The Satanic Verses (56 page)

As for Allie, she lost, for a while, the prickly,
wrong
feeling of being stranded in a false milieu, an alien narrative; caring for Gibreel, investing in his brain, as she put it to herself, fighting to salvage him so that they could resume the great, exciting struggle of their love – because they would probably quarrel all the way to the grave, she mused tolerantly, they’d be two old codgers flapping feebly at one another with rolled-up newspapers as they sat upon the evening verandas of their lives – she felt more closely joined to him each day; rooted, so to speak, in his earth. It was some time since Maurice Wilson had been seen sitting among the chimneypots, calling her to her death.

Mr ‘Whisky’ Sisodia, that gleaming and charm-packed knee in spectacles, became a regular caller – three or four visits a week – during Gibreel’s convalescence, invariably arriving with boxes full of goodies to eat. Gibreel had been literally fasting to death during his ‘angel period’, and the medical opinion was that starvation had contributed in no small degree to his hallucinations. ‘So now we
fafatten him up,’ Sisodia smacked his palms together, and once the invalid’s stomach was up to it, ‘Whisky’ plied him with delicacies: Chinese sweet-corn and chicken soup, Bombay-style bhel-puri from the new, chic but unfortunately named ‘Pagal Khana’ restaurant whose ‘Crazy Food’ (but the name could also be translated as
Madhouse
) had grown popular enough, especially among the younger set of British Asians, to rival even the long-standing preeminence of the Shaandaar Café, from which Sisodia, not wishing to show unseemly partisanship, also fetched eats – sweetmeats, samosas, chicken patties – for the increasingly voracious Gibreel. He brought, too, dishes made by his own hand, fish curries, raitas, sivayyan, khir, and doled out, along with the edibles, name-dropping accounts of celebrity dinner parties: how Pavarotti had loved Whisky’s lassi, and O but that poor James Mason had just adored his spicy prawns. Vanessa, Amitabh, Dustin, Sridevi, Christopher Reeve were all invoked. ‘One soosoo superstar should be aware of the tatastes of his pipi peers.’ Sisodia was something of a legend himself, Allie learned from Gibreel. The most slippery and silver-tongued man in the business, he had made a string of ‘quality’ pictures on microscopic budgets, keeping going for over twenty years on pure charm and nonstop hustle. People on Sisodia projects got paid with the greatest difficulty, but somehow failed to mind. He had once quelled a cast revolt – over pay, inevitably – by whisking the entire unit off for a grand picnic in one of the most fabulous maharajah palaces in India, a place that was normally off limits to all but the high-born elite, the Gwaliors and Jaipurs and Kashmirs. Nobody ever knew how he fixed it, but most members of that unit had since signed up to work on further Sisodia ventures, the pay issue buried beneath the grandeur of such gestures. ‘And if he’s needed he is always there,’ Gibreel added. ‘When Charulata, a wonderful dancer-actress he’d often used, needed the cancer treatment, suddenly years of unpaid fees materialized overnight.’

These days, thanks to a string of surprise box-office hits based on old fables drawn from the
Katha-Sarit-Sagar
compendium – the ‘Ocean of the Streams of Story’, longer than the Arabian Nights and equally as fantasticated – Sisodia was no longer based exclusively
in his tiny office on Bombay’s Readymoney Terrace, but had apartments in London and New York, and Oscars in his toilets. The story was that he carried, in his wallet, a photograph of the Hong Kong-based kung-phooey producer Run Run Shaw, his supposed hero, whose name he was quite unable to say. ‘Sometimes four Runs, sometimes a sixer,’ Gibreel told Allie, who was happy to see him laugh. ‘But I can’t swear. It’s only a media rumour.’

Allie was grateful for Sisodia’s attentiveness. The famous producer appeared to have limitless time at his disposal, whereas Allie’s schedule had just then grown very full. She had signed a promotional contract with a giant chain of freezer-food centres whose advertising agent, Mr Hal Valance, told Allie during a power breakfast – grapefruit, dry toast, decaf, all at Dorchester prices – that her
profile
, ‘uniting as it does the positive parameters (for our client) of “coldness” and “cool”, is right on line. Some stars end up being vampires, sucking attention away from the brand name, you understand, but this feels like real synergy.’ So now there were freezer-mart openings to cut ribbons at, and sales conferences, and advertising shots with tubs of softscoop icecream; plus the regular meetings with the designers and manufacturers of her autograph lines of equipment and leisurewear; and, of course, her fitness programme. She had signed on for Mr Joshi’s highly recommended martial arts course at the local sports centre, and continued, too, to force her legs to run five miles a day around the Fields, in spite of the soles-on-broken-glass pain. ‘No pop problem,’ Sisodia would send her off with a cheery wave. ‘I will iss iss issit here-only until you return. To be with Gigibreel is for me a pip pip privilege.’ She left him regaling Farishta with his inexhaustible anecdotes, opinions and general chitchat, and when she returned he would still be going strong. She came to identify several major themes; notably, his corpus of statements about The Trouble With The English. ‘The trouble with the Engenglish is that their hiss hiss history happened overseas, so they dodo don’t know what it means.’ – ‘The see secret of a dinner party in London is to ow ow outnumber the English. If they’re
outnumbered they bebehave; otherwise, you’re in trouble.’ – ‘Go to the Ché Ché Chamber of Horrors and you’ll see what’s rah rah wrong with the English. That’s what they rereally like, caw corpses in bubloodbaths, mad barbers, etc. etc. etera. Their pay papers full of kinky sex and death. But they tell the whir world they’re reserved, ist ist istiff upper lip and so on, and we’re ist ist istupid enough to believe.’ Gibreel listened to this collection of prejudices with what seemed like complete assent, irritating Allie profoundly. Were these generalizations really all they saw of England? ‘No,’ Sisodia conceded with a shameless smile. ‘But it feels googood to let this ist ist istuff out.’

By the time the Maudsley people felt able to recommend a major reduction in Gibreel’s dosages, Sisodia had become so much a fixture at his bedside, a sort of unofficial, eccentric and amusing layabout cousin, that when he sprung his trap Gibreel and Allie were taken completely by surprise.

He had been in touch with colleagues in Bombay: the seven producers whom Gibreel had left in the lurch when he boarded Air India’s Flight 420,
Bostan
, ‘All are eel, elated by the news of your survival,’ he informed Gibreel. ‘Unf unf unfortunately, question of breach of contract ararises.’ Various other parties were also interested in suing the renascent Farishta for plenty, in particular a starlet named Pimple Billimoria, who alleged loss of earnings and professional damage. ‘Could um amount to curcrores,’ Sisodia said, looking lugubrious. Allie was angry. ‘You stirred up this hornets’ nest,’ she said. ‘I should have known: you were too good to be true.’

Sisodia became agitated. ‘Damn damn damn.’

‘Ladies present,’ Gibreel, still a little drug-woozy, warned; but Sisodia windmilled his arms, indicating that he was trying to force words past his overexcited teeth. Finally: ‘Damage limitation. My intention. Not betrayal, you mumust not thithithink.’

To hear Sisodia tell it, nobody back in Bombay really wanted to
sue Gibreel, to kill in court the goose that laid the golden eggs. All parties recognized that the old projects were no longer capable of being restarted: actors, directors, key crew members, even sound stages were otherwise committed. All parties further recognized that Gibreel’s return from the dead was an item of a commercial value greater than any of the defunct films; the question was how to utilize it best, to the advantage of all concerned. His landing up in London also suggested the possibility of an international connection, maybe overseas funding, use of non-Indian locations, participation of stars ‘from foreign’, etc.: in short, it was time for Gibreel to emerge from retirement and face the cameras again. ‘There is no chochoice,’ Sisodia explained to Gibreel, who sat up in bed trying to clear his head. ‘If you refuse, they will move against you
en bloc
, and not even your four four fortune could suffice. Bankruptcy, jajajail, funtoosh.’

Sisodia had talked himself into the hot seat: all the principals had agreed to grant him executive powers in the matter, and he had put together quite a package. The British-based entrepreneur Billy Battuta was eager to invest both in sterling and in ‘blocked rupees’, the non-repatriable profits made by various British film distributors in the Indian subcontinent, which Battuta had taken over in return for cash payments in negotiable currencies at a knockdown (37-point discount) rate: All the Indian producers would chip in, and Miss Pimple Billimoria, to guarantee her silence, was to be offered a showcase supporting role featuring at least two dance numbers. Filming would be spread between three continents – Europe, India, the North African coast. Gibreel got above-the-title billing, and three percentage points of producers’ net profits … ‘Ten,’ Gibreel interrupted, ‘against two of the gross.’ His mind was obviously clearing. Sisodia didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Ten against two,’ he agreed. ‘Pre-publicity campaign to be as fofollows …’

‘But what’s the project?’ Allie Cone demanded. Mr ‘Whisky’ Sisodia beamed from ear to ear. ‘Dear mamadam,’ he said. ‘He will play the archangel, Gibreel.’

The proposal was for a series of films, both historical and contemporary, each concentrating on one incident from the angel’s long and illustrious career: a trilogy, at least. ‘Don’t tell me,’ Allie said, mocking the small shining mogul.
‘Gibreel in Jahilia, Gibreel Meets the Imam, Gibreel with the Butterfly Girl
.’ Sisodia wasn’t one bit embarrassed, but nodded proudly. ‘Stostorylines, draft scenarios, cacasting options are already well in haha hand.’ That was too much for Allie. ‘It stinks,’ she raged at him, and he retreated from her, a trembling and placatory knee, while she pursued him, until she was actually chasing him around the apartment, banging into the furniture, slamming doors. ‘It exploits his sickness, has nothing to do with his present needs, and shows an utter contempt for his own wishes. He’s retired; can’t you people respect that? He doesn’t want to be a star. And will you please stand still. I’m not going to eat you.’

He stopped running, but kept a cautious sofa between them. ‘Please see that this is imp imp imp,’ he cried, his stammer crippling his tongue on account of his anxiety. ‘Can the moomoon retire? Also, excuse, there are his seven sig sig sig.
Signatures
. Committing him absolutely. Unless and until you decide to commit him to a papapa.’ He gave up, sweating freely.

‘A what
?’

‘Pagal Khana. Asylum. That would be another wwwway.’

Allie lifted a heavy brass inkwell in the shape of Mount Everest and prepared to hurl it. ‘You really are a skunk,’ she began, but then Gibreel was standing in the doorway, still rather pale, bony and hollow-eyed. ‘Alleluia,’ he said, ‘I am thinking that maybe I want this. Maybe I need to go back to work.’