'Jack Nelson.' The American proffered his right hand.
Kusum could not bring himself to grasp it, yet he did not want to insult this man. He needed him.
'Mr. Nelson—'
'Jack, please.'
'Very well...Jack.' He was uncomfortable with such informality upon meeting. 'Your pardon. I dislike to be touched. An Eastern prejudice.'
Jack glanced at his hand, as if inspecting it for dirt.
'I do not wish to offend—'
'Forget it. Who gave you my number?'
'Time is short...Jack' —it took conscious effort to use that first name—'and I must insist—'
'
'Very well: Mr. Burkes at the UK Mission to the United Nations.'
Burkes had answered Kusum's frantic call this morning and had told him how well this Jack fellow had handled a delicate problem for the UK Mission a few years ago. .
Jack nodded. 'I know Burkes. You with the UN?'
Kusum knotted his fist and managed to tolerate the interrogation.
'Yes.'
'I suppose you Pakistani delegates are pretty tight with the British.'
Kusum felt as if he’d been slapped in the face. He half started from his seat.
'Do you insult me? I am not one of those Moslem—!' He caught himself. Probably an innocent error. Americans were ignorant of the most basic information. 'I am from Bengal, a member of the Indian Delegation. I am a Hindu. Pakistan, which used to be the Punjab region of India, is a Moslem country.'
The distinction appeared to be completely lost on Jack.
'Whatever. Most of what I know about India I learned from watching
Kusum was momentarily baffled. Wasn't 'Gunga Din' a poem? How did one watch a poem? He set his confusion aside.
'Understand,' he said, absently brushing at a fly that had taken a liking to his face, 'that if this were my own country I would resolve the matter in my own fashion.'
'So you told me on the phone. Where is she now?'
'In St. Clare's hospital on West Fif—'
'I know where it is. What happened to her?'
'Her car broke down in the early hours of this morning. While her driver went to find a taxicab for her, she foolishly got out of the car. She was assaulted and beaten. If a police car hadn't come by, she would have been killed.'
'Happens all the time, I'm afraid.'
A callous remark, ostensibly that of a city-dweller saving his pity for personal friends who became victims. But in the eyes Kusum detected a flash of emotion that told him perhaps this man could be reached.
'Yes, much to the shame of your city.'
'No one ever gets mugged on the streets of Bombay or Calcutta?'
Kusum shrugged and brushed again at the fly. 'What takes place between members of the lower castes is of no importance. In my homeland even the most desperate street hoodlum would think many times before daring to lay a finger upon one of my grandmother's caste.'
Something in this remark seemed to annoy Jack.
'Ain't democracy wonderful,' the American said with a sour expression.
Kusum frowned, concealing his desperation. This was not going to work. He felt an instinctive antagonism between him and this Repairman Jack.
'I believe I have made a mistake. Mr. Burkes recommended you very highly, but I do not think you are capable of handling this particular task. Your attitude is most disrespectful—”
'What can you expect from a guy who grew up watching Bugs Bunny cartoons?'
'—and you do not appear to have the physical resources to accomplish what I have in mind.'
Jack smiled, as if used to this reaction. His elbows were on the table, his hands folded in front of him. Without the slightest hint of warning, his right hand blurred across the table towards Kusum's face. Kusum steeled himself for the blow and prepared to lash out with his feet.
The blow never landed. Jack's hand passed within a millimeter of Kusum's face and snatched the fly out of the air in front of his nose. Jack went to a nearby door and released the insect into the fetid air of a back alley.
Fast, Kusum thought. Extremely fast. And what was even more important: He didn't kill the fly.
Perhaps this was the man after all.
3
