The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2 page)

“He uses my computer.”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Pauline.

The place stank of Norman’s cigarettes. When they banished him outside, the patio became littered with butts like the Outpatients doorway at St. Jude’s.

“He downloads pornographic sites.” When Ravi entered his study the chair was skewed from the desk; the room felt violated. Fag-ends lay drowned in the saucer underneath his maidenhair fern.

Pauline slit open a packet of beans. They both knew what they were talking about.

“I’m sorry.” Ravi stroked her hair. “I want to, really. It’s just, the walls are so thin.”

It was true. At night, when they lay in bed, Ravi could almost feel her father a few inches away, lying in the pigsty that had once been the spare bedroom.

“But he’s asleep,” said Pauline.

“Yes, I can hear that, all too distinctly.”

“He is amazing,” she replied. “I’ve never known anybody who can snore and fart at the same time.”

Ravi laughed. Suddenly they were conspirators. Pauline put the beans on the counter and turned to her husband. Ravi put his arms around her and kissed her—truly kissed her, the first time in weeks. Her mouth opened against his; her tongue, pressing against his own, gave him an electric jolt.

He pushed his wife against the kitchen unit. She was hot from cooking. He thrust his hand down her slippery cleavage, down beneath her blouse and her stiff butcher’s apron. He felt her nipple; her legs buckled.

“Sweetheart,” he said. She moved her body against his. He slid his hand into the small of her back to cushion her from the cupboard knobs.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered.

There was a sound. They swung round. Norman came in, zipping up his trousers.

“Just had the most monumental dump. Must be those chickpeas last night.” Norman rubbed his hands. “Something smells good.”

N
orman Purse was a vigorous man. Never any problem in that department. His work, building bridges, had taken him all over—Malaysia, Nigeria. He had sampled the fleshpots of Bangkok and Ibadan and was proud of his linguistic fluency; in six African languages he could say “Show me your pussy.” Oh yes, he had plenty of lead in his pencil.

His wife, Rosemary, hadn’t put up a fuss. She had been a pretty girl once, nicely turned ankles, a bloom to her. That was the trouble: she was too bloody nice. There were certain things a chap couldn’t do with a well-bred English rose. Besides, she was his wife. After a few years, like all roses, she was past her best. She had grown into a mousy, middle-aged person who cooked his meals and scuttled around doing whatever women did, hardly a peep from her. To be perfectly honest, the woman wasn’t a barrel of laughs. The only time he heard her giggle was behind closed doors with their daughter Pauline. “What’s so funny?” he would ask, opening the door. They would jump like rabbits. Then, when he went away, they would start all over again. Women were strange creatures.

And now Rosemary was long since dead and his own daughter had become a middle-aged matron herself. Pushing fifty, if he remembered it right. One of these career girls, travel agent, never seen her way to give him a grandchild. But a damn good cook, like her mother, better than that slop at The Beeches. Ravi could rustle up some decent grub too; he said it helped him relax. Norman liked teasing his son-in-law. “Fancy a takeaway?” he would ask, wandering into the kitchen and rubbing his stomach. “I could murder an Indian.”

Norman had been living with them for a month now and very comfortable it was, too. He couldn’t go back to the bungalow, of course, because it had burned down. All the fault of that damned electrician, what a cowboy. They blamed Norman, said he must have nodded off with a fag in his hand, but that was a lie and a slander. What were they suggesting, that he was losing his marbles? He might have a dicky heart and an occasional problem with the waterworks, but at least he had kept his wits unlike some people in the various penal institutions, aka homes, in which he had been incarcerated. Stark raving bonkers, most of them, wandering around in their nighties muttering to themselves. His daughter had a heart of stone, sending him there. The Dettol-smelling corridors, the tap-tapping of Zimmer walkers, the rows of chairs facing the rain-lashed sea, those ghastly prison wardens who couldn’t handle a red-blooded male, the miserable old hags. Lesbians, the lot of them.

And they called these places
homes
. Somebody had a sense of humor. Home was with his daughter in Plender Street. It was her duty to look after her old dad. And it wasn’t as if it were a one-way thing. He made himself useful looking after the place when they were at work. Plenty of burglars around, even in Dulwich.

It was a gloriously sunny morning in May. Norman filled the saucepan, squirted in some Fairy Liquid and put his hankies on to boil. He was in a good mood. He’d had his morning wank, he had emptied his bowels and had thoroughly cleared his nasal passages. What with one thing and another, he got through a lot of handkerchiefs. He had eaten a hearty breakfast—Bran Fiber and three slices of toast with Cooper’s Old English and that blithering low-cholesterol spread Pauline bought for him. The transistor around his neck—he hung it there to keep his hands free—burbled the morning news.
“The pensions time bomb,”
it said,
“is a disaster waiting to happen.”
The water came to the boil; gray scum rose to the surface.
“Over the next thirty years the elderly population will grow by two-thirds.”
Norman turned down the gas and let himself out of the house.

Plender Street was a pleasant street of Victorian villas—quiet; leafy; Neighborhood Watch stickers in the windows. Ravi had done well for himself and Pauline must bring in a few shekels too.
TWINKIES
, they called them: Two Incomes and Something or Other.

A comely housewife pushed a buggy along the pavement; Norman doffed his hat to her as he walked past. She looked startled; good manners were a rarity nowadays, of course. He gazed after her as she quickened her pace; nice arse. Probably wasn’t getting much rumpy-pumpy, not with a little kid around. He whistled cheerfully; another thing you didn’t hear nowadays, whistling. This place suited him; it was his home, for God’s sake. Nice room, meals on tap. No, they weren’t going to get rid of him this time. He knew Pauline was searching for another penitentiary, she was doing it on the internet, but no luck so far.

Norman was having too much fun. Ravi was such a fusspot; he had grown worse with the passing years. Everything had to be just so. Norman knew just how to tease him—flicking his fag-ends into the gas-log fire, removing his bottom teeth when he watched TV. He enjoyed his son-in-law’s sharp intake of breath. Just that far, no farther. Norman had a well-developed sense of survival.

And the man was such a prude. Funny, that, considering he was a doctor, plunging his hands God-knows-where. Norman had told him his joke about the gynecologist’s wife,
“Had a good day at the orifice?”
Not a titter. A while ago he had asked him to get him some Viagra. “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Ravi had said. What a goody-goody! Once, on a train, Norman had seen his son-in-law reading the safety leaflet. On a
train
. The
safety leaflet
. He hadn’t let Ravi forget that.

Norman pushed open the door of Casablanca Food and Wine. A dusky maiden stood behind the counter. He had never seen her before.

“Good morning, my dear.” He raised his hat. “What’s a lovely girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“My dad owns it,” she said.

“Ah. And what’s your name?”

“Sultana.”

Norman spluttered. “Sultana! Fancy a date then?”

The girl gazed at him, coolly. Oh well, he thought, never mind. He bought his packet of fags and two cans of Tennent’s. Sultana was doing that text thing on her mobile, thumb skittering. Even so, she could see him. Norman gazed longingly at the rack of magazines. Just for a moment he felt that rare thing: embarrassment. He couldn’t, not with this lovely creature here, so young and dewy.

There was nothing for it but to go down to the high street. It took him a good ten minutes; his back was playing up. Finally, however, he reached its welcome anonymity, cars thundering past, and went into a newsagent’s.

“Morning,” he said to the man behind the counter. He scanned the top shelf of magazines. Lifting his walking stick, he dislodged a copy of
Asian Babes
. It fell to the floor.

Norman bent to pick it up. A spasm shot up his spine. He froze. Bent double, he waited for the pain to pass.

“Here, Granddad.” The man came over and picked it up for him.

“It’s for my son-in-law,” Norman muttered at the floor. “He’s Indian.”

“I’m sure he is.” The man grinned. “I expect he’ll be wanting it in a bag, too.”

Clutching the carrier, Norman hobbled back along the road. A siren screamed. He jumped. A fire engine rushed past. Suddenly he wanted to be home, safely ensconced on the sofa. Today the world seemed more than usually hostile—the traffic, the heedless passersby, the newsagent with his insolence. Somebody unloaded a crate of bottles. Norman jumped again. He wanted his daughter to be home, instead of miles away in some office or other. She would bring him a cup of tea. She would rub Ibuleve into his back and tell him he wasn’t that old, it was all right, he wasn’t going to die. Everything was going to be all right.

Norman paused, leaning on his stick. Suddenly he saw himself as others must see him. Just for a moment, like the clouds parting. Then they closed again.

He thought: I miss my wife. Rosemary would understand.

This surprised him so much that he didn’t notice what was happening at the end of the street. Something was up. What looked like a fire engine seemed to be parked outside his daughter’s house. A crowd of people stood watching.

Norman hobbled closer. He stopped and stared. At 18 Plender Street, black smoke was billowing out of the side window.

Let us meditate on the Divine Light that is inherent in us, May it dissolve all Ignorance and Darkness.

G
AYATRI
M
ANTRA

R
avi hadn’t seen his cousin Sonny for years. The man lived in Bangalore, for one thing; they had grown up four thousand miles apart. Besides, they had nothing in common. When they met, they regarded each other with mutual incomprehension. But Sonny was in London for a couple of days, en route to somewhere or other, and none of the other family members was around to pick up some stuff he had brought over.

They had arranged to meet in the lobby of the Royal Thistle Hotel, Bayswater. Ravi spotted his cousin straightaway—a portly man in shirtsleeves, pacing up and down and shouting into a mobile. The fellow had put on weight. Hard to imagine that he was once a playboy, bopping the night away in the Lotus Room at the Oberoi Hotel, Bangalore, in the company of Bollywood starlets. Still talking, Sonny snapped his fingers at a waiter. “Bacardi and Coke, plenty of ice!”

Ravi’s heart sank. Sonny was a wheeler-dealer, a businessman of boundless energy. Ravi had forgotten how sapping that could be for someone in a fragile state. He longed to go home.

Sonny turned. “Ravi old chap!” He barked something into his phone and clicked it off. “Come over here! You look terrible, you poor fellow. Overworking as usual?”

“No—”

“Don’t know how you stand it, your hair’s gone gray. You should try the stuff I use, Tru-Tone—I’ll get you a bottle, you’ll feel a new man.” Sonny snapped his fingers again and ordered Ravi a drink.

“And you should lose some weight,” said Ravi. “You’re storing up trouble for later.”

“Aye, aye, doc.” His cousin’s face was shiny with perspiration; he had always been a sweaty man.

“Think of your heart.”

Sonny patted his chest. “Sound as a drum.” He heaved over a carrier bag and dumped it at Ravi’s feet. It said Surinama Silk House. “Mangoes for you and your lady wife. Brought them from Lalit’s farm—remember Lalit, your uncle’s cousin? The best mangoes in Karnataka.”

Ravi watched two men cross the lobby. They fetched their keys from Reception. Suddenly, the thought of checking into a clean, empty hotel room was so seductive he nearly swooned.

“Flying to Frankfurt tomorrow,” said Sonny. “You know Meyer Systems? They’re relocating to Bangalore, to our very own Silicon Valley—these techies, they have their heads screwed on, they all want a piece of the action. You wouldn’t recognize the place,
yaar
, you know how much software we’re exporting? We have the satellite links, we have the know-how …” He counted on his fingers. “Motorola, Texas Instruments … The world’s shrunk, my friend …”

Ravi’s temples throbbed. Outside an ambulance sped by, its siren wailing. Today he had failed to revive a cardiac arrest. Asthma attack, a young man with newborn twins.

The drinks arrived. Sonny was still blathering on. Ravi took a sip of orange juice and put down his glass.

“Sonny,” he said. “I’m having a terrible time.”

That he confided in his cousin of all people, a man not overly interested in others, took him by surprise. Once he started, however, the words gushed forth.