Ellis Peters - George Felse 11 - Death To The Landlords (16 page)

The distant voice, after due thought, said gently and finally: ‘Cape Comorin is the end of the world, where is there to go beyond? In the end one battlefield is as good as another.’

Dominic waited, but there was nothing more. And after a moment he heard the soft click of the distant receiver being replaced in its cradle.

Beyond the garden, all grass and sand, they stepped out on to a metalled road. To the left it wound away along the coast, growing more confident and freer of sand with every yard gained, to the village and the temple; but to the right, to westward, it struggled feebly along for only a few hundred yards, increasingly trammelled with sand, before the dunes swept over it, and rose in undulating waves of yellow and dun and grey to the skyline, unbroken to the very edge of the rocks. In that direction the coastline also rose, jutting in low but jagged cliffs; but in the sector where they stood the road was not very far above the level of beach and sea. They crossed it, and advanced into a zone of broken gunmetal rocks that slashed out into the ocean in oblique strata, knife-edge beyond knife-edge, laced with the froth of surf, and ripping every incoming wave to angry shreds. And behind this boiling filigree of black rocks and reefs and white foam, the Indian Ocean opened, sundrenched and cobalt blue, surging away due south without a break to the Antarctic.

Because of the stormy contention of the rocks against the incoming tide they had the impression that there was a fine gale blowing, but in fact it was no more than a fresh breeze that fluttered their hair, and the air was warm and clear. They scrambled out to the edge of the rocks, and looked down upon a narrow beach of smooth sand, up which the waves hissed and withdrew in steady rhythm; and to their left, perhaps half a mile away beyond an arc of troubled water, they saw the cape itself at last, the final promontory of rocks jutting far into the sea, with tidal foam washing round its feet.

Inland from it the roofs of the village began, and the temple of Kumari, the virgin aspect of Parvati, who gives Cape Comorin its name. And firmly planted on the outermost platform of rock, its
shikhara
tapering into the air to provide the vertical accent this largely horizontal and oblique land-and-seascape needed, stood the modern white memorial built on the spot where Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes rested before they were committed to the Indian Ocean. All smooth white, touched with blue, rooted solidly into the dark rocks, with the cobalt sea beyond, and a scud of white cloud overhead.

‘It’s odd,’ said Priya, ‘but seen from here it fits in so well. And when you see it close to it’s rather dreadful, like blue and white plastic’

They turned westwards, following the road until it succumbed to the encroachments of the sand, and then began to climb up into the dunes. And presently there were small naked feet pattering alongside, and two little boys who had appeared out of nowhere were uttering soft blandishments in Malayalam and English, and holding out for their inspection long strings of pierced shells, some inch-long and oval-smooth in matt brown and white, some smaller and slimmer, textured liked fine hoar-frost in several shades from white to fawn. The Swami had known this coast. Probably these bead-sellers were never far from the hotel, waiting for a well-disposed tourist to emerge on the evening pilgrimage. A young woman, wearing a faded red sari without a blouse, added herself to the group, proffering her own merchandise. The woman spoke a few words of English, one of the boys rather more, and Purushottam, at his most serene and sociable, spoke Malayalam with the other one. At the cost of a few
naye paise
they acquired three satisfied business contacts, who accompanied them cheerfully as they walked on up the heaving slope of the dunes. Soon other visitors would be making their way up here to watch the sun go down, and this was as good a spot for sales as any.

They reached the crest, and emerged upon an undulating plateau of fine sand, dappled only, here and there, by low clumps of tamarisks and wisps of dry grass in the slightly sheltered places, and little stars of sea plants. Here the coast rose in a jagged series of low cliffs embracing, with long, steely arms and granite talons, deeply indented coves into which the waves came seething at high speed, over sands fantastically coloured in shades of dark blackberry reds, and angry purples, and rusty black. These shades seemed to be laid down by the tides in a series of overlapping scallops, and in places the dark, sultry colours were varied by planes of yellow and grey-green. The necklace boys, amused by Larry’s surprise and interest, shrugged their shoulders over this phenomenon; everyone knew that the sands at the Cape, and further up this western coast in Kerala, too, were coloured like this.

‘It’s ilmenite and monazite mostly,’ said Purushottam. ‘Quite valuable deposits. They get most of the world’s thorium supply out of monazite sand. It occurs in this same form in other places, too.’

They slithered down a narrow, rocky path, and picked up handfuls of the copper-beech-red and crow-black sand, clean and fine and glittering, cool in the palm of the hand. For a while they walked along the beach, but the coastline was too deeply indented, and rocks and tide drove them up to the dunes again. Fold upon fold of sand, rolling in smooth curves from the broken coast more than a mile inland, to where the distant and scattered crests of trees showed like stains of green moss. The Swami had known what he was talking about. No one in his senses would dare to attempt to get within striking distance of a prospective victim here at this hour, where there was no cover at all, and no hope of withdrawal unseen.

There was only one thing to break the monotony, a squat little hut of timber and matting and thatch, perched on the neck of a long, narrow peninsula of rocks, tilted in knife-edged, striated layers. There was a small cove beneath it, the alluvial sand patterning it in dull green and sultry crimson. They crossed the neck of the peninsula behind the hut – it was only a few yards – and looked down into another bay, somewhat larger than the first and much more sheltered by the enfolding arm of rock; and here there were two fishing boats beached above the tide, and covered over with little gabled roofs of coconut fibre matting, and a net lay draped to dry in long serpentines across the sand, which here was clear and golden. The hut was evidently for the storage of nets and ropes and tackle, and had access by steep and difficult rock tracks to both little bays. It turned its back upon the weather and the sea, crouched into the last sheltering rise to the cliff-edge, and opened its narrow doorway and mat-screened window towards the land, scanning the miles of dunes with one blank dark eye beneath a coconut fibre eyebrow.

They sat down in the sand, in the lee of the hut on its blind side, facing westwards over the beach and the cobalt sea. Over the yellow of the sand the deep blue was transmuted into emerald green. The deserted boat below had a high prow like a gondola, and the net was a muted sand-brown, faint as a mist against the gold.

They saw when they looked back over the dunes that the solitude was beginning to be peopled. Several family parties of Indian pilgrims and tourists had streamed out from the village, and were making their way at leisure towards the sinking sun. And there among them came the Bessancourts, Madame thrusting indomitably through the sand in her sensible sandals and her black
shalwar
and
kameez
, her husband plodding tirelessly beside her with his box camera. And the Manis, immaculate and determined as ever, with Sushil Dastur labouring behind, this time with two small folding chairs in addition to Sudha’s beach-bag. The sun was going to have a very respectable audience, in spite of the fact that it was already half-obscured by towering clouds, and more were driving up to join the accumulation.

‘As a matter of fact,’ Priya said almost apologetically, ‘it almost always is cloudy. In the morning, too. Even if the day is very fine.’

The spectacle, nevertheless, was sufficiently arresting The clouds changed and dissolved in a multiplicity of colours and shapes, and at the fieriest moment of the sunset, over that dazzling, dark sea, they ripped themselves away on either side, and let the crimson eye burn through and set fire to the miles of shadowy sand and the upturned, devout faces. For a few moments the dunes were molten. Then the great eye closed again, and the clouds banked low, touching the sea; and quite suddenly it was more than halfway to being night.

The bead-sellers had left them by then to go and tout for a few more sales among the pilgrims; but when they turned back towards the hotel and the village, one of the boys came trotting back and re-attached himself, making gay conversation with Purushottam all the way back to where the dunes dived headlong to the submerged road. Then he suddenly salaamed, and made off at a brisk trot towards the village, taking it for granted that his friends would turn aside into the hotel garden.

‘Let’s go on to the temple and the memorial,’ Dominic suggested. ‘There’s plenty of time, no need to go in yet.’

It was very easy. They were ready to fall in with any plan that kept them outdoors in this mild, pleasant evening, and a part of this curious holiday scene. No one needed any persuading even when he proposed that they should forego dinner at the hotel, and eat like the pilgrims who thronged the forecourts of Kumari’s temple. There were stalls selling every conceivable kind of spice, hot food, soft drinks, fruit, rice, various breads and in particular the highly-coloured and highly-sugared sweets that proliferate everywhere in India. After the dunes, the village was a revelation, crowded, busy, noisy and gay, a twilit fairground soon sparkling with little lanterns. Both village and temple stood on the levelled strata of the rocks, as near kin to ocean as to land. The sound of surf was a continuo to the sound of so many voices.

Afterwards they went, among many others, to the highly-polished blue-and-white plastic memorial, and climbed to the base of its white, lotus-bud-shaped tower to look out over the sea. A few child beggars came pestering, the first they had seen here; naturally they made their base where the foreign tourists were most likely to be found in profitable numbers. Purushottam bore with them for a while, and then gave them some small coins and ordered them crisply away, and they removed themselves without resentment, grinning.

‘They do quite well here,’ said Priya practically. ‘Where there are pilgrims there must be some tender consciences, and the easiest way to peace of mind is to give. It is a fairly cheap way to acquire merit.’

The fairground showed no signs of closing down with nightfall. When they had walked themselves into a pleasant weariness, the village was as gay as ever; and when at last they turned back towards the hotel, the lighted stalls were still twinkling behind them like terrestrial stars.

Madame Bessancourt was installed in the foyer with her knitting, now a formidable roll of blue moss-stitch. She saw them come in from the night, and made them her invariable brisk bow over the flashing needles. Her smile was immemorial France, friendly but self-contained. The three who knew her halted to exchange the customary courtesies; Purushottam, after a quick glance, went on to the desk like a conscientious guide, and collected the keys.

‘I saw in the newspapers,’ she said, putting down her needles momentarily into her lap, ‘about the death of your friend. I am very sorry. When Romesh told me you were here, I hoped to see you again, and at least express my sympathy. I know well there is no more one can do. The death of the young cannot be made good by anything the old may do or say. I have experienced it. But for my husband and myself, I offer you our sincere sorrow.’

There were no evasions about Madame Bessancourt. She looked them in the eyes, one by one, and her own eyes were as steady and dark as the rocks under Cape Comorin.

They told her she was very kind, and could find almost nothing else to say. To comment on the beauties of the Cape and the coast, after that direct assault, seemed meaningless. But she was not curious about their presence here, or about the new member they had acquired in place of Lakshman, or about any item of what was essentially their business. She had said her say and done her duty. After a few civil exchanges they said good night, and moved on to join Purushottam, who was waiting with the keys.

On impulse, Dominic turned back. There was never any harm in checking credentials.

‘Madame – Romesh tells me you’ve taken him on to travel with you as far as Dindigul.’

‘Yes,’ she said, her needles clicking again. ‘He asked us. And it is a very little thing to do for him. I only hope there will really be a job for him there, since we are not in a position to provide one. He seems a good boy.’

That was all he had had to ask, but for some reason he still lingered. ‘You’re going on to Pondicherry?’

‘Yes. It is not so far now, we don’t really need a third driver, but it satisfies him that he’s doing something for his keep. Two days’ drive, would you say?’

‘Or three, as you feel inclined. I suppose it must be about three hundred and forty miles or so. Will you be making an early start tomorrow?’

‘No, we want to have a look at the village and the temple in the morning. We have plenty of time.’

‘And after Pondicherry?’

‘Our tour ends with Pondicherry,’ she said. Her fingers, broad and strong and brown, halted on the needles. She looked up at him with a shrewd smile. ‘I think you must find it a little strange that two elderly people like my husband and myself should suddenly leave our provincial town and come here to India like this. No, no, please don’t apologise, it is very natural. Sometimes I find it a little strange myself. Monsieur Bessancourt and I had a son, you see – our only child, and born rather late in our lives. He was a student of architecture. Three years ago he came out here to join the international team which is working on the first stages of Auroville. You have heard of Auroville?’

‘Yes,’ said Dominic. ‘It’s the ideal city of the future that they’re hoping to build near Pondicherry. The people at the Sri Aurobindo ashram there started the idea, and I know a lot of the drive and talent is coming from France.’

‘Raoul was an idealist. He believed in the future, and he wanted to have a hand in building it.’ She folded her needles Together with perfect composure, and began to roll the blue knitting round them. Her husband had just appeared in the doorway, returning from a last stroll before bed. ‘Two days after he landed in Bombay,’ said Madame, ‘he was killed in a street accident.’