what?’
‘On who the hell you are, and what the hell you’re doin’ in my office.’
‘Oh,’ he laughed, relaxing enough to take a seat at the new desk. ‘That’s easy. I’m your new assistant. Count on it!’
‘I didn’t ask for a new assistant. I liked the old assistant.’
‘But I thought you didn’t have an assistant?’
‘Exactly.’
His hands flapped in his lap like fish flung on the shore. I stepped across the room to look through the long windows into the factory below. I noticed that changes had taken place there as well.
‘What the hell?’
I walked down the wooden steps leading to the factory floor, and headed toward the new desks and light boxes. Farzad followed me, speaking quickly.
‘They decided to expand the false document section to include education stuff. I thought you knew.’
‘What education stuff?’
‘Diplomas, degrees, certificates of competency and the like. That’s why they brought me in.’
He stopped suddenly, watching me as I picked up a document from one of the new desks. It was a Master’s Degree in Engineering, purporting to be issued by a prestigious university in Bengal.
It bore the name of a young man I knew: the son of a mafia enforcer from the fishing fleet area, who was as slow-witted as he was avaricious, and who was, by any reckoning, the greediest kid-gangster in Sassoon Dock.
‘They . . . brought me in . . . ’ Farzad concluded falteringly, ‘b-b-because I have an MBA. I mean, a real one. Count on it.’
‘There goes the neighbourhood. Doesn’t anybody study philosophy any more?’
‘My dad does,’ he said. ‘He’s a Steiner-Utilitarian.’
‘Please, whoever you are, I haven’t had a chai yet.’
Moving to a second table, I picked up another false qualification document. It was a Bachelor of Medicine in Dental Surgery. Reading my features, Farzad spoke again.
‘You know, it’s okay. None of these fake degrees will ever be used in India. They’re all for people who want jobs in foreign countries.’
‘Oh,’ I said, not smiling, ‘that makes it okay, then.’
‘Exactly!’ He grinned happily. ‘Shall I send for tea?’
When the chai arrived, in short, crack-veined glasses, we sipped and talked long enough for me to like him.
Farzad was from the small, brilliant and influential Parsi community. He was twenty-three years old, unmarried, and lived with his parents and extended family in a large house not far from the Bombay slum where I’d once lived.
After two postgraduate years in the United States, he started work at a futures trading firm in Boston. Within the first year, he’d become entangled in a complex Ponzi scheme, run by the head of his firm.
Although he’d played no direct part in his employer’s criminal intrigue, Farzad’s name appeared in transfers of funds to secret bank accounts. When it seemed that he might be arrested, he’d returned to India, using the fortuitous if unhappy excuse that he had to visit the sick bed of his dying uncle.
I’d known the uncle, Keki, very well. He’d been a wise counsellor to Khaderbhai, the South Bombay don, and had a place on the mafia Council. In his last hours, the Parsi counsellor had asked the new head of the mafia Company, Sanjay Kumar, to protect young Farzad, his nephew, whom he regarded as a son.
Sanjay took Farzad in, telling him that he’d be safe from prosecution in the United States, if he remained in Bombay, and worked for the mafia Company. While I’d been in Goa, Sanjay had put him to work in my false passport factory.
‘There’s so many people moving out of India now,’ Farzad said, sipping his second chai. ‘And regulations will lighten up. You’ll see. Count on it.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Restrictions and laws, they’ll all change, they’ll all get looser and easier. People will be leaving India, people will be coming back to India, starting businesses here and in foreign countries, moving money around all over the place. And all of those
‘On who the hell you are, and what the hell you’re doin’ in my office.’
‘Oh,’ he laughed, relaxing enough to take a seat at the new desk. ‘That’s easy. I’m your new assistant. Count on it!’
‘I didn’t ask for a new assistant. I liked the old assistant.’
‘But I thought you didn’t have an assistant?’
‘Exactly.’
His hands flapped in his lap like fish flung on the shore. I stepped across the room to look through the long windows into the factory below. I noticed that changes had taken place there as well.
‘What the hell?’
I walked down the wooden steps leading to the factory floor, and headed toward the new desks and light boxes. Farzad followed me, speaking quickly.
‘They decided to expand the false document section to include education stuff. I thought you knew.’
‘What education stuff?’
‘Diplomas, degrees, certificates of competency and the like. That’s why they brought me in.’
He stopped suddenly, watching me as I picked up a document from one of the new desks. It was a Master’s Degree in Engineering, purporting to be issued by a prestigious university in Bengal.
It bore the name of a young man I knew: the son of a mafia enforcer from the fishing fleet area, who was as slow-witted as he was avaricious, and who was, by any reckoning, the greediest kid-gangster in Sassoon Dock.
‘They . . . brought me in . . . ’ Farzad concluded falteringly, ‘b-b-because I have an MBA. I mean, a real one. Count on it.’
‘There goes the neighbourhood. Doesn’t anybody study philosophy any more?’
‘My dad does,’ he said. ‘He’s a Steiner-Utilitarian.’
‘Please, whoever you are, I haven’t had a chai yet.’
Moving to a second table, I picked up another false qualification document. It was a Bachelor of Medicine in Dental Surgery. Reading my features, Farzad spoke again.
‘You know, it’s okay. None of these fake degrees will ever be used in India. They’re all for people who want jobs in foreign countries.’
‘Oh,’ I said, not smiling, ‘that makes it okay, then.’
‘Exactly!’ He grinned happily. ‘Shall I send for tea?’
When the chai arrived, in short, crack-veined glasses, we sipped and talked long enough for me to like him.
Farzad was from the small, brilliant and influential Parsi community. He was twenty-three years old, unmarried, and lived with his parents and extended family in a large house not far from the Bombay slum where I’d once lived.
After two postgraduate years in the United States, he started work at a futures trading firm in Boston. Within the first year, he’d become entangled in a complex Ponzi scheme, run by the head of his firm.
Although he’d played no direct part in his employer’s criminal intrigue, Farzad’s name appeared in transfers of funds to secret bank accounts. When it seemed that he might be arrested, he’d returned to India, using the fortuitous if unhappy excuse that he had to visit the sick bed of his dying uncle.
I’d known the uncle, Keki, very well. He’d been a wise counsellor to Khaderbhai, the South Bombay don, and had a place on the mafia Council. In his last hours, the Parsi counsellor had asked the new head of the mafia Company, Sanjay Kumar, to protect young Farzad, his nephew, whom he regarded as a son.
Sanjay took Farzad in, telling him that he’d be safe from prosecution in the United States, if he remained in Bombay, and worked for the mafia Company. While I’d been in Goa, Sanjay had put him to work in my false passport factory.
‘There’s so many people moving out of India now,’ Farzad said, sipping his second chai. ‘And regulations will lighten up. You’ll see. Count on it.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Restrictions and laws, they’ll all change, they’ll all get looser and easier. People will be leaving India, people will be coming back to India, starting businesses here and in foreign countries, moving money around all over the place. And all of those
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