ghee, a small bell, a five-branched candlestick with little cups in which there burned small flames known as panchaprodip, and a pitcher containing Ganges water. He recited mantras, rang the bell, and proceeded to the ceremony of fire, walking his candlestick around the statues. He put particular emphasis on the bull, for it is to Nandi that Hindus attribute the power to grant any desire.
After his puja to the gods of the heavens, Son of Miracle decided to address himself to the gods of the earth.
"We must get the godfather to help," he announced to Ashish Ghosh. "He's the only one who could cut down that pirate's demands."
"Do you really think the godfather would put himself out over so trivial a matter?" asked Ashish.
"Of course he will! In fact it's exactly the kind of intervention that he likes. After all, doesn't he call himself the 'defender of the little ones,' the 'protector of widows and orphans,' the 'guru of the poor'?"
Accordingly, Son of Miracle requested an audience. Two days later an envoy from the godfather came to fetch him, whereupon he underwent the same ritual as had Kovalski. The taxi driver was ushered first into a kind of anteroom where bodyguards were playing cards and dominoes and smoking cigarettes. Then the godfather's eldest son appeared to conduct the visitor into the vast reception room. Son of Miracle stared, wide-eyed with wonder. The godfather was in truth a nobleman. He sat enthroned like the great Mogul at the far end of the room on his armchair encrusted with precious stones, but his dark glasses and the heavy folds of his jowls gave him the air of an aging toad. Without a word, he projected his chin in the direction of the taxi driver to indicate that he was ready to listen.
Son of Miracle presented his request powerfully. After three minutes the godfather raised his fat, hairy hand covered with rings. He had understood. Any further explanation would be superfluous. He signaled to his son to approach the throne and whispered in his ear the price of his intervention. "Irrespective of the fact that the godfather was the protector of the poor and the oppressed, he
was like a race horse: he didn't run without his oats," the taxi driver was to say. "Much to my surprise, however, this time it wasn't a question of money. Instead, he gave me to understand through his son that in exchange for his intervention with the overdemanding owner, he intended to set up a drinking dive in the compound. Not bad, eh? And there was no question of raising the slightest objection. You don't refuse hospitality to someone who's giving you a roof over your head."
One of the most notable events that could ever occur in the life of a slum—a family's departure and return to its village—passed off completely unnoticed. Having given up the idea of leaving separately, the Ghoshes and their three children piled their things into a rickshaw and left the compound one morning at dawn. There was no farewell banquet or celebration, only a few emotional displays from neighbors who had lived and suffered with them in the same prison for years. The young people of the compound had, however, prepared a going-away present for them. It was Padmini, the little girl who collected coal from the locomotive, who actually presented it to Mallika, the Ghoshes' eldest daughter. The gift was a rag doll which some weeks earlier they had metamorphized into Lakshmi, goddess of prosperity, now coated with ghee and garlanded wih rose petals.
Kovalski accompanied the departing family to the station. After a two-hour train journey as far as the small town of Canning, then three hours to a steamboat on the River Matla, a branch of the Ganges delta, followed by an hour's bus journey and two hours across the dikes on foot, they would be home again at last—after six years in exile! They were living proof that the tide of exodus could turn, that the tragedy of Calcutta was not ineluctable, that it need not be forever. That was how Kovalski wished to look upon their departure. Yet his grief at losing his brother and sister was immense. Since that distant evening when Margareta had first shown them into his room in Nizamudhin Lane, a profound affection had grown up
between him and these two bright young people who were ever ready, day or night, to fly to the rescue of anyone in distress and constantly prepared to devote themselves to the most neglected. On the point of putting his family in the train, Ashish paused and faced the priest.
4 'Big Brother Stephan," he said in a voice taut with emotion, "as you know we are Hindus, but it would please us if you would give us the bessing of your Jesus before we go."
Much moved, Kovalski raised his hand above the five heads clustered together in the midst of the throng and slowly made the sign of the cross.
"May the blessing and the peace of Christ be with you," he murmured, "for you are the light of the world."
It was only when the train had pulled away and the faces at the window had vanished into the scalding air at the end of the platform that Kovalski became aware that he was crying.
How the fat Bengali landlord knew the exact date of the Ghoshes' departure was something of a mystery. At about six o'clock on that very same morning, however, he burst into the compound accompanied by half a dozen thugs. In Calcutta anyone could recruit a small army to keep his personal aflFairs in order. It cost less to engage a man than to hire a bullock to pull a cart. The landlord came armed with an enormous padlock to secure the door of the vacant hovel.
Just as the battle of Hastinapur brought luster to the Mahabharata epic, so the battle which now ensued was to become a striking page in the history of the City of Joy. On this occasion, however, the adversaries were no mythological warriors disputing the glorious capital of a kingdom but vulgar good-for-nothings, ready to tear each other's guts out for the possession of a miserable rat hole in the heart of a slum. The godfather had sent his son, Ashoka, at the head of a commando unit armed with clubs. Pushing the owner and his guards aside, they took up their position in front of the Ghoshes' former home. Fighting broke out.
Kovalski saw someone brandish a knife and slice off one of the combatant's ears. The occupants of the compound were seized with panic. Women fled, screaming. Others barricaded themselves in with their children. Terrified, the eunuchs' cockerel emitted cock-a-doodle-doos that assembled the entire neighborhood. The tiles from the roofs began to fly, followed by chulas, buckets, and bricks. Wounded people crawled away, groaning. It was like a scene out of a play, except that here people were really fighting, and with unparalleled ferocity.
It was at this point that the godfather made his appearance. Dressed in an immaculate white dhoti with gilded sandals on his feet and an ivory-handled cane in his hand, he looked more than ever like a Grand Mogul between the two bodyguards who fanned him. "It's the emperor Akbar coming to appease the anger of his subjects," thought Kovalski. Instantly the fighting stopped. No one, not even the gundas engaged at the docks, would have dared to dispute the authority of the lord of the City of Joy. Reassured, the residents returned to their homes in time to witness an extraordinary scene. The godfather advanced toward the fat Bengali landlord, entrusted his cane to one of his guards, raised both his hands to the level of his face and joined them in a gesture of salutation. Then, taking back his cane, he pointed the tip of it at the large black padlock the proprietor was gripping. With an imperceptible movement of the head, he invited one of his guards to take possession of it. Not a word was spoken and the Bengali put up not the least resistance. On the contrary, he bade the godfather a respectful farewell and withdrew with what was left of his escort, whereupon the godfather did a tour of the compound to savor his triumph and caress the cheeks of a number of children in their mothers' arms.
Son of Miracle was exultant. He had lived up to his name. True, the victory had been expensive—he had had to hand out quite a lot of money to the neighbors to induce them to accept the idea of the drinking den, the price of the godfather's intervention—but the result was well worth the sacrifice. Hasan would at last be able to escape the degradation of the pavement and settle with his family in a compound near Son of Miracle's own: a four-star com-
pound where the slum houses were built out of mud and bricks, and topped with proper roofs
. Even better, it had the bonus of an authentic white-skinned holy man and no fewer than five authentic eunuchs as immediate neighbors. The godfather had lost no time in making sure this outstanding event would be celebrated in the proper fashion. The bottles of bangla and todi for his new clandestine drinking den were already awaiting the revelers.
Therewas no doubt in Max Loeb's mind: the incredible vision was an effect of the heat. ''I'm delirious/' he thought to himself. He put down his scalpel and rubbed his eyes but the vision was still there, planted in the murky water in the middle of the alleyway.
"Daddy!" he finally yelled, dashing out of his room.
The tall figure with the russet hair was indeed Arthur Loeb, although with his trousers rolled up to his knees, the surgeon looked more like a fisherman after shrimps. For a moment father and son stood facing each other, unable to utter a word, until finally Arthur held out his arms and Max rushed into them. The sight of the two sahibs embracing each other provoked much hilarity among the crowd that thronged the door of the dispensary room.
"Is that your hospital?" asked Arthur Loeb at last, pointing to the mud-walled room.
Max nodded his head and they laughed together, but Arthur Loeb's features became suddenly set. His gaze had just encountered all the pitted faces, the skeletal babies in their mothers' arms, the protruding chests of tuberculosis
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sufferers coughing and spitting as they waited for their consultation.
"It's a real gathering of the lame, the sick, and the dying here," he stammered, stricken by what he saw.
4 Tm sorry this is all I can offer you by way of a reception committee," apologized Max. "If you'd warned me in advance, you'd have qualified for a band with dancing girls, transvestites, eunuchs, garlands of flowers, welcoming tilak, and all the trimmings! India is a lavish land!"
"Welcoming tilak?"
"That's the red dot they put on your forehead. It's known as the third eye and it enables you to see the truth beyond appearances."
"For the moment what I can see is staggering enough," Arthur admitted. "Surely there must be a place less alarming in this city to celebrate our reunion."
"What would you say to a Punjabi dinner? I think it's the best cuisine in India. And the best restaurant is right in your hotel. I take it you are staying at the Grand Hotel?"
Arthur nodded.
"Eight o'clock at the Tandoori restaurant of the Grand then!"
Max pointed to the line of sick and crippled people who were beginning to grow impatient. "And tomorrow, you can come and give me a hand! Respiratory illnesses are your specialty, aren't they? Well, you are going to have fun!"
As soon as they could afford it, Calcutta residents would avenge themselves from the excesses of the heat with excesses of the inverse kind. To defy the madness of the temperature, one city industrialist had even gone so far as to install an ice-skating rink in his garden. Like all up-to-date places equipped with air-conditioning, the restaurant Max had chosen was like an icebox. Fortunately the beturbaned headwaiter had dug out a magnum of Dom Perignon which quickly warmed the two frozen table companions and whetted their appetites. Max knew all the Punjabi dishes. He had first discovered them in this very place, in the company of Manubai Chatterjee, the beautiful
Indian woman who had supervised his gastronomical initiation.
Arthur raised his glass. "Here's to your speedy return home, Max!"
"First let's drink to your discovery of Calcutta!" suggested Arthur's son, clinking glasses with his father.
They drank several mouthfuls.
"What a shock that was this afternoon, damn it," said Arthur.
"And yet you didn't really see anything tragic."
The surgeon looked incredulous.
"Do you mean to say there's worse?"
"I know it must be hard to imagine when you've come straight from a paradise like Miami," said Max, thinking of his father's luxurious clinic. "In fact, no one can really have any idea of the living conditions of the millions of people here without actually sharing them like the Polish priest I told you about in my letters. And like me, to a lesser extent."
Arthur listened with a mixture of respect and astonishment. Images of his son as a child and as an adolescent flooded into his mind. Nearly all of them related to one salient feature of his character: a morbid fear of dirt. Throughout his life, Max had changed his underwear and clothes several times a day. At high school, among his friends, his mania for washing had earned him the nickname of "Supersuds." Later at medical school, his obsessive fear of insects and all forms of vermin had occasioned some memorable practical jokes, like his finding a colony of cockroaches between his sheets or a whole family of tarantulas in his dissection kit. Arthur Loeb couldn't get over it. The gods of the City of Joy had metamorphosed his son. He wanted to understand.
"Didn't you want to run away when yoir first landed in this cesspool?" he asked.
"Sure I did," replied Max without hesitation. "Especially as Kovalski, sadist that he is, had kept a hellish surprise in store for my arrival: one of his leper friends in labor. You should have seen my face! But that wasn't the worst of it."
Max told his father of the infernal heat, of the hundreds
of living dead who invaded his room in the hope of some impossible miracle, of the cesspool emptiers' strike that had transformed the slum into a sea of excrement, of the tropical storms, the flood, the holdup in the middle of the night, the scorpion sting, and his tumble into the sewer.
"From my very first week onward the City of Joy offered me its complete catalog of charms," he concluded. "So, it was bound to happen. I cracked up. I jumped in a taxi and cleared out. I took refuge here and indulged myself. But after three days I felt a kind of nostalgia and I went back."
The waiters brought several aromatic dishes laden with a mountain of orange-colored pieces of chicken and mutton.
His father grimaced.
"Don't worry. That color is typical of dishes from the Punjab," explained Max, delighted to be able to show off his knowledge. "To begin with, the pieces of meat are macerated in yoghurt steeped in all kinds of spices. Then they're coated with a kind of chili paste. That's what gives them their color. After that they're baked in a tandoor, that's a special clay oven. Have a taste, they're marvelous."
Arthur Loeb took a bite, but almost immediately Max saw his father's cheeks turn crimson red. He heard him stammer a few words. The poor man was asking for some champagne to put out the fire in his mouth. Max quickly filled his glass and ordered some nan, the delicious oven-baked wheaten bread that was ideal for soothing burning palates. Arthur chewed his way through several pieces in silence. Suddenly, after five minutes had passed, he looked up again.
"Supposing I were to buy your City of Joy?"
Max nearly swallowed his chicken bone.
"You mean the slum?"
"Precisely. I could raze it to the ground, rebuild it anew with running water, provide the whole lot with drains, electricity, even television. And give the residents their homes as a present. What do you say to that, my boy?"
Max emptied his glass slowly and thoughtfully.
"Dad, it's a brilliant idea," he said at last. "The only trouble is that we're in Calcutta, not in South Miami or in
the Bronx. I'm afraid a project like that would be difficult to implement over here."
"If you're willing to pay the price, you can implement anything," replied Arthur, slightly irritated.
"I'm sure you're right. It's just that over here, money isn't enough. All kinds of other considerations come into play."
"Such as?"
"First of all no foreigner is allowed to purchase real estate. It's an old Indian law. Even the British at the height of their power had to submit to it."
Arthur swept away the objection with a wave of his hand.
"I'll use Indian front men. They can buy the slum for me and the end result will be the same. After all, it's the end result that matters, isn't it?"
&
nbsp; Either as a consequence of the spicy cooking or of the traumatic memory of his first visit to Anand Nagar, the surgeon was very excited. "An achievement like that would have a more direct impact than all the nebulous programs of aid to underdeveloped countries discussed in the United Nations," he finished up by saying.
"No doubt," acknowledged Max with a smile. He could just imagine the expressions on the faces of the government babus when they learned that an American sahib wanted to buy up one of Calcutta's slums. There remained, however, a more serious objection. Since immersing himself in the poverty of the third world, Max had been induced to revise a fair number of his bright theories on how the problems of the poor should be solved. "When I first arrived in the slum," .he told his father, "one of the first thoughts Kovalski shared with me came from a Brazilian archbishop struggling shoulder to shoulder with the poor out in the country and the favelas. According to him, our help serves only to make people more dependent unless it is supported with actions designed to wipe out the actual roots of poverty '."
"Does that mean that it's no use taking them out of their hovels full of crap and setting them up in new housing?"
Max nodded his head sadly.
"I've even come to learn the validity of a strange reality
here," he said. "In a slum an exploiter is better than a Santa Claus..." Confronted by his father's stupefied expression, he went on to explain, "An exploiter forces you to react, whereas a Santa Claus demobilizes you."
44 It took me several days to understand exactly what Max meant," Arthur Loeb was later to admit. "Every morning I climbed into a taxi and went to join him in his slum. Hundreds of people had been lining up outside the door of his dispensary since dawn or even since the night before. Bandona, the delightful Assamese girl, cleared a corner of the room for me. It was she who sorted out the patients. With an infallible eye she directed the most serious cases to me, generally patients in the terminal stages of tuberculosis. In all my career I had never seen such ruined systems. How those specters ever found the strength to take even the few steps to my small table, I do not know. As far as I was concerned, they were already dead. But I was wrong. Those walking dead were really alive. They jostled each other, argued, and joked. In the City of Joy the life force always seemed to prevail over death."
The City of Joy Page 40