35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

‘IT IS NOT MY FIRE THAT BURN YOU HERE’
people promise but never send. You will never send. So give for
poor peoples, yes? This is better.’
‘Be honest, Amar.’
‘Of course – I am always honest.’
‘How much opium do you use in an average day?’
He staggered with staged shock, affecting the drunkard’s
exaggerated simulation of sobriety, careful to steady himself against
a wall this time. ‘Only the bhang,’ he replied defensively, sweat
seeping from his brow. ‘That is all . . . all. I promise you, my good
friend.’
‘Fuck you, Amar.’ I wanted to say this more than I had any reason
to say it.
‘You are not understanding our custom. All the time for being
guide I have give for you. I have many good America friend.
Many . . .’
‘Then you should understand that it is our custom to tell a cheap
little zonked-out con artist like you to shove it where the sun don’t
shine.’
‘My friend,’ he pleaded. ‘I never take the ofium . . .’
I hailed a rickshaw. Amar tried to clamber in beside me, anguish
pickling his face. I pushed him back into the dust and debris of the
main street.
‘Someone should put you in a book, Amar,’ I said, looking down
at a face quilted in its futile attempt to produce a better line in con.
‘Or maybe, in the airport, on a huge cautionary poster.’
He brightened at this suggestion.
‘I am good guide for America people, yes?’
‘No, Amar. You’re everything that people hate about this country
rolled up into one miserable sack of doped meat. You must cost the
tourist business millions. Jesus! If I’d met you twenty years ago, I’d
have crossed the whole fucking country off my itinerary. And you
don’t even need the money. You’re going to inherit the family
sinecure! One day they’ll be your fires! Isn’t that a big enough con?’
‘You are wrong,’ he wailed. ‘I inherit nothing, my friend. We are
poor people, and you come to spit on us.’ He looked all but speechless
with hurt.
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