she'd said so easily the very words, I like you, that I wouldn't let myself say to her.
"You do?" I asked, trying to make the question sound more casual than it was. I watched her lips close in a thin smile.
"Yes. You're a good listener. That's dangerous, because it's so hard to resist. Being listened to-really listened to-is the second-best thing in the world."
"What's the first best thing?"
"Everybody knows that. The best thing in the world is power."
"Oh, is it?" I asked, laughing. "What about sex?"
"No. Apart from the biology, sex is all about power. That's why it's such a rush."
I laughed again.
"And what about love? A lot of people say that love is the best thing in the world, not power."
"They're wrong," she said with terse finality. "Love is the opposite of power. That's why we fear it so much."
"Karla, dear one, the things you say!" Didier Levy said, joining us and taking a seat beside Karla. "I must make the conclusion that you have wicked intentions for our Lin."
"You didn't hear a word we said," she chided.
"I don't have to _hear you. I can see by the look on his face.
You've been talking your riddles to him, and turning his head around. You forget, Karla, that I know you too well. Here, Lin, we'll cure you at once!"
He shouted to one of the red-jacketed waiters, calling the man by the number "4" emblazoned on the breast pocket on his uniform.
"Hey! Char number! Do battlee beer! What will you have, Karla?
Coffee? Oh, char number! Ek coffee aur. Jaldi karo!"
Didier Levy was only thirty-five years old, but those years were stitched to him in lumpy wads of flesh and deep lines that gave him the plump and careworn look of a much older man. In defiance of the humid climate, he always wore baggy canvas trousers, a denim shirt, and a rumpled, grey woollen sports coat. His thick, curly black hair never seemed to be shorter or longer than the line of his collar, just as the stubble on his tired face never seemed to be less than three days from its last shave. He spoke a lavishly accented English, using the language to provoke and criticise friend and stranger alike with an indolent malignity.
There were people who resented his rudeness and rebukes, but they tolerated them because he was frequently useful and occasionally indispensable. He knew where everything-from a pistol, to a precious gem, to a kilo of the finest Thai-white heroin-might be bought or sold in the city. And, as he sometimes boasted, there was very little he wouldn't do for the right amount of money, provided there was no significant risk to his comfort and personal safety.
"We were talking of the different ideas people have about the best thing in the world," Karla said, "But I don't have to ask what you think."
"You would say that _I think money is the best thing in the world," he suggested lazily, "and we'd both be right. Every sane and rational person one day realises that money is almost everything. The great principles and the noble virtues are all very well, in the long run of history, but from one day to the next, it's money that keeps us going-and the lack of it that drives us under the great wheel. And what about you, Lin? What did you say?"
"He didn't say anything yet, and now that you're here, he won't get a chance."
"Now be fair, Karla. Tell us, Lin. I would like to know."
"Well, if you press me, I'd have to say freedom."
"The freedom to do what?" he asked, putting a little laugh in the last word.
"I don't know. Maybe just the freedom to say no. If you've got that much freedom, you really don't need any more."
The beer and coffee arrived. The waiter slammed the drinks onto the table with reckless discourtesy. The service in the shops, hotels, and restaurants of Bombay, in those days, moved from a politeness that was charming or fawning to a rudeness that was either abrupt or hostile. The churlishness of Leopold's waiters was legendary. It's my favourite place in the whole world, Karla once said, to be treated like
"You do?" I asked, trying to make the question sound more casual than it was. I watched her lips close in a thin smile.
"Yes. You're a good listener. That's dangerous, because it's so hard to resist. Being listened to-really listened to-is the second-best thing in the world."
"What's the first best thing?"
"Everybody knows that. The best thing in the world is power."
"Oh, is it?" I asked, laughing. "What about sex?"
"No. Apart from the biology, sex is all about power. That's why it's such a rush."
I laughed again.
"And what about love? A lot of people say that love is the best thing in the world, not power."
"They're wrong," she said with terse finality. "Love is the opposite of power. That's why we fear it so much."
"Karla, dear one, the things you say!" Didier Levy said, joining us and taking a seat beside Karla. "I must make the conclusion that you have wicked intentions for our Lin."
"You didn't hear a word we said," she chided.
"I don't have to _hear you. I can see by the look on his face.
You've been talking your riddles to him, and turning his head around. You forget, Karla, that I know you too well. Here, Lin, we'll cure you at once!"
He shouted to one of the red-jacketed waiters, calling the man by the number "4" emblazoned on the breast pocket on his uniform.
"Hey! Char number! Do battlee beer! What will you have, Karla?
Coffee? Oh, char number! Ek coffee aur. Jaldi karo!"
Didier Levy was only thirty-five years old, but those years were stitched to him in lumpy wads of flesh and deep lines that gave him the plump and careworn look of a much older man. In defiance of the humid climate, he always wore baggy canvas trousers, a denim shirt, and a rumpled, grey woollen sports coat. His thick, curly black hair never seemed to be shorter or longer than the line of his collar, just as the stubble on his tired face never seemed to be less than three days from its last shave. He spoke a lavishly accented English, using the language to provoke and criticise friend and stranger alike with an indolent malignity.
There were people who resented his rudeness and rebukes, but they tolerated them because he was frequently useful and occasionally indispensable. He knew where everything-from a pistol, to a precious gem, to a kilo of the finest Thai-white heroin-might be bought or sold in the city. And, as he sometimes boasted, there was very little he wouldn't do for the right amount of money, provided there was no significant risk to his comfort and personal safety.
"We were talking of the different ideas people have about the best thing in the world," Karla said, "But I don't have to ask what you think."
"You would say that _I think money is the best thing in the world," he suggested lazily, "and we'd both be right. Every sane and rational person one day realises that money is almost everything. The great principles and the noble virtues are all very well, in the long run of history, but from one day to the next, it's money that keeps us going-and the lack of it that drives us under the great wheel. And what about you, Lin? What did you say?"
"He didn't say anything yet, and now that you're here, he won't get a chance."
"Now be fair, Karla. Tell us, Lin. I would like to know."
"Well, if you press me, I'd have to say freedom."
"The freedom to do what?" he asked, putting a little laugh in the last word.
"I don't know. Maybe just the freedom to say no. If you've got that much freedom, you really don't need any more."
The beer and coffee arrived. The waiter slammed the drinks onto the table with reckless discourtesy. The service in the shops, hotels, and restaurants of Bombay, in those days, moved from a politeness that was charming or fawning to a rudeness that was either abrupt or hostile. The churlishness of Leopold's waiters was legendary. It's my favourite place in the whole world, Karla once said, to be treated like
Similar Books
