155 The Emperors New Bodyguard (1/2)
It was a very wise move. The clerk who received the food became very helpful. Samir had the mint certificate in his pocket before an hour had passed. He also got some unasked-for advice from the clerk.
”You will have to work very hard to make your mint a success, my friend,” the clerk told him. ”There are over three hundred mints registered in our area. I believe the total for all of Mumbai is over fifty thousand mints. You aren't going to find any scrap metal for your mint, either. Not around here, and probably it's the same everywhere else.”
”I have a source,” Samir told him.
”I hope it is a good source,” the clerk said. After a pause, he added:
”Last week, the army shot three men who were trying to steal a drum of cable.”
”I don't need or intend to steal anything.”
”Things change,” the clerk said mystically. ”Things always change.”
The clerk's verdict made Samir feel vaguely unhappy. He didn't really feel like going home right away. He wanted to be alone for a while. He tried to think of the last time when he met with other people simply to have fun. For the past couple of months, practically every conversation involved solving a problem.
There was a man selling small packs of cigarettes off a wooden tray right outside the town hall entrance, and he was taking old money. Samir had a couple of hundred-rupee notes in his trouser pocket, and decided he'd buy a pack. He wasn't a smoker, although he didn't refuse a cigarette offered by someone else when he was drinking.
The last time he had smoked a cigarette was at the Christmas party at work. Mr Go always threw Christmas parties for his employees. Everyone got a paper plate with a few spoonfuls of food, and a bottle of Kingfisher beer. Suddenly, Samir felt a great longing for those times. Maybe a cigarette would help?
After a lot of haggling, he managed to purchase a pack. The seller wanted three hundred rupees; he told Samir he was saving up money to buy a colonist's license.
His disclosure put Samir in a bad mood. He got on his bike, and pedaled until he came to the turnoff that led directly to his house. A large tree was growing on that corner, and in its shade a very old man sat on a wooden bench, smoking a cigarette.
Samir asked him for a light, and sat down beside him. For a while they smoked in silence, sitting side by side. Suddenly the old man said:
”So you're Samir Sharma.”
Samir had been smoking in a comfortable hunch, his forearms resting on his knees. He jerked straight and turned to look at the old man. He was sure he'd never met him before.
”How do you know my name?” he asked.
The old man grinned. He was missing a couple of teeth in his upper jaw, and somehow that made his grin seem evil. He said:
Samir uttered a joyless, short laugh.
”Famous? You must be pulling my leg. Famous for what?”
”You are prospering at a time when others are becoming destitute.”
That didn't sound good at all. That promised trouble, and Samir was quick to say:
”Oh yes, I am very prosperous. So prosperous that I had to haggle for a long time to buy those cigarettes. My pockets are full of money. See?”
He pulled the side pocket of his trousers out. The only thing it contained was a bit of fluff that had stuck to the bottom seam. Samir pinched it between his fingers and held it up in front of the old man's face.
”Gold,” he said. ”Finest gold.”
He flicked the fluff away, and pulled on his cigarette. The old man said:
”You bought your house. You have people working on it. You have plenty of food. You have been to the New World.”
”Who told you that?”
The old man shrugged, and turned his face away from Samir's.
”Everyone around here knows those things,” he said. He bent down and stubbed out his cigarette on the ground: he'd already burned it down to the filter.
Samir took out the small pack of Player's Medium that he'd bought. He slid a cigarette half-out and offered it to the old man.
”Thank you,” the old man said, and stuck the cigarette behind his ear. Samir asked:
”The men working on my house have been talking?”
”I haven't seen your workmen,” the old man said with great dignity, the kind of dignity that's often used to cover a lie.
Samir nodded in acknowledgement; he didn't trust himself to speak. The old man had to know what the workmen looked like in order to say he hadn't seen them. Samir was very tempted to point that out, and make a fool of the old man. But he'd already learned the first rule of ruling: do not make new enemies unless it's absolutely necessary.
So he got back on his bike without comment, and even waved goodbye toi the old man as he pushed off. It was wasted: the old man was busy examining the cigarette Samir had given him, probably expecting to find gold and diamonds inside.
As he rode his bike home, Samir digested his newfound knowledge. Everyone was talking about him! He was famous! Wasn't that something to be happy about?
It wasn't, not for Samir. Rani had showed up for their very first date with a cheap magazine devoted to celebrity gossip sticking out of the flat basket she used for a handbag. When Samir had noticed that magazine, he said: