MONEY TREE Page 12

  Her mother-in-law made no allowances. They were living in her spare room in a village where Anila was a stranger. The household chores led straight onto work in the small field they rented. Anila was more servant than daughter-in-law. Especially when the dowry money stopped flowing after her father’s death. Dilip took to beating Anila. Sometimes she was so sore that she could not go to work in the field. Then Dilip’s mother beat her again and called her lazy.

  Anila endured the beatings as her daughter grew from baby to schoolgirl. What choice did she have? Until one day a year ago. . .

  At first light Anila stole out of the hut to fetch the water and prepare the fire to make the morning bread - everything with the gentlest touch to avoid making a noise. Dilip had not come home till late and she knew he liked a long sleep to recover. Especially if he’d lost more money at the dice game; the pattern these days. She knew that her mother-in-law would also expect to catch up on sleep. She’d waited up for her son, soothing him and tucking him in.

  Anila carried her sleeping daughter outside and tenderly washed her face and hands as the child blinked awake in the warming sun. She left Aastha outside to study her school book and scrawl her letters in the dirt for practice.

  But coming in from the bright light into the darkened room Anila didn’t see Dilip’s discarded sandal. She stumbled and fell all her length into the rickety cooking range; a small fire with a frame holding a pot of steaming rice. She managed to stifle her own cries of pain and shock as her hands scrabbled among the hot coals, but the clatter of the pots and pans, and the hissing of steam and the singed smell of burning rice filled the hut.

  A mound of bedding flew up and an angry bellow reverberated round the single room. The curtain was torn back, and Dilip’s mother shrieked and flung the first stone at Anila from the ever handy pile by her mattress. Anila scrambled to her feet.

  ‘So sorry, so sorry! I will fix everything!’

  But apologies were never going to be enough. Her husband and her mother-in-law would want retribution. Wanted scolded ears, thrashed flesh and piteous appeals for mercy from this ungrateful, useless, penniless creature that they’d given house to. All their generosity at taking such a troublesome wastrel into their bosom had been flung back in their faces. Why, she wasn’t even of their caste! The dowry hardly made up for the shame of diluting the family bloodline. Anyway, the money was all spent.

  Anila’s husband was the first to find his whippy bamboo stick. Anila backed into the corner and crouched there, arms covering her head, presenting a smaller target for them to get a good swing. Suddenly a small figure burst into the hut and hurled herself on top of her mother to shield her.

  ‘Don’t hit her! Don’t hit!’

  Anila smothered her daughter in her arms and turned her into the corner so that her own back would take the flailing canes. In that moment, Anila made a silent vow. She could take the beatings – it was only pain - but she would never allow Aastha to grow into a cowering, damaged young woman. Broken before she’d ever known life or love.

  Dilip and his mother paused for a moment, astonished at the child’s intrusion. The girl was just as bad as her useless mother. See how she shamed her father and her grandmother. Such ingratitude would not go unpunished.

  One night shortly after, when the snores of her husband and her mother-in-law chorused in their sleep, Anila gathered up her daughter and slipped out the hut, taking only the clothes they stood up in, and some dried bread and vegetables secreted from their meagre rations. They simply walked away. Over three days they trudged home to Chandapur and Anila’s mother. In the weeks to come, Dilip came and raged at her door. His mother joined him, shrieking like a harridan, demanding Anila’s return or payment of more money to let her go. There was still an outstanding amount on the dowry and they wanted every paisa of it.

  But eventually son and mother grew bored. There was nothing left to milk from Anila and her mother, except fear and despair. Even that lost its edge and became tedious. Dilip announced he was divorcing her and left her to the life of a permanent social outcast. At least they hadn’t marked her; one woman in her village had had her face burned off in a kitchen ‘accident’. Another had been blinded by acid so she would never set eye on another man.

  Now, a year on, Anila was taking another gamble with her life. This time there was no fall-back position. This time she could not walk away. She lay on her back clutching her small purse to her chest, and tried not to let the silent tears that were running down her cheeks and past her ears erupt into a flood. Today was no time to be weak. Today she would need all her dead father’s strength and her mother’s wits if they were to avoid destitution. She rolled over and touched her sleeping daughter – lightly, so as not to wake her – and drew strength and purpose from the contact. Then she rose and began to prepare herself.

  But before Anila could go down to the village centre and begin her wait for the wood gatherer she heard her name being called. It was Leena and Divya. They were squatting on the ground in front of her hut. Leena’s bright smile was hidden. She was looking down and frowning, and drawing circles in the dirt with her finger. Divya’s thin arms were gripping her knees tight as though she was afraid they’d start knocking if she let go.

  Anila squatted in front of them and faced them. ‘I know why you have come. It is about the money, isn’t it?’

  The two women looked at each other, then Leena, who was always the first to let go, burst out with, ‘Please say you have not given all our money away Anila! Please tell us it is not true!’

  Divya chimed in, ‘After all our troubles and adventures and going all the way to Delhi, how could you betray us?’ She said it quietly and it hurt more.

  ‘I have not given your money away. See, here it is!’ Anila tugged at her neck purse and pulled out the fat wad. ‘See it is all there.’

  Relief spread across both her friends’ faces. ‘Then we are sorry, Anila. The other women have been telling terrible stories of you and how you had used up our 3000 Rupees. And we knew that you did not have 3000 Rupees. Only 1000 is yours. So we are very relieved that our money is still safe. We gave it to you on the journey because you were the biggest and strongest. We let you keep it here as we did not want our useless husbands getting their hands on it too soon.’ Divya smiled at Leena.

  ‘But now we would like to take care of our own money, if you please Anila,’ said Leena feeling brave and anxious all at once. The money sat where Anila had put it, in her lap. All Anila had to do was count out two piles of 1000 Rupees and hand them over. But that would kill everything.

  ‘Listen to me, Divya and Leena. Do you trust me? Have we not been successful so far? Was it not my idea to go to the bank? And was it not me who arranged everything and got us the money and brought it all back safe and sound?’

  ‘Yes it was you. All those things. But what are you getting at Anila?’ There was a strain in little Leena’s face and voice again.

  ‘Let me tell you what happened yesterday.’ She explained about the money lender and how he was trying to stop her buying the wood. She told them of the deal which she’d struck to buy all the wood today and how she had organised a cooperative of 12 women who would pay her back once they sold their work to the agent. How it was the only way of making the great plan work. And most of all, how she needed to be able to pay for the next four days of wood.

  ‘But why did you not tell us of all this yesterday? And why did you not ask us about using our money in this way?’ Divya was rightly cross with her, Anila could see.

  ‘Things happened too fast. I did not know what to do. But it seemed to me that if I had not acted then, all my plans would have been thrown away, and my mother and my daughter would lose everything.’ The tears were running freely down her broad face, making her tired eyes seem sadder than a widow’s. Soft Leena was crying now too.

  ‘But we are your friends,’ Leena wailed. ‘Why could you not trust us?’

  ‘I do trust you, and now I am asking for your h
elp. I may not need any of your money but if the other women don’t pay me fast enough, I need to be able to pay Mr Roy every day so that he trusts me as a business woman. I must pay him 600 Rupees today which would leave me only 400 for tomorrow, if I only used my money. So I need your money too to tide me over. All I need is 2400 Rupees. So it is not all of our money.’

  ‘Almost all. It might as well be all,’ said Leena accusingly.

  ‘But I am sure I will get the money from the other women in four days time when the agent comes.’

  ‘But what if you don’t?’ Leena was sniffing now. ‘What if they can’t pay you back or their husbands won’t let them. Or the money lender gets up to his tricks again, you know what he’s like.’

  ‘That is why I need your money. Just for a few days. Look, I will even pay you interest if you like.’

  Divya shook her head. ‘No. We don’t want to make money from you Anila. All we want is our money back within the four days. Is that not right Leena?’ Leena nodded dumbly. ‘But if you lose all the money then it must be your responsibility. You will have to pay it all back. Is that fair?’

  ‘That is very fair. I will take the risk.’ Anila had reached the point where she would have agreed to anything. She would have walked through hot coals if that had been required of her. She was beyond concern now. The thought of prison for herself, and the streets for her mother and daughter no longer seemed to matter. In ten years she would be dead. And maybe next time she would come back to a better life. ‘Most beautiful Saraswati, goddess of purification,’ she prayed silently, ‘into your hands I place my life this day.’

  To show their trust and to give their friend support, the two smaller women took up their now familiar stations either side of Anila and walked with her towards the sound of the straining truck engine.

  TWENTY THREE

  After three taxi detours and the purchase of a headscarf and dark glasses on her way home from Oscar’s, Erin Wishart snuck into her apartment building like someone who hadn’t paid her rent. She instructed the concierge to tell anyone who called that she’d gone away. Then she fled up the stairs avoiding the possibility of being trapped in the lift.

  She shoved open her door, hit all the lights and shouted ‘Come on in, darling. Let me show you around’ for the benefit of the hidden assassins. The silence echoed back at her. She dimmed the lights, packed a case and took one last look out at the park. She slipped down the stairs and back out the building and let four yellow cabs go by before hailing the fifth from the kerb. She made two more changes before a final trip out to Newark.

  She checked into the Marriott and sat for a long while in her darkened room staring at the glittering lights from the freeway. Is this real? I could get killed. But I’ve done nothing. Not yet. Apart from the Lone Ranger bug, of course. Have they found it? Did Kutzov’s snooping software betray me? Surely Warwick still has some feelings for me? But why hope for rational behaviour from a bloody coke-head?

  Later, she lay back on her bed and gazed at the ceiling wondering how this craziness had started and how fast it had spiralled out of control. As her imagination drew lurid scenarios, she found herself shaking and panting. She took two of her 2 mg Melatonin pills and curled up under the duvet until warmth and fatigue enveloped her.

  Next morning she showered away the grogginess under a torrent of hot water. She packed and then sat on the bed. She checked her watch. I’ve got loads of time. I could head into the office as though nothing was wrong and stick my head round his door. But that would mean taking the long march down the blue carpet. Duschene was always there, desk square-on to visitors, jacket buttoned right up, guarding Warwick’s office. All he lacked were sandbags and a machine-gun. I can see his dirty wee eyes weighing me up, assessing my current position in Warwick’s hierarchy of favourites. Maybe Duschene sees me as competition?

  She hefted her cell phone, then put it down and picked up the room phone. Do I even need to call? Why not just get on the plane? Because they’d know I knew something. . .

  She hit the pad and put on her smile. Smile and dial, the first rule of trading on the Fixed Interest desk. Grudgingly Pat put her through. She forced lightness into her voice.

  ‘Just wanted to say I’m off, Warwick. . . time to get back before they forget me. I’ll catch you at the next quarterly. Unless you’re doing one of your globals? Passing through Hong Kong?’

  ‘I’m tied up here for a few weeks. Preparing for our monthly call with the press analysts. Needing Charlie to be inventive, given our figures. Then I need to get down to Rio to meet José’s wife and chose his successor. For the job not the husband,’ he laughed.

  She swallowed, thinking of the unctuous insincerity that he’d ooze over poor José’s wife.

  ‘Look, Warwick, about José, it’s still hard to take in. I’m due some downtime. I’m going to set my out-of-office for a week. Book into the Peninsula Spa in HK. My number two can handle things, but my PA will haul me out of the steam room if you need me. OK?’

  ‘Sure. Recharge. You sound tired. We all need to shake this stuff out of our heads. You fly safe and keep those reds out of your bed.’

  She wished he’d stop using that stupid quip, and hung up before she screamed at him.

  Warwick too, cut off the speaker connection and pulled over the photo. Kutzov had left it on his desk and had marked the time, date and place. It was taken inside the café of the local bookshop. It showed José Cadenza and Erin Wishart in earnest conversation. Warwick’s face flooded with blood, his jaw muscles contorted and he felt the room closing in on him. Slowly, he ripped the photo into tiny pieces before heading for his washroom.

  A day later in travel time and two days by calendar, Erin Wishart was wheeling her trolley towards the exit signs in Kolkata airport. It was nearly midnight local time. No matter how many miles she clocked up, it didn’t get easier. In her weariness she wondered again why she’d been so impulsive, other than being annoyed at Ted Saddler’s attempts to thwart her. There were a thousand better boltholes than this. Like the Peninsula Spa in Hong Kong. And the thought of having to whip some life into a reluctant reporter with a pickled liver held little attraction. But as usual, if she wanted anything done well, she had to take charge.

  Her trolley had a faulty wheel and she had to wrestle it round the cluttered arrival hall. It wasn’t like the last time she’d come to India – barely a year ago – when she’d descended from on high as GA’s top executive in the region, outranking the area manager. Back then, before landing, she’d changed into the power suit in the toilet and donned the boss make-up and heels. The metaphorical red carpet and the very real limo were waiting, along with a small group of flunkies to cosset her and make her feel important. She’d swept in, cell phone ringing and urgent messages piling up, to lord it over her fiefdom.

  This time, her phone was silent. In the private lounge for Concierge Key holders at Newark she’d called her regional assistant to tell her she was taking time out for a week and didn’t need collecting at Hong Kong. Then she’d personally fixed the second leg of her journey to Kolkata. At Hong Kong she’d showered in the VIP lounge and had a manicurist remove her nail varnish, knowing it would chip to pieces within a day.

  This time, coming into land at Kolkata airport she put a brush through her hair and pulled it back in a single ponytail. Her eyes were gritty from the recycled cabin air so she kept on her specs. Trainers dropped her height. The low key grooming left her feeling inconspicuous, as planned, but also curiously naked. The pampering rituals of New York had seemed outrageous vanity on first arrival but it hadn’t taken long to get used to the weekly blow dries and manicures.

  Now, instead of a bunch of nervous little men waiting for her, dressed to the nines in suit, collar and tie, there was one shambling big guy. She saw Ted and realised he didn’t recognise her. He looked anxious. She hoped he hadn’t been drinking. She steered towards him and slapped on a smile.

  Ted was calling himself stupid, crazy. She was bossy an
d full of Scottish rectitude, and in any other circumstances, wouldn’t have wasted a glance on him, maybe not even in his heyday, whenever that was. She was only coming to make his life more difficult. He kept finding his finger nails in his mouth and pulling them back in annoyance.

  For the first time in – well, who knows how long? – he had the glimmer of a sense of purpose, as though something had been switched on inside of him. It left him schizophrenic; half irritated and half expectant. Half ready to bolt, half up for it, whatever ‘it’ was. He analysed the expectant emotion: he was waiting for a girl at an airport, and no matter how he weighed up the case against Theodore Saddler ever getting past first base with this girl, it still felt good. As the notion crystallised, he chided himself. She was just the source and symbol of meaningful activity. That was the sensation he’d not felt in a while.

  Her flight was late and he wandered over to the newspaper shop and bought a New York Tribune, printed in New Delhi and circulated across India. He flicked through to the business section and scanned the headlines till he found his piece. The copy he’d filed was more even-handed than Stan had wanted; than Ted had expected. Guilt was a powerful driver. Glancing through the article, his own phrases jumped out at him:

  …hard to visualise this decrepit office block as a breeding ground for corruption. Flies maybe…

  …micro-finance if applied right, can work…it’s how Bank of America started a century ago in Manhattan’s Lower East Side among Italian immigrants.

  This story might indeed be about corruption. The question is whose and where? Mr Banerjee talks … about underhand tactics by a major competitor. A Western competitor. . .