The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (13 page)

“Sonny! Your new good friend! Sonny this and Sonny that! You really think that man can be trusted?”

The bell tinkled. Minoo heaved himself to his feet and left the small, windowless office and his seething wife. Stepping into the lobby was like stepping onto a stage: he shed his private life and became a professional, faced with demands that were unmuddied by guilt and resentment. More and more, as the years passed, he felt this.

Mrs. Evelyn Greenslade stood at the desk. “I’m so sorry to trouble you,” she said. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“Madam, I am at your service.”

Mrs. Greenslade had arrived only two days earlier, but Minoo had already taken to her. A small, fragile woman—the desk reached up to her chest—she had that unmistakable air of refinement he so admired in the British. She was a true lady: fine bone structure, wavy white hair and beautifully dressed, too, in a cream blouse and pearl necklace.

“You are settling in comfortably?” he asked.

“Oh yes, though of course it’s all a little strange. The heat, of course, and all the people—I mean, so many of them everywhere and so poor, so terribly poor, it’s very shocking. I come from Sussex, you see.”

“I’ve heard it’s very pleasant,” said Minoo. “Several of our past guests, they have their homes in Sussex.” He rummaged under the desk for his box. “I have letters of appreciation here, one is from a Colonel and Mrs. Penrose from Pulborough, Sussex, perhaps you are acquainted with them?”

“There’s a legless beggar,” she said. “Have you seen him? Just outside, at the crossroads. Somebody’s made him a little trolley and he sits there all day, begging from the cars when they stop at the junction. Just a young man, and no legs at all.” She gave a little laugh. “It certainly puts my hip into perspective.”

“This is India, madam, you soon grow used to it.” Mrs. Evelyn must have been a dazzler in her youth. In fact she was still pretty, in a faded, self-deprecating way. Minoo, susceptible to beauty, felt himself becoming gallant. “The situation of beggars I am powerless to solve, but if there is any way I can help to make the stay of such a charming lady more enjoyable, please feel free to ask me.”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, there is.”

There was a pause. From the lounge came a murmur of voices. The morning mah-jongg session, organized by Mrs. Rheinhart, was just getting down to business. Were there sufficient cold drinks in the cabinet? These old people certainly knocked it back—Fanta, Thums Up. Until recently, of course, guests came and went. Nowadays, however, they were on the premises all day and he must remember to increase the order. It was usually Razia’s job, to check on the stores, but Razia was sulking. At the moment she was on the phone to her sister. He could hear her aggrieved voice through the wall.

“It’s Norman—you know, Mr. Purse.” Mrs. Greenslade cleared her throat.

“Ah.”

“It’s just—well, you know his room is next to mine?” She fingered the pearls around her neck. “Well, I was wondering—if it’s not too much bother—if you had another room available which I could move into? A little further away?”

“What is the problem, madam?”

“It’s just—you see, I’m a light sleeper and—well, he’s so loud. Banging about, and his wireless and everything …” Her voice died away. “And then, he and I, we have to share a bathroom …”

Her cheeks flushed pink. From outside, on the veranda, came the scrape of the sweeper’s brush.

“We do have one vacant room,” said Minoo. “But it’s a little smaller. Your son, when he telephoned from New York, insisted that you occupy a room with a garden view.”

“I don’t mind about that,” she said.

He fished for the key. “If you would like to inspect the room first—”

“I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”

He straightened up. “Very well, Mrs. Evelyn. I’ll tell the bearer to move your things.”

She thanked him and left, crossing the lobby in her soft beige shoes. She made no sound. Such a self-effacing woman, it was as if she were already a ghost.

A mid-morning torpor had settled on the hotel. Outside, the
mali
hawked and spat. Nirula was an elderly Tamil, naked but for the soiled dhoti tucked around his waist. He had worked at The Marigold since Minoo was a boy and would no doubt work until he dropped. Minoo was fond of him. Who would take care of this old gardener if the hotel was sold?

Beyond him, in the shade of the flame tree, Norman Purse sat with his pen poised over the newspaper. Every day he sat there doing the crossword; it kept him quiet for an hour or so. Sometimes he nodded off, but even then he kept a tight grip on his
Daily Telegraph
in case somebody snatched it away. English newspapers, even last week’s, were precious.

There had been several complaints about Mr. Purse, but Minoo felt a certain male solidarity with the gentleman. Exhausted by his own wife and somewhat stifled by the predominantly female atmosphere, Minoo found Norman-sahib refreshingly male, a cock in the hen coop, with his coarse jokes and stop-me-if-you-dare smoking at meals. Besides, being the father of one of the company directors he was in a somewhat privileged position, which he exploited to the hilt. His daughter had now returned to Britain, but she frequently emailed to hear how he was getting on and would no doubt react badly to news of any problems. As both manager and owner, it was Minoo’s responsibility to keep the place running smoothly, and so far there had been no major disasters.

He put this down to the age and nationality of his new clientele. Minoo had a deep respect for the British—not the young backpackers who used to frequent his hotel but those of a different class and generation, one that was now dying out. He was only a year old when Independence was declared; over half a century had elapsed since the British had ruled his country but, to him, the elderly English would always possess an innate superiority and an elegiac air hung over their imminent extinction. What an honor it was, that they were to spend their last years under his roof, in the country to which their ancestors had given so much—even, sometimes, their lives! You had only to look at the gravestones at St. Patrick’s Church.

What piffle!
Razia’s voice was in his head.
You silly old snob!

Minoo looked up. Mr. and Mrs. Ainslie were striding across the lobby. Mr. Ainslie, dressed in shorts, clutched a water bottle. With his tanned face and thick white hair, he looked in prime condition.

“Just off to Tipu’s Palace!” he called out.

“I shall order you a taxi, sir,” said Minoo.

“No no!” replied Mr. Ainslie. “We’ll take Shank’s pony.”

“Darling,” said his wife. “He hasn’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“We’ll walk!” called out Mr. Ainslie. “Or take a rickshaw. Don’t worry about us, we’ll get to know our way around in no time!”

Hand in hand they strode out of the hotel. Minoo watched them walking down to the front gate. They stopped to greet the
mali
, their heads cocked cordially as he gestured at the flowers. Minoo felt a wave of misery. How contented they looked! The Ainslies were the only married couple among the guests, who were predominantly widows or spinsters; over dinner, Mrs. Ainslie had told him that they had been married for forty-eight years. Their happiness drained those around them of energy. Next to them, the old ladies looked bloodless.

Minoo stood behind his desk, lost in dreams of what-might-have-been. Bapsi’s face appeared before him. She was as he remembered her a quarter of a century earlier: smiling, placid, fixed forever at twenty years old. How different his life would have been had he married her, as his parents had intended—a demure Parsee girl who would have been a comfort and support to him, who might have given him sons. Love would have blossomed between them, he was sure of that now—a love created by mutual respect. Minoo was aware of the irony: that this yearning was not for a lost romance but for an arranged partner, hardly the stuff of passion. But where had passion got him?

It was all the fault of those bloody shoes. Minoo had always been particular about his appearance. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity … If he had not bought those shoes—Bata, beautiful shiny brown leather, antique finish, narrow fitting and just a half-size too small—if he had not bought those shoes he would never have developed corns and gone to the chiropody clinic on Chundrigar Road where a luscious nurse had bewitched him, turned his life upside down and brought humiliation to his own family and that of his blameless bride-to-be.

Through the wall, Razia’s voice rose and fell. Minoo’s stomach churned. She had snapped at the cook that morning; judging by the lack of smells emanating from the kitchen, Fernandez was also sulking. Minoo would have to investigate.

He sighed. How well-behaved the British were, compared to his turbulent wife! A new arrival was expected that evening: a Mrs. Muriel Donnelly from London. She, no doubt, would also possess impeccable manners.
Manners maketh the man
was a proverb he much admired. Look at that Mrs. Greenslade, a vision in beige, so well-mannered she hardly existed anymore.
Don’t mind me
, said the British,
I’m not really here
.

Minoo opened the register and rubbed out Mrs. Evelyn Greenslade’s name. There! Gone, just like that. How fleeting is our stay in the Hotel of Life! (And how his wife would sneer if she heard him say that.)

He penciled in Mrs. Donnelly’s name instead; he would put her in Room 15, next to Mr. Purse.

“
A
ny advice, I’m your man,” said Norman. “Knocked around in the tropics, you see—Africa, Malaysia.”

“It’s bloody hot,” said Muriel. “And the taps don’t work.”

“Water supply’s a bit erratic, but you get used to it. In India you just go with the flow.” He chuckled. “So to speak.”

Muriel Donnelly was unpacking a Coronation mug. She had arrived only that evening and was moving into the next-door room unexpectedly vacated by Evelyn Greenslade. The mugs were wrapped in an old newspaper but it was the
South London Echo
, so even Norman wasn’t interested. She was a stout woman. Legs planted apart, she delved in her suitcase.

“I must say, you’re the last person I expected to see here,” he said.

“Why’s that?” She unwrapped a photograph of a cat and put it on the chest of drawers.

“My son-in-law, he was the doctor.” Norman explained the connection—the hospital, the fuss. Her being on the TV.

Muriel nodded. “It was him who gave me the brochure.”

Norman stared at her. “Why on earth would he do that?”

She turned around. “You believe in fate?”

“These chaps here do. Indians.”

“Something happened, see.” She didn’t explain further.

“Got some whisky in my room,” said Norman. “Fancy a
chota peg?
”

Muriel shook her head. Norman felt rebuffed. Most of the old biddies here were eating out of his hand. Desperate for a man, of course—a healthy, red-blooded male like himself. Not that there was much competition. There were only a couple of other chaps here: Doug Ainslie, hale and hearty enough but out of bounds, being married, and Graham Turner, a decrepit old bachelor who was long past it, even if he had been up for it in the first place. The staff, though male, looked even more ancient than their customers, if that were possible. In general the Indians were a handsome race but somewhat effeminate; you had only to see them in the street, holding hands like nancy boys. No, Norman was having a fine old time, bees around a honeypot.

He wondered how this Muriel woman was going to fit in. How could she afford this place? It was cheap, of course, by comparison with England, but she came from a different class. A bit of a culture shock, in more ways than one.

“They’re a friendly lot here, by and large,” he said. “Nobody completely bonkers. You’ll feel at home in no time. The grub’s good, too. Wait till you try Fernandez’s treacle pud. Just like the old days. And lots going on—cards, quizzes, outings.” He looked at her scalp. The old boiler was thinning on top. “And a hairdresser comes round, charming lass.”

“Always looked after myself,” she said.

“So have we all, my dear. But there comes a point when we have to put ourselves into the hands of strangers, and this place is a sight better than some of the dumps I’ve been in. Stuck in the middle of nowhere looking at a bloody ploughed field. Wait until morning. Street outside absolutely teeming. Never a dull moment.”

It was true, of course. In these poor countries, people lived their lives in full view of everybody else. No privacy at all. Some of them had no homes to go to and slept in the concrete passageways of the office block opposite.

Later, Norman lit a cigarette and strolled down to the gate. It was ten o’clock at night, but the row of stalls beside the crossroads was still busy. Smoke rose from a brazier where a man was roasting nuts. Spirit lamps lit a cigarette stall, a cold-drink stand and a place that sold plastic novelties, the sort of things Norman could never imagine anybody buying. This little bazaar was so familiar to him now that he felt he had been here for years. Behind it stood a crumbling concrete office block, three stories high. It was named, somewhat pompously, Karishma Plaza. At street level was a row of shops the size of cells. Most were still open: Khan’s Video Rental; Gulshan Crafts; a tailor’s shop where an old man sat in the strip light, bent over a sewing machine. He seemed to be there day and night. When cars slowed down at the crossroads, beggars clustered around them, tapping at their windows.

Norman gazed at the scruffy little bazaar. He was used to this from his sojourns in the tropics—the destitute scraping a living amid the traffic, the slums clustered around the five-star hotels. It made a chap pleased for his own good fortune. Besides, being British he was treated with a deference that had long since vanished in his own country. Here, he was still somebody, and that was good for a fellow’s ego. All his most intoxicating experiences had happened abroad, in places that smelled of dung and cheap perfume. It was the smell of adventure.

Norman nodded a cheerful good evening to the
chowkidar
who, perched on his stool, dozed at the gate. A pariah dog stood listlessly, its dugs heavy with milk.
“The women in Bangalore are the most voluptuous in India.”
Not here they weren’t. Where he stood they were either beggars, baby on hip, or else sweepers. Comely enough, of course, but sexual shenanigans were definitely out of the question. Maybe some of the shrouded bodies lying on the pavement were female, but he could hardly prod them awake and ask them in for a tot of Johnnie Walker. They lay there, as still as the dead.