A glaring acetylene lamp hurt Pascal’s eyes and projected shadows of flying insects like angry, dancing ghosts. The suffocating, humid heat was soaking his garments.
His shirtsleeve, neatly cut by the razor’s blade, was soaked with blood. Fortunately, the executioner’s blade struck too late and had been diverted by Pascal’s quick attack. He would have been beheaded if he hadn’t acted so fast; that gangster had the experience and intuitive reflexes of a professional who shoots first and thinks later.
There was no fresh air in the dimly lit space inside the decrepit shack. Insects felt at home; cockroaches ran up his legs like friendly pets, not to mention the rats nagging along the drain outside. The stench was unbearable.
The shack was built from corrugated iron and wooden planks; a rectangular hole was used as a window.
Mohit’s assistant had already brought medicine to fix his superficial wounds and worn Indian clothes to make him look more local.
Two men in rags sat staring and smiling at Pascal through large grins that showed missing teeth.
This was their home.
Their dark, blotchy skin and rotten rags were signs of extreme poverty and poor hygiene. They nevertheless seemed happy about the events and were, most of the time, shaking Pascal’s hand with long bows of gratitude. They had warmly proposed their room for him to stay and share their dinner.
They scraped up vegetables damped in oil and curry paste with their hands; it was better not to know where the vegetables came from.
Outside the cabin dozens of people—men and children mostly—were waiting and whispering. Shiny dark faces with protruding eyes appeared and disappeared at intervals through the hole in the window.
Pascal was a star.
The news had traveled fast; the foreigner was a ‘Braveheart’, for he dared stand up against their fearful oppressors and he had won the battle!
After they finished their food, swallowed with happy grunts and wide smiles, the two Untouchables wiped their plastic plates with a dirty cloth and stood up, bowing again. They belonged to the caste in charge of the slum’s pests and it was the time for them to hunt rats as big as cats, (do they eat the rats or do they get money for killing the pests?)which provided their food and subsistence. Tonight they had to catch, kill, and sell a minimum of 200 pests to survive the next day.
Pascal had to quickly prepare a plan.
Mohit had probably retrieved most of the evidence of Arocha’s criminal activity on his computer by now. It would show the full extent of his secret activity and conspiracy. Many of the files retrieved from his system were not yet decrypted. Of course, local authorities were corrupt and played into his hands. Embassies were closed and wouldn’t interfere anyway if they heard this was a conflict with Arun Kumar’s executives.
The poor people around them could help momentarily, but they knew the hard rules: riots never paid. And they belonged to another world with its own rules and traditions that were dictated by their karma. At the lowest end of the scale they weren’t even Vaishyas, the farmers and the merchants. They were mostly descendants from the Shudras, whose ancestors were the serfs obeying the Laws of Manu: groups from higher castes would not let them pollute and challenge their superior positions.
Pascal had to find a way to talk to Arun Kumar alone and convince him of Arocha’s criminal dealings, as it was the only tactic to get Mayumi back. But how?
The only option was to approach Sheela again. He had had a good connection with her and even though her father had rejected him, it was still possible to get close to him.
Pascal phoned her. She seemed outraged and deeply moved by his story and was ready to try to arrange a new meeting with her father, but would he listen this time and believe them?
She told Pascal that Arocha had been admitted to the hospital. It gave them some breathing room; some time, but not much, as Arocha was an invincible character.
SEASON 2: THE TYCOON
“I know nothing about sex,
because I was always married.”
Zsa Zsa Gabor