Currency exchange

It was barely light when the train pulled into Mumbai Victoria Terminus.

Aditya had barely slept all night. He held his leather bag, his head resting against the carriage wall, and woke several times at intervals. Whenever someone passed through the corridor, his eyes opened a slit.

He had fifty thousand US dollars in his arms. This was India, not China; he certainly did not dare sleep like the dead under the Indian bros' noses.

After the train stopped, Aditya did not rush to get off. He waited for the thickest crowd in the aisle to surge past before picking up his suitcase, clamping the leather bag under his arm, and following the stream of people out.

This was Aditya's third visit to Victoria Terminus.

The station's stone pillars were blackened with soot, and the floor was wet in some places and dry in others. Someone slept in a corner wrapped in a gray blanket, with a small puddle of urine right beside them.

Aditya took just one glance, then held his breath and kept walking.

Outside the station, heat rushed over him. The air smelled of sea breeze, kerosene, fish, and rotten vegetable leaves all mixed together.

Rickshaws and taxis were a boiling mess in the station square. Some people called out offers of lodging, some hauled goods, and some stretched their hands toward him for money.

Aditya shifted his suitcase to the side nearest the wall and walked briskly across the square.

A driver in a black-and-yellow rickshaw slid up in front of him, his face piled with smiles. "Where to, sir? I know all of Mumbai."

"Akbar Road, Ballard District," Aditya said.

"That's behind the port. Twenty rupees," the driver said.

"Twelve."

"Sir, it's a long way. Fifteen rupees, not a rupee less."

"All right," Aditya agreed, climbing into the back seat.

The driver pushed down on the pedals, the bell jingled, and the rickshaw burrowed into Mumbai's morning rush.

Vehicles crowded against vehicles, people against people. Old black taxis honked as though competing to see whose horn was loudest.

Plastic shelters stood beneath the tall buildings along the road. A barber shaved someone's head in a corner by a wall, while a man splashed water onto the road from a bucket.

Advertising posters plastered the old walls, washed pale by the rain. The sea breeze blew in from the port, its saltiness mixed with the sour smell of the sewers.

Aditya had no mind to look. He watched the road ahead, his fingers gripping the suitcase, his leather bag held against his chest.

Ballard District. Find Rafiq.

Solomon had said this man could help him get around the foreign exchange controls. But he had no idea what the man looked like. All he had was an address and an old business card.

The driver turned into a narrow alley lined with old warehouses.

The ground was dark and grimy, with pools of water here and there. A heap of battered cardboard boxes soaked in the water. A yellow dog lay beside them, so thin its ribs showed.

The driver pointed to an old gray-white building ahead. "There. Number Three, Akbar Road."

Aditya got out and paid him fifteen rupees.

The driver took the money, grinning to reveal a mouthful of yellow teeth. "Sir, this place isn't exactly lively. You're not here to buy anything, are you?"

"I'm looking for someone," Aditya said.

The driver asked no more questions and pedaled away.

Aditya stood in front of the building. It was not tall, only four stories, with pieces of sheet metal nailed to the outer walls. Some windows were open; others were sealed shut.

A small shop occupied the ground floor, with old tires and several bundles of hemp rope piled beside its door. Next to it was a narrow staircase, its wooden door ajar. A white sign hung on the wall, its lettering somewhat blurred.

"Rafiq Trading Company."

Aditya hefted his suitcase and stepped onto the stairs.

On the second floor, he approached a wooden plank door.

He knocked.

The door opened a crack, and a dark-faced man with curly hair and thick eyebrows showed half his face from behind it.

His eyes first looked at Aditya, then swept over the stairs behind him.

"Who are you looking for?" he asked in English with a heavy curry-flavored accent.

"Mr. Rafiq," Aditya said.

"Who are you?"

"Aditya Mishra. Solomon Cohen sent me."

The man stared at him for several seconds, then opened the door.

"Come in," the man said.

Aditya entered. The curtains were half drawn, leaving the room dim, and the air was thick with smoke.

The man perched against the edge of the desk, lit a cigarette, took a drag, and asked, "Is Solomon still alive?"

"He's very ill," Aditya said.

"He sent you to Mumbai to find me?"

"Yes." Aditya held the leather bag in front of him, in no hurry to take anything out.

The man exhaled smoke, his gaze lingering on Aditya. "I'm Rafiq. There's been no word from Solomon for a long time. What did he send you here for?"

"He gave me your business card and told me to come ask for your help," Aditya said.

Rafiq paused, then laughed. "He still calculates everything so carefully. Never willing to take the slightest loss."

Rafiq took a drag and stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the sheet-metal desk. Lowering his head, he said:

"What do you need me to help you do?"

Aditya looked at Rafiq. "I'm going to Israel. I need you to sort out a visa, flights, and currency exchange."

Rafiq stood, walked over to a metal cabinet, and took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

"That's not an easy place to get to." He poured two glasses and pushed one toward Aditya. "Money alone won't make it happen."

Aditya clinked glasses with him. "That's why Solomon sent me to you."

Holding his glass, Rafiq asked:

"How much are you planning to exchange?"

"Fifty thousand US dollars," Aditya said.

Rafiq tipped his head back and downed half a glass, then wiped his mouth. "That's quite a sum."

"Give me two days. Find somewhere to stay for now." Rafiq changed his tone, speaking slowly.

"All right." Aditya left the dollars and his documents and walked out.

Aditya found a small inn deep in an alley. The paint on the walls had yellowed, and the fan rattled like a tractor.

Two days later, Aditya went to see Rafiq again.

Rafiq took several things from the metal cabinet and laid them on the desk.

"I've put in a word about your passport. They'll expedite it, and the visa can be ready tomorrow too. Come back tomorrow," Rafiq said. "I've already called about flights. There's one from Mumbai to Dubai the morning after tomorrow, and you can transfer to Israel Airlines for Tel Aviv. You only have one night. We need to settle the money arrangements today."

"How do I take it with me?" Aditya asked.

"You can't take cash out of the country," Rafiq said, lighting a cigarette. "With fifty thousand US dollars on you, you won't get on the plane. I'll split it into three parts. One part in traveler's checks, one through an account, and one I'll have someone hand over to you in Dubai. Once you reach Tel Aviv, someone there will meet you."

Aditya listened carefully until Rafiq finished, then asked:

"How much will you charge?"

Rafiq smiled. "Solomon sent you. I won't fleece you. Eight thousand rupees will do."

Aditya nodded. "All right. I'll come pick up the visa tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow." Rafiq waved him out.

The next day, Aditya went to Rafiq's again and collected a document envelope. Inside were his passport, visa, plane tickets, several stacks of traveler's checks, and a small roll of US dollar bills.

Aditya returned to the inn with the envelope. He still needed to spend one more night in Mumbai. Tomorrow he could board a plane to Dubai for a transfer, then finally fly to Israel.

Aditya sat on the edge of the bed, opened the envelope, and flipped open his passport first. His photograph was inside, stamped with the blue seal of the India Immigration Bureau. On the visa page were several lines of Hebrew.

Before going to sleep, Aditya checked his luggage once more. Only after confirming that everything was ready did he fall peacefully asleep.