Indian Nocturne (2 page)

‘How come he ended up in this place?’ I asked. ‘What was he doing here? Where is he now?’

She began to sob softly and I realised I’d asked too many questions.

‘Take it easy,’ I said.

‘When he found out I’d written to you he was very angry,’ she said.

‘And why did you write to me?’

‘Because I found your address in Xavier’s diary,’ she said. ‘I knew you were good friends, once.’

‘Why was he angry?’

She put a hand to her mouth as if to stop herself crying. ‘He’d got to be very hard on me those last months,’ she said. ‘He was ill.’

‘But what was he doing?’

‘He was doing business,’ she said. ‘I don’t know, he didn’t tell me anything, he’d stopped being nice to me.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘I don’t know,’ she repeated, ‘he didn’t tell me anything. Sometimes he wouldn’t say anything for days and days, then all of a sudden he’d get restless
and flare up in a furious rage.’

‘When did he arrive here?’

‘Last year,’ she said. ‘He came from Goa. He was doing business with them, then he fell ill.’

‘Them who?’

‘The people in Goa,’ she said, ‘in Goa, I don’t know.’ She sat on the armchair near the bed; she wasn’t crying now, she seemed calmer. ‘Get something to
drink,’ she said. ‘There are drinks in the cabinet. A bottle costs fifty rupees.’

I went to the cabinet and took a small bottle full of an orange liquid, a tangerine liqueur. ‘But who were the people in Goa?’ I insisted. ‘Don’t you remember the name,
anything?’

She shook her head and began to cry again. ‘The people in Goa,’ she said, ‘in Goa, I don’t know. He was ill,’ she repeated.

She paused and let out a long sigh. ‘Sometimes it seemed he didn’t care about anything,’ she said, ‘not even me. The only thing that interested him at all were the
letters from Madras, but then the next day he would be the same as before.’

‘What letters?’

‘The letters from Madras,’ she said ingenuously, as if this were information enough.

‘But who from?’ I pressed her. ‘Who wrote to him?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘a society, I don’t remember, he never let me read them.’

‘And he answered?’

Vimala sat there thinking. ‘Yes, he used to answer, I think he did, he spent hours and hours writing.’

‘Please,’ I said, ‘try to make an effort. What was this society?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘it was a scholarly society I think, I don’t know, sir.’ She paused again and then said: ‘He was a good man, he meant well. It
was his nature. He had a sad destiny.’

Her hands were clasped together, her fingers long and beautiful. Then she looked at me with an expression of relief, as if something had come back to her. ‘The Theosophical Society,’
she said. And for the first time she smiled.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘tell me everything, take your time, everything you remember, everything you can tell me.’

I poured her another glass of the liqueur. She drank and began to tell. It was a long, rambling story, full of details. She talked about their affair, about the streets of Bombay, the holiday
trips to Bassein and Elephanta. And then about afternoons at the Victoria Gardens, stretched out on the grass, about swimming at Chowpatty Beach under the first rains of the monsoon. I heard how
Xavier had learnt to laugh and what he laughed about; and how much he liked the sunsets over the Arabian Sea when they walked along the seafront at dusk. It was a story she had carefully purged of
any ugliness or misery. It was a love story.

‘Xavier had written a great deal,’ she said, ‘then one day he burnt everything. Here in this hotel, he got a copper basin and burnt everything.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘He was ill,’ she said. ‘It was his nature. He had a sad destiny.’

By the time Vimala left the night must have been over. I didn’t look at my watch. I drew the curtains across the window and lay on the bed. Before falling asleep I heard a distant cry.
Perhaps it was a prayer, or an invocation to the new day that was dawning.

‘What was his name?’

‘His name was Xavier,’ I answered.

‘Like the missionary?’ he asked. And then he said: ‘It’s not an English name, that’s for sure, is it?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s Portuguese. But he didn’t come as a missionary; he’s a Portuguese who lost his way in India.’

The doctor nodded his head in agreement. He had a gleaming hairpiece that shifted like a rubber skullcap every time he moved his head. ‘A lot of people lose their way in India,’ he
said, ‘it’s a country specially made for that.’

I said: ‘Right.’ And then I looked at him and he looked at me without a trace of concern on his face, as if he were there by chance and everything else were where it was by chance,
because that was how it had to be.

‘Do you know his surname as well?’ he asked. ‘It can be helpful sometimes.’

‘Janata Pinto,’ I said. ‘He had some distant connections with India, I think one of his ancestors was from Goa, or at least so he said.’

The doctor made a gesture as if to say, that’s enough, but that wasn’t what he meant of course.

‘There must be some records,’ I said, ‘or I hope there are.’

He smiled with an unhappy, guilty look. He had very white teeth with a gap in the upper set. ‘Records . . .’ he muttered. Suddenly his expression became hard and tense. He looked at
me severely, almost contemptuously. ‘This hospital is in Bombay,’ he said abruptly, ‘you can forget your European notions, they are an arrogant luxury.’

I said nothing and he too sat there silent. From his shirt pocket he pulled out a straw cigarette case and took a cigarette. Behind his table, on the wall, was a big clock. It said seven
o’clock, it had stopped. I looked at it and he understood what I was thinking. ‘It stopped a long time ago,’ he said, ‘anyhow, it’s midnight.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you since eight, the day-doctor told me you were the only one who might be able to help me, he says you have a good
memory.’

He smiled again, his sad, guilty smile, and I realised that once again I’d slipped up, that it was not a gift to have a good memory in a place like this.

‘He was a friend of yours?’

‘In a way,’ I said, ‘once.’

‘When was he admitted?’

‘Almost a year ago, I think, at the end of the monsoon.’

‘A year is a long time,’ he said. And then went on: ‘The monsoon is the worst season, so many people come in.’

‘I can imagine,’ I answered.

He put his head in his hands, as if he were thinking, or as if he were very tired. ‘You can’t imagine,’ he said. ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’

It was a simple, practical question, but I hesitated over the answer, for I too felt the weight of memory, and at the same time I sensed its inadequacy. What does one remember of a face in the
end? No, I didn’t have a photograph, I only had my memory: and my memory was mine alone, it wasn’t describable, it was the look I remembered on Xavier’s face. I made an effort and
said: ‘He’s the same height as I am, thin, with straight hair; he’s about my age; sometimes he has an expression like yours, Doctor, because if he smiles he looks sad.’

‘It’s not a very exact description,’ he said, ‘still, it makes no difference, I don’t remember any Janata Pinto, at least not for the moment.’

We were in a very grey, bare room. On the far wall was a large concrete sink, like the kind used for washing clothes. It was full of sheets of paper. Next to the sink was a long rough table and
that too was laden with paper. The doctor got up and went to the far end of the room. He seemed to have a limp. He began to rummage through the papers on the table. From where I was I had the
impression that they were pages from exercise books and pieces of brown wrapping paper.

‘My records,’ he said, ‘each one is a name.’

I stayed where I was in my seat facing his small work table, looking at the few objects he’d put there. There was a small glass ball with a model of Tower Bridge and a framed photograph
showing a house that looked like a Swiss chalet. It struck me as absurd. At a window of the chalet you could see a female face, but the photograph was faded and blurred.

‘He isn’t an addict, is he?’ he asked me from the other end of the room. ‘We don’t admit addicts.’

I didn’t say anything and shook my head. ‘Not that I know of,’ I said then. ‘I don’t think so, I’m not sure.’

‘But how do you know he came to the hospital, are you sure?’

‘A prostitute at the Khajuraho hotel told me. That was where he was staying, last year.’

‘And you,’ he asked, ‘are you staying there too?’

‘I slept there last night, but I’ll leave tomorrow. I try not to stay more than a night in the same hotel, whenever possible.’

‘Why?’ he asked, suspicious. He held an armful of papers and looked at me over his glasses.

‘Just because,’ I said. ‘I like to change every night, I’ve only got this one small suitcase.’

‘And have you already decided for tomorrow?’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I think I’d like a very comfortable hotel, maybe a luxury one.’

‘You could go to the Taj Mahal,’ he said, ‘it’s the most sumptuous hotel in the whole of Asia.’

‘Perhaps that’s not a bad idea,’ I answered.

He plunged his arms into the sink amongst the pieces of paper. ‘So many people,’ he said. He had sat down on the rim of the basin and was cleaning his glasses. He rubbed his eyes
with a handkerchief as if they were tired or irritated. ‘Dust,’ he said.

‘The paper?’ I said.

He lowered his eyes and turned away from me. ‘The paper,’ he said, ‘the people.’

From the distance came a dark boom of iron, as though a bin were rolling down the stairs.

‘Anyway, he’s not there,’ he said, letting all the papers drop. ‘I don’t think it’s worth looking for him amongst these names.’

Instinctively I got up. The moment had come for me to leave, I thought, that was what he was saying, that I should go. But he didn’t seem to notice and went to a metal cabinet that once
upon a time must have been painted white. He rummaged inside and took out some drugs which he hastily slipped into the pockets of his gown. I had the impression he was picking them up at random
almost, without choosing them. ‘If he’s still here, the only way to find him is to go and look for him,’ he said. ‘I have to do my round, if you want you can come
along.’ He headed for the door and opened it. ‘I’ll be doing a longer round than usual tonight, but perhaps you won’t find it convenient to come with me.’

I got up and followed him. ‘It’s convenient,’ I said. ‘Can I bring my case with me?’

The door opened onto a hallway, a hexagonal space with a corridor leading off on every side. It was cluttered with cloths, bags and grey sheets. Some had purple or brown stains. We turned into
the first corridor on our right; above the entrance was a plaque written in Hindu; some of the letters had fallen off leaving lighter outlines between the red letters.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ he said, ‘and don’t go near the patients. You Europeans are very delicate.’

The corridor was very long and was painted a melancholy light blue. The floor was black with cockroaches which burst under our shoes, though we were doing our best not to tread on them.
‘We kill them off,’ said the doctor, ‘but after a month they’re back. The walls are impregnated with larvae, you’d have to knock down the hospital.’

The corridor ended in another hallway identical to the first, but narrow and light-less, closed off with a curtain.

‘What did Mr Janata Pinto do?’ he asked, pushing aside the curtain.

I thought of saying: ‘Simultaneous interpreter,’ which was what I should have said perhaps. Instead I said: ‘He wrote stories.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Be careful, there’s a step here. What were they about?’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t know how to explain really. I suppose you could say they were about things that didn’t work out, about mistakes; for example, one was
about a man who spends his life dreaming about making a trip, and when one day he’s finally able to make it, that very day he realises that he doesn’t want to go any more.’

‘But he did set out on his trip,’ said the doctor.

‘So it seems,’ I said. ‘Yes, he did.’

The doctor let the curtains fall behind us. ‘There are about a hundred people in here,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid you won’t find it a pleasant sight, they are the ones
who have been here for some time. Your friend could be among them, although I think it’s unlikely.’

I followed him and we went into the largest room I have ever seen. It was as big as a hangar, almost, and along the walls and down three central rows were the beds, or rather mattresses. A few
dim lamps hung from the ceiling, and I stopped a moment, because the smell was very strong. Crouching near the door were two men dressed in the barest rags who moved off as we came in.

‘They are untouchables,’ said the doctor. ‘They look after the patients’ bodily needs, no one else will do the job. India’s like that.’

In the first bed was an old man. He was completely naked and very thin. He looked dead, but kept his eyes wide open and looked at us without any trace of expression. He had an enormous penis
curled up on his abdomen. The doctor went to him and touched his forehead. I thought he slipped a pill into his mouth, but I couldn’t be sure because I was standing at the foot of the
mattress. ‘He’s a
s
ā
dhu
,’ said the doctor. ‘His genital organs are consecrated to God; once he was worshipped by infertile women, but he has
never procreated in his life.’

Then he moved on and I followed him. He stopped at every bed, while I hung back a short distance away looking at the patient’s face. With some patients he stayed a while longer, murmuring
a few words, distributing drugs. With others he stopped only a moment to touch their foreheads. The walls were stained red from the spittings of chewed betel and the heat was suffocating. Or
perhaps it was the overpoweringly strong smell that gave this sensation of suffocation. In any case, the fans on the ceiling weren’t working. Then the doctor turned back and I followed him in
silence.