?’ he asked.

He was thinking about taking his life into his hands and ordering the country-style bean curd (‘Which country?’ Big Chen had asked, after tasting a spoonful).

The waitress nodded millimetrically.

‘I’ll have one Chairman in His Bathrobe After Swimming the Yangtze River, well done, along with one Warriors Who Dashed Over the Ludong Bridge.’

‘Will you have some Screaming Traitors in Tartar Sauce with that?’ asked the waitress.

‘No, thanks,’ said Inspector Li, apologetically.

The waitress smashed a clenched fist into her temple, in a perfect revolutionary salute.

‘There is a serious tendency towards capitalism among the well-to-do peasants,’ she said. They were supposed to recite key sayings of Chairman Mao. She liked using them to express her opinion of customers. She swivelled around smartly and marched off to the kitchen, arms swinging.

Propagandist Wang was on TV. He was about to reassure the people.

‘The government would like to assure you,’ he said, ‘that there is no truth to the rumours about a FARS virus. We strongly deny allegations that PLA scientists have been secretly engineering a fish-eating micro-organism, designed as a weapon of war against the people of Bengal. It is incorrect to suggest that at a recent meeting of the Central Committee, it has been unanimously decided to deploy this virus in order to render the local population more docile by depriving them of brain food. All public or private discussion, texting, blogging, artistic interpretations, musical entertainments, dumb charades and thoughts on this subject are strictly forbidden. Those found guilty of such crimes will be instantly deported to Siberia. Due to your inferior intellect, I will repeat myself. There is no truth to the rumours about a FARS virus, spelt F-A-R-S. This is not an attempt by the Chinese authorities to deprive you of your favourite food item. Those who construe this as the first step in an elaborate scheme for genocide are completely mistaken. Ten Thousand Years!’

Inspector Li smiled to himself. He’d figured out Wang long ago, since his insistence that he should stay away from the thugs. Meeting the thugs had confirmed his suspicions. They were the arms and legs of the operation. Who would be better at running a silent operation across Calcutta? He knew all about the fish racket now, but too many big people were involved. The conspiracy went up to the highest levels, excluding only the Governor, who was currently flushing his head repeatedly in the toilet. There was nothing much that Li could do except what he usually did, which was watch the shit hit the fan, and try not to get splattered.

The waitress came back. ‘Have you come with news about my food?’ he asked.

‘Your order is not available,’ she said woodenly. ‘As a substitute, I could get you one The Whole Country Is Red, with extra chillies.’

‘Why not, little one?’ said Inspector Li, pleasantly. He liked red chillies. They reminded him that he was alive. The waitress took a step back and held up the Little Red Book. She spoke with her chin up. She was cute.

‘Who are our enemies? Who are our friends? This is a question of the first importance for the revolution.’

She marched away, back perfectly straight. Inspector Li took a sip of his coffee, which was now nice and cold.

Gao Yu called. She seemed happy to see him.

‘You look like you do after a case is over,’ she said. ‘Did you solve it?’

‘Justice was served, but the thieves are celebrating,’ said Li.

‘You can’t catch every thief, love. There are just too many of them. Now that you’re done, shouldn’t you come back to Beijing to protect me? Fatty’s rushed off to protect his factory. They hung a local official from a lamp post yesterday, just in front of our house. I’m not a local official, but I may have slept with one or two.’

He looked at her smiling face. She had allowed her teeth to stay crooked. She always knew what was in his heart. It did not seem like he had a choice in the matter. But there was a doubt he needed to clear.

‘Are you sure you want me to come?’ he asked.

‘You’re the detective,’ said Gao Yu. ‘You figure it out.’

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