The Tax Inspector Read Free Page B

name, they were not being poetic.
    ‘Did you hear me?’ she said.
    ‘Yes.’
    There was a long silence on the phone while Vishnabarnu felt the cool dry wall against his cheek.
    ‘I’m not talking to my father, if that’s what you want.’
    ‘You don’t have to talk to your father.’
    Vish shut his eyes and sighed. ‘I’ll try for the 9.35,’ he said at last. ‘I’m going to have to borrow some money.’
    He turned to see that Govinda-dasa was holding out ten dollars between thumb and double-jointed finger.
    ‘Table 7 is in a hurry,’ Vish said.
    ‘Is this how you serve Krishna?’ Govida-dasa asked, pushing the money at Vishnabarnu like it was a lump of carrion.
    One sharp tooth rested on his lower lip and he looked straight into Vish’s eyes until Vish had to look down.
    ‘You have no reason to feel superior to Janardan,’ Govinda-dasa said.
    Vishnabarnu respected Govinda-dasa more than anyone else except his guru, but now he felt impatient and disrespectful. He was shocked to recognize his feelings.
    ‘If Janardan puts on a wig and smokes grass and talks about sex-pleasure, he’s no more wedded to Maya than you are.’
    ‘I know, Govinda-dasa.’
    ‘But you don’t know, or you wouldn’t act like this. What is the greatest fear of any intelligent human being?’
    Vishnabarnu closed his eyes. ‘To spend their life as a lower animal.’ He had fifteen minutes to make the train. ‘Govinda-dasa, I have to go.’
    ‘Will your attachment to your family bring you closer to God?’
    This meant that you did not move closer to God by associating with Bad Karma. You associated with God by abandoning attachments, by chanting his name, by eating prasadum . Through good association you became a better person and took on His qualities of Compassion, Cleanliness, Austerity and Truthfulness.
    Vish removed the damp note from between Govinda-dasa’s fingers.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He looked briefly into Govinda-dasa’s blazing eyes and then walked out on to the landing and down the stairs towards the street.
    In the dark shelter of the doorway he paused. He looked out through the rain at the traffic and the hooker in the red bunny suit standing in the white light of the BMW showroom across the street. He looked back up the white-walled stairway towards the restaurant. He looked out into the dark-bright street. He did not want to go to Catchprice Motors. He did not want to go through this silent anger with his father or walk back into that spongy mess of bad things that was his childhood.
    He took the four steps down on to the street and chanted God’s name once each step. And then he ran. He pounded through the rain-puddled streets – Darlinghurst Road, Oxford Street, Taylor Square – splashing his robes. He ran strongly, but without grace. His shaven head rolled from side to side and he bunched his forearms up near his broad chest like parcels he didn’t want to get wet. He came down the dark part of the hill at Campbell Street and emerged on to the bright stage of Elizabeth Street like a bundle of rags and legs. His braided pigtail of remaining hair, his Sikha, glistened with drops of rain like sequins.
    He ran against the Don’t Walk sign: a mess of yellow illuminated by three sets of headlights. At the ticket counter he slipped and fell. He grazed his knees.
    He burst into the carriage on the 9.35. His heart was banging in his ears. His breath worked his throat like a rat-tail file.
    He collapsed in his seat opposite a man in shorts and a woman in a tight red dress. They did not see him. The man’s hairy leg was between the woman’s resisting knees and he was kissing her while he massaged her big backside.
    Vish was coming home.

3
    Granny Catchprice had her tastes formed up on the Dorrigo Plateau of Central New South Wales – she liked plenty of fat on her lamb chops and she liked them cut thick, two inches was not too much for her. She liked them cooked black on the outside and pink inside and