The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (31 page)

Jatan Singh, at the wheel, half turned. No doubt he was surprised that, things being what they were, Sonny-sahib was laughing on the way to the battlefield that had once been his home.

Sonny said nothing. He took out his mobile and punched in a number.

I
t was eight o’clock, quite dark now, and Theresa still hadn’t returned. Dinner was being served, but Evelyn was too worried to eat. She stood at the gates looking up and down the street.

“Baksheesh, memsahib?” It was the elderly beggar to whom Minoo had finally given his shoes, that night of tears and confession.

Evelyn shook her head. “Not tonight, darling.”
Darling?
What was the matter with her? She looked down at the old man’s feet. The shoes were dusty now. They were really too big for him; his ankles were as thin as sticks. What an effort it took, simply to remain alive!

Where was Theresa? She had been away for hours. Evelyn wished she hadn’t let her daughter go alone to the Old City; by all accounts it was a dangerous place, especially at night. She might have been robbed. Raped!

I’ll be all right, Mum, don’t fuss!
My goodness, her daughter was irritable nowadays. Theresa was pushing fifty; she really shouldn’t be behaving like a teenager.

Just then a rickshaw drew up. Evelyn’s heart leaped.

However, it wasn’t Theresa inside. In the light of the streetlamp Evelyn could see two women, squashed in the back. They extricated themselves. Muriel and Dorothy.

Evelyn was mildly surprised. She didn’t think they were particular friends; they had little in common. In fact it was Muriel who claimed, more triumphantly than any of them, that Dorothy was barmy.

Muriel linked her arm through Dorothy’s as they walked up to the gates. She stopped when she saw Evelyn. Her face was tense with excitement.

“This is her home!” she said, indicating Dorothy.

“We prefer not to call it a home, dear,” said Evelyn. “It’s really a hotel.”

“No,” said Muriel. “Bangalore’s her home. This was where she lived when she was a little girl.”

Dorothy pointed to The Marigold, its lights glimmering through the trees. “This building was my school,” she said. “My first school. St. Mary’s, it was called.”

N
orman had raced through dinner. Showered and shaved, dressed in a fresh shirt, he made his way down the drive toward the flickering lights of the rickshaw stand. Three women—Dorothy, Muriel and Evelyn—stood in the darkness.

“Night night, ladies!” he said cheerfully as he passed. They didn’t respond; they were too busy talking. Norman walked through the gates. “Night!” he said to the
chowkidar
.

Out in the street he paused, checking that his tie was straight. Swaying slightly, he adjusted the handkerchief in his breast pocket. He was about to cross the road when a rickshaw puttered up and came to a halt beside him. Somebody climbed out. It was that Theresa woman, sour-looking creature, Evelyn’s daughter.

“Hello, Norman!” Good God, the woman was smiling. “Where are you off to at this time of night?”

“Aha,” he said. “That would be telling.”

Theresa coquettishly raised her eyebrows. Surprised, Norman gave her a conspiratorial wink.

Then he climbed into the rickshaw. “Take me to the Gandhi Market, my good fellow!” he said. “The Old Town! Chop chop.”

D
inner was over. Four of them were sitting in Dorothy’s room drinking whisky. It was the first time Evelyn had seen the BBC woman’s bedroom. Shelves were crammed with books and on the wall hung a painting that was apparently by Howard Hodgkin, whoever he was. Its brushstrokes glowed in the lamplight.

Word had got around, of course, that Dorothy had been born in Bangalore and lived there until she was eight. She had discovered the location of her family home only that very afternoon, for the city was largely unrecognizable to her now, it had changed so greatly, so many of its old buildings destroyed. Her childhood home lay outside the center and was now the offices of some multinational corporation or other. She had finally tracked it down through an old
dhobi-wallah
.

“We saw you there,” said Evelyn. “At the washing place.”

And this hotel had been her school. Seventy years ago she had played in the garden and sat on the floor in the dining room singing “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.” This explained the nursery rhymes, of course. It was a relief that Dorothy could no longer be classified as senile; that sense of communal slippage had gone. Still, it was annoying that she had excluded them from her secret.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Evelyn.

“I didn’t know you well enough,” replied Dorothy.

“We’re all you’ve got, dear.”

Beside her, Theresa shifted.
Don’t be so tactless, Mum
. But she didn’t speak.

“What I mean is,” said Evelyn, “we would have understood.”

“I wanted to be sure of it first,” said Dorothy. “When I got the brochure, I thought my memory was playing tricks with me.”

“Can’t you see she’s tired?” said Muriel, who had been behaving somewhat proprietarially. Maybe she felt guilty for her earlier remarks. “It’s been a big day, hasn’t it, love?”

Dorothy nodded. There was something about the way she sat there, on the bed, that made Evelyn feel like an intruder. She thought: There’s so little privacy here, just the small sanctuary of our bedrooms. In this communal life we struggle to keep ourselves intact. Turning away, she gazed at the painting. She had never caught up with the abstract movement and now she never would. Somehow the colors seemed so sure of themselves—bold brushes of brick red and indigo blue. Perhaps you didn’t have to understand; you just had to look.

Dorothy was crying. Theresa jumped up and put her arm around her. Evelyn resented this. Still, it was her daughter’s job, she supposed. Counselors knew when a hug was in order.

“I’m so sorry,” said Dorothy. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Theresa.

Dorothy shook her head. “Not just now.” She sat there, a big plain woman, shuddering with sobs. Evelyn gave her a tissue.

It was clear that she wanted to be alone. They left. Outside the room Theresa turned to her mother. “What a day!”

“What a day.”

“I’m exhausted,” Theresa said. “I’m going to bed.”

“I never asked,” said Evelyn. “Did you meet your holy man?”

“Not exactly.” Suddenly, Theresa put her arms around Evelyn and hugged her. “Night night, Mum.” Halfway up the stairs she turned and said: “Actually, I came to India because I missed you.”

T
he rickshaw chap seemed unwilling to take Norman any farther. Probably the alley was too narrow. Norman paid him; the rickshaw swung around and juddered off in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

Norman’s heart pounded. What an adventure! How they would be twittering, back at the hotel, if they knew! Here he stood, in the middle of the Old City, in a street that smelled of drains and sandalwood, on his way to visit a lady of the night.
This woman Sikra is a sorceress, old boy
, said Sonny.
What breasts, what a pussy! I tell you, Norman-sahib, a honeypot like hers will bring the dead back to life!
Norman paused, swaying. He had sipped a few brandies before embarking on this enterprise. Crumbling buildings loomed up on either side. Lights shone in a teahouse where various villainous-looking men sat about smoking. Somewhere a radio was playing.
She’s waiting for you, my friend. She is my Christmas present to your esteemed self
.

Shopkeepers were pulling down the shutters; Gandhi Market was packing up for the night. Norman made his way down the alley. It was so narrow that those unsteady on their feet could bump against one wall and then the other. He arrived at the Hindu temple, as per instructions. On the step sat a dog, licking its private parts.
Walk past the temple until you come to a blue door. Knock loudly and ask for Sikra. Mention my name and they will lead you up the stairway to heaven
.

“You are from which country, sir?” Little boys clamored around him.

“Bugger off!” Norman waved his walking stick.

They reassembled like flies. “Please sir, you are from which country?” They pulled at his trousers.

“Piss off and go home! It’s past your bedtime!”

Norman tried to concentrate. Breasts. Great voluptuous breasts the size of melons. He felt a faint stirring in his groin. See! There was life in the old todger yet. Stupid of him to have been worried. Those months—years—of doubt, and all he needed was this: darkness, a foreign land, exotic flesh … the only combination that was guaranteed, more or less, to get the old equipment up and running.

Still, his heart hammered against his rib cage. He arrived at the blue door. Touching his tie—all shipshape—he knocked smartly with his walking stick.

The children seemed to have melted away, thank God. Norman heard a movement behind the door. Somebody hawked and spat. The door opened, just a little. He glimpsed a painted face.

“Good evening,” he said. “Mr. Sonny Rahim sent me. Do you speak English?”

“Okay.” The head waggled.

“I’m looking for Sikra.”

“Okay.”

Nothing happened. He suddenly had a vision of his daughter.
Dad, what on earth are you doing?

The door opened and he stepped into a passage. It was illuminated by a fly-bespattered strip light. He smelled perfume and incense. The sari-clad figure pointed upstairs and disappeared into a room. Norman heard the sound of voices, then the door closed.

He paused. Suddenly he pictured The Marigold, so blithely abandoned. He pictured his room—
Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack
on the shelf; radio, tuned to the World Service, waiting on the bedside table. His heart pumped. He had to admit he had expected something a little more salubrious. A chap didn’t expect a welcoming committee but there was usually a hostess of some kind, and a frilly lamp.

Norman rallied. He had better go through with it. If Sonny found out he’d flunked it, he would never live it down. A fellow had his pride.

He made his way up the creaking wooden stairs. Staggering slightly—they seemed to be rocking—he arrived on the landing. A door stood ajar.

Norman stepped into the room. Breathing heavily, he tried to regain his balance. This looked more like it. The room glowed with rosy light. On the wall hung photographs of Doris Day and Bruce Willis. There were plastic flowers in a vase, and a collection of Dinky cars on the shelf. And there was a bed, covered with an apricot satin eiderdown and a heap of soft toys.

Nobody was there. It was an odd business, he had to admit it: carnal union with a complete stranger. Somehow it never quite lived up to expectations. One always felt a bit let-down afterward, postcoital
tristesse
and all that. But how could a chap tell, otherwise, that he still had blood in his veins? That he wasn’t, to all extents and purposes, already dead?

The door opened and a figure appeared. She was startlingly tall, and smoking a cigarette. Her face was heavily made-up and she wore a pink sari trimmed with gold.

Norman put out his hand. “Sikra, I presume?”

She grinned and patted the bed. There was no doubt she was a handsome woman; something commanding about her but that was all right, in a situation like this he welcomed a female who knew what she was doing.

“I’m Norman Purse,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. Mr. Sonny Rahim sent me.”

“Acha.”
The woman stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray shaped like a corgi. Her bangles tinkled. “You want soft drink?” She smiled invitingly. “Thums Up? Fanta?”

“I’m fine, my dear. Drunk quite enough tonight.” Norman cleared his throat. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She patted the bed again. He sat down beside her, the sateen sighing. Sikra leaned over and unknotted his tie. What big, capable hands she had! She took off his jacket.

Norman looked down at his own purple hands, resting on his knees. Should he start undressing her? Is that how they did it here? He wasn’t sure about the Hindu way of going about it and didn’t want to offend. The girls in Bangkok didn’t have any sort of culture thing.

“I live on Brigade Road,” he said. “Do you know it?”

Sikra moved her head a little and pulled off his tie.

“Never been to India before,” he said. “Born at the wrong time, I suppose. I would’ve enjoyed it in the old days. Feel in a way I’m at the fag-end of history. For my lot, of course,” he added hastily, “not yours.”

She moved closer.

“Haven’t done this for a while,” he said. “Years, in fact. Might be a bit rusty.”

He had never seen so much slap. The woman’s face was plastered with the stuff—pale powder, pink rouge. He couldn’t imagine kissing her, but that probably wasn’t called for. His faint stirrings subsided. He tried to superimpose his fantasies—the nipples as dark as chocolate buttons, the sari unraveling as she spun like a top.

“You want sex now?” asked Sikra. She had an attractive husky voice.

“May need a little encouragement.” Norman tried to laugh. Unlike his penis, his heart seemed to have a life of its own. It jolted so hard he rocked on the bed. Sikra unzipped his fly and slid her hand in. Her fingers sought his balls and started kneading them. Norman stroked her chiffon-clad thigh. Where did one start with these damn saris? There seemed to be no visible opening.

Sikra’s face loomed closer. She stuck out her tongue and waggled it, startling him. Her hand remained in his trousers, stroking his flaccid member. Her bangles tinkled faster. Nothing doing.

She wrenched off his trousers, down to his ankles, pulled down his underpants and pushed him back on the bed. She pulled up her sari and in a workmanlike manner, as if rolling up her sleeves, took his hand and put it between her legs.

Suddenly Norman realized. That strong jaw, that blue shadow beneath the powder! He froze with shock. Pain shot across his chest.

D
orothy couldn’t sleep. She stood in the garden listening to the trilling of the crickets. Where the aviary now stood there had been a playhouse. They had sat in it for hours—herself, Nancy Mayhew and Monica Cable—crooning over their dolls. Her school friends no doubt had grown up to have babies of their own, now middle-aged. They had dared to love, and been loved in return.