The Ink Bridge by Neil Grant Page A

dining room. The waiter drew white bibs around their necks and brought hot steel plates of meat, over which he poured gravy until the tablecloth was spattered with meat juices. Omed picked up his knife. It was a weapon that didn’t belong at the table. He pushed at his meat. The weather was too hot for this food, full of blood and fat. The Snake tore at his meal, grease spilling down his chin, while the two Hazara drank beer and smoked. All around, men and women became noisy and drunk.
    â€˜Why do you wear a coat?’ one of the Hazara asked him. ‘You are sweating like an ox. Take it off you idiot!’ But the coat was the only thing between them and Omed’s money.
    They demanded Omed pay for the meal.
    â€˜You are a rich boy. We know. Come on rich boy, pay for your brothers!’
    Omed paid and excused himself, slipping out of the dining room and upstairs to the room. He dropped heavily onto the bed, falling asleep quickly and without dreams.
    He awoke, sweating, gasping for air. Where was he? He had dreamed of home – the square of mud wall with its single loose brick, the sight of the table through the doorway. But he was far from Bamiyan and that feeling tore at him, forced a strange howl from his throat.
    He opened the window onto the noisy street. The night air was as unbreathable as oil, insects clouded round the streetlights and hawkers had set up stalls on the footpaths. Omed noticed the taxi driver sitting alone at a small tea cart.
    He shut the window and left the room, creeping past the dining room where the Snake and his companions were shouting over a table of bottles. Omed crossed the street, dodging scooters and buses, ignoring the calls of men to buy their food, cheap watches and plastic shoes. The taxi driver was sipping a glass of water and he did not see Omed approach. Omed reached out his hand for the man’s shoulder but withdrew it. The man turned as if he had been touched.
    â€˜My friend, it is wonderful to see you,’ he said, flashing his brilliant smile. ‘Come, sit, I will get you some foods.’
    Omed raised his hand to object.
    â€˜You must share something with me. A tea?’
    Omed nodded and the driver called to a stall owner, ‘ Teh tarik satu !’
    The stall owner poured the tea from one jug to another, drawing the jugs apart to froth the milk.
    â€˜Pull tea,’ the driver laughed. ‘ Teh tarik. ’
    The stall owner drained the tea into a plastic bag and slipped in a straw.
    â€˜Come, we will walk and talk,’ said the driver. ‘I have some time to finish.’
    He saw Omed hesitate over the bag. ‘It is okay,’ he said, his head rocking loosely on his shoulders. ‘You drink. This good pull tea . I am only not drinking because of fasting. Only water today, I must regretfully announce, and for the last forty days. And we must walk because walking is good for talking. It is helping words to spill.’
    They walked down the busy road, blending onto the street when the footpath became too crowded.
    â€˜You must call me Puravi for that is me. It is meaning horse .’ He laughed loudly as he leapt into the path of an oncoming bus. Narrowly avoiding death, he turned his body at the last moment so it was only his thick black hair that was swept up by the smoky breeze. The driver leant on his horn, but that only made Puravi laugh louder.
    â€˜See. See how sure-footed I am. Like a horse. I am sorry if I am scaring you, but I am only having fun. Tonight is a special night, my friend, and I am very full of happiness. Is it not wonderful?’ He paused, waiting for a response from Omed. ‘You do not speak, no matter, I will speak for both of us.’ He laughed again as they crossed the road by a mosque.
    â€˜People say if you want a lawyer who can talk you must hire an Indian. For this you do not pay by the word. But I am only a taxi driver. Still I have come far. Is not the city beautiful at night? Do