Читаем Shantaram полностью

I might’ve beaten him to death with the blunt instrument of my head, but the overseers dragged me off him and back to the gate. The chains clamped around my wrists again, but they changed their tactics, and chained me to the gate face down on the stone floor. Rough hands tore my thin shirt from my back. The bamboo sticks rose and fell with new fury. The overseers had arranged for the man to attack me-it was a setup, and they admitted it during one of the breaks while they rested their arms. They’d wanted the man to beat me senseless, maybe even kill me. He had the perfect motive, after all. They’d allowed him into the room, and they’d sanctioned his revenge attack. But it didn’t work. I beat their man. And they were outraged that their plans had gone awry. So the beatings went on for hours, with breaks for cigarettes and chai and snacks, and private showings of my bloodied body for selected guests from other parts of the prison.

At the end of it, they released me from the gate. I listened, my ears filled with blood, as they argued about what to do with me. The beating that had followed the fight, the beating they’d just inflicted on me, was so savage and bloody that the overseers were worried. They’d gone too far, and they knew it. They couldn’t report any part of it to the prison officials. They decided to keep the matter quiet, and they ordered one of their flunkies to wash my flayed and razored body with soap. Understandably, the man complained about the odious task. A flurry of blows encouraged him, and he applied himself to the job with some thoroughness. I owe my life to him and, in a strange way, to the man who’d tried to kill me. Without the attack, and their furious torture after it, the overseers wouldn’t have allowed a soap and warm-water wash-it was the first and last I ever knew in the prison. And the soapy wash saved my life, I’m sure, because the many wounds and lesions on my body had become so badly infected that my temperature was constantly fevered, and the poison was killing me. I was too weak to move. The man who washed me-I never even knew his name-gave my cuts and wounds and abscessed sores such soothing solace, with the soapy water and soft wash cloth, that tears of relief streamed down my cheeks, mixing with my blood on the stone floor.

The fever fell to a simmering shiver, but I still starved, and I got thinner every day. And every day, at their end of the room, the overseers feasted themselves on three good meals. A dozen men worked as their flunkies. They washed clothes and blankets, scrubbed the floors, prepared the dining area, cleaned the mess after each meal and, whenever the whim possessed one of the overseers, gave foot, back, or neck massages. They were rewarded with fewer beatings than the rest of us, a few beedie cigarettes, and scraps of food from every meal. Sitting around a clean sheet on the stone floor, the overseers dipped into the many dishes that went into their meals: rice, dhals, chutneys, fresh roti, fish, meat stews, chicken, and sweet desserts. As they ate noisily, they threw scraps of chicken, bread, or fruit outwards to the surrounding flunkies sitting on their haunches in simian obsequiousness, and waiting with bulging eyes and salivating mouths.

The smell of that food was a monstrous torment. No food ever smelled so good to me, and as I slowly starved, the smell of their food came to represent the whole of the world I’d lost. Big Rahul took relentless delight in offering me food at every meal. He would hold out a drumstick of chicken, waving it in the air and feigning a dummy throw, enticing me with his eyes and raised eyebrows, and inviting me to become one of his dogs. Occasionally, he threw a drumstick or a sweet cake toward me, and warned the waiting flunkies to leave it for me, for the gora, urging me to crawl for it. When I didn’t react, and wouldn’t react, he gave the signal for the flunkies, and then laughed that weak, vicious laugh as the men scrambled and fought for it.