Securing the Supply

Following the alley, carefully skirting the black puddles and stepping over a lump of unidentified filth, the three of them reached the market outside.

It was bustling, with crowds milling about and all kinds of vendors lining a dirt road that stretched far into the distance.

The stallholders wore brown or white robes. Some customers had their heads wrapped in turbans, while others wore white caps. The only vivid colors came from the women's saris.

People in Mumbai liked carrying things on their heads.

Aditya's attention was first drawn to the densely packed stalls on either side of the market, which were the source of practically every kind of noise.

A coconut seller was hacking at shells with a large, rusty machete, chop, chop. At the sugarcane stall, a hand-cranked juicer rattled and clanked as it was turned.

A dark-skinned man carrying yogurt on a shoulder pole called out as he walked. Black smoke from the milk tea stall's stove spread along the entire street.

Arguments, the notes of a snake charmer's flute, mischievous children playing, shopkeepers shouting as they chased and swatted at monkeys, old cattle slowly mooing.

Too loud! Too noisy!

But Aditya found it all Ganges-reasonable. This was India, after all.

Ignoring the jumble of calls around them, Aditya and the other two headed straight for the main road.

Raju stood behind them, unable to say a word. Never in his life had he seen so many tall buildings, so many cars, so many people.

Aditya pulled the business card Solomon had given him out of his pocket and glanced at the address:

"Cumballa Street. How long would it take to walk there?"

Madan shook his head. "I don't know."

Aditya stopped a passerby to ask for directions. The man wanted one rupee. Only after Aditya gave him half that amount did he point out the way.

The three of them first walked for over ten minutes, then took a taxi to somewhere near their destination.

The street was too narrow, and the driver refused to go down it. With no other choice, the three of them started walking again.

Only when Aditya and the other two were utterly exhausted did they finally find Cumballa Street. It was a narrow old street lined with aging three- and four-story buildings, their ground floors all occupied by shops.

Spice shops, hardware stores, sari shops, electrical shops, one after another, their signs crowded tightly together.

Following the street numbers, they found Nayak's company. A sheet-metal sign hung by the entrance, printed with the words "Nayak Forwarding & Shipping," with a line of Marathi underneath.

The premises were small, with a single sheet-metal door. Its paint had faded, exposing the black metal beneath.

Aditya pushed the door open and went inside. It was a small office furnished with a desk and a chair, with several calendars and an old map of the Port of Mumbai hanging on the wall.

A man in his forties sat behind the desk. He had dark skin and wore a short-sleeved shirt, its collar open to reveal a small golden deity pendant hanging around his neck.

He seemed to be reading a shipping manifest, a ballpoint pen in his hand. Looking up to see three strangers enter, he let his gaze linger briefly on Aditya's face.

"Who are you looking for?"

"Nayak."

"That's me."

Aditya walked over, placed Solomon's business card on the desk, and pushed it toward him:

"Solomon Cohen recommended you to me."

At that, Nayak visibly grew more serious. He straightened in his seat, picked up the card for a look, then set it down again.

His gaze shifted from Aditya's face to Madan's, then to Raju's, before returning to Aditya.

"Master Cohen? He's not dead yet?"

"He's alive and well. We played chess not long ago."

Nayak smiled, tossed his ballpoint pen onto the desk, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and looked Aditya up and down.

"What brings you here?"

"I'm buying stock. Three hundred tons of phosphate fertilizer, Jordanian goods. I need receiving, storage, and sales. Can you handle that?"

Nayak did not answer immediately. He reached into a drawer for a pack of cigarettes, drew one out and put it between his lips, then fished out a lighter and lit it. Every movement was leisurely, as though he were deliberately leaving Aditya hanging.

After finishing the cigarette, Nayak said in a low voice:

"I do have a shipment here. It's been sitting for a long time, and the storage fees keep piling up every day. The owner's been rather strapped for cash lately, so he's eager to sell. If you can strike a deal, I expect you'll be happy with the price."

"Who owns it?"

"You know my rules, I take it?" Nayak rubbed his fingers together in a meaningful gesture.

Aditya placed the rupees he had prepared in advance, wrapped in newspaper, on the desk.

Watching Aditya, Nayak slipped the paper bundle into his drawer with practiced ease without opening it, then continued:

"A Parsi named Fromm. He's in imports and exports. His company is on New Queen's Road."

"You know him?"

"We go way back." Nayak put another cigarette between his lips without lighting it and continued, "He's sitting on eight hundred tons of phosphate fertilizer imported from Jordan. His cost was over five thousand a ton. But the policy still hasn't come out, and every day the goods sit here, he loses more money on storage. He's desperate now."

Aditya stood up and brushed the powder off his hands. "Take me to see him."

Nayak glanced at him. "You've got some nerve. He doesn't see just anyone."

"Tell him I want to buy three hundred tons. Cash."

Nayak's eyebrows rose. He watched Aditya for a few seconds, then smiled and tucked the unlit cigarette behind his ear.

"All right, I'll take you to see him. You'll negotiate with him yourself. Whether the deal goes through is your business."

Aditya told Madan and Raju to go to the hotel first.

Aditya followed Nayak through several more streets before they finally stopped in front of a four-story building.

The facade was painted pale yellow. Beneath the portico hung a brass plaque engraved with "F.E. Froom & Sons-Import & Export since 1947."

The brass plaque had been polished to a reflective shine. Compared with the other premises along the street, this place looked much more imposing.

Nayak pushed the door open, and the two went inside. The ground floor was a spacious office with light-colored floor tiles.

An oil painting of the Port of Mumbai and several rows of shipping manifests hung on the walls. A young man seated behind the reception desk nodded when he saw Nayak.

"Is Mr. Fromm upstairs?"

"Yes, he's on the phone with a client. Please wait a moment, sir."

After a few minutes, the sound of the phone conversation upstairs stopped.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and an elderly man in a white shirt and dark gray trousers came down. He was around seventy and balding, with gold-chain glasses perched on his nose and little expression on his face.

He saw Nayak, then let his gaze fall on Aditya, where it lingered briefly.

"Nayak, what's this?"

"This gentleman was referred by Mr. Cohen. His name is Aditya Mishra, from Uttar Pradesh."

At the name "Cohen," Fromm's expression did not change, but he gave Aditya another look.

"Solomon referred you?"

"Yes."

Aditya stepped forward and said directly:

"I want to buy three hundred tons of phosphate fertilizer. Your Jordanian stock. I can sign the contract today and pay in cash."