The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (37 page)

“Mum!” He opened his arms and scooped Muriel up. Holding her tightly, he lifted her off her feet and whirled her around. They bumped against the bamboo bookcase. It wobbled; several volumes of the
Encyclopedia Britannica
fell to the floor.

“My son!” cried Muriel, and burst into tears.

O
utside, darkness had fallen. The meal seemed to have gone on for hours. The residents, paper hats on their heads, sat among the debris—slimy coins spat out from the Christmas puddings; torn cheese wrappers. These were Theresa’s contribution to the feast—individual portions of cheese that she had bought in the bazaar near the airport. She suspected they came from airline meals, pocketed by cleaning staff and sold on to the stallholders, but didn’t let on. “Camembert!” cried the diners. “Cheddar!” They slipped the spare ones into their handbags, for later.

Muriel sat next to her son. People had shifted around so that the two could be together. Her shock had given way to a dazed gratification. “It’s like all my Christmases have come at once,” she said.

“In India,” said Theresa, leaning across the table, “sooner or later you bump into the person you want to meet.”

“That true?”

“No,” said Theresa. “But it’s not entirely untrue either.”

Muriel had told her son about the mugging, the burglary, how she had buried her cat in his garden before going back to Peckham, packing up her life and coming to India to find him. “It’s all fate,” she said. “That first tumble, and me meeting that nice Dr. Kapoor.” She beamed at Ravi down the table. “I’ve even got those black boys to thank, who took my bag, because here I am and I’m never going home, never. And you can’t go home, so that makes two of us.”

The miracle of this reunion had affected them all. The prodigal sons … the daughters, disappeared into the demands of their adult lives … at any moment, they felt, the door would open and in would step their lost families, drawn to India by its transforming magic. The effects of alcohol gave this a Spielbergian radiance, as if they were sitting at their own movie, awaiting the scenes of reconciliation and final credits.

“It’s been go-go-go these past few weeks,” Madge whispered to her new boyfriend, whose name was Mr. Desikachar. “Dorothy told the Ainslies their son was gay, the manager kicked out his wife, the cook’s gone, the doctor’s gone, an old soak called Norman died in a brothel but his daughter doesn’t know, she thinks he was buying her a Christmas present. And that’s just for starters.”

“I thought this was a
retirement
home,” said Mr. Desikachar.

“Life begins at seventy.” Madge smiled, dazzling him with her expensive dentistry. “Seventy’s the new forty, didn’t you know?”

“Looking at you, Mrs. Rheinhart, I find that easy to believe.”

She touched his knee. “Do call me Madge.”

Down the table, Douglas tapped his glass. “I think we should toast the cooks.”

They raised their glasses to Ravi. He rose to his feet. After thanking his helper, Pramod, he cleared his throat. “As Sonny said, you have indeed shown great courage in moving to my country. More courage than I have shown.”

Pauline made a small noise in her throat. She was sitting at the far end of the table, a paper hat on her head.

“It’s said that in Britain family life has broken up,” continued the doctor. “That people no longer feel a duty to care for their parents anymore. That’s part of the reason we set up this company. I have to tell you, however, that this does not just apply to your countrymen.”

He sat down. Madge leaned to her neighbor, Douglas. “What’s that all about?” she whispered.

“Search me,” replied Douglas. “Maybe he’s tipsy.”

“He’s been on the lime sodas, darling. The man doesn’t drink.”

Oh well. He was Indian. However much you knew them, pockets of incomprehensibility still remained. Madge gazed at Mr. Desikachar’s hand as he lit her cigarette. He wore a heavy gold signet ring. Tufts of black hair sprouted from his finger-joints. She was so hungry for sex her throat was dry. I shall have one last adventure, she thought. Arnold would want me to be happy.

“You’re lucky,” she said to Douglas.

“Why?” He stared at her.

“Not to be alone.”

Douglas looked at her cigarette packet. “May I have one of those?” he asked.

Surprised, Madge lit him a cigarette. Douglas sat there, smoking. He wore a lemon V-necked sweater, like Perry Como. Beneath the bland, golfing-pro exterior, however, she sensed something thrumming. She knew men; she knew something was up.

Across the table, Graham Turner lit a small Panatella. His cheekbones were flushed. Leaning toward his neighbor, Olive Cooke, he said: “People think we’re waiting to die. Well, I’m starting to live.”

Startled, Olive toyed with the cardboard strip from their shared Christmas cracker. It had failed to explode. She had pulled out the strip in the same manner, she imagined, as the surgeon back in Hornchurch had pulled out her varicose veins.

Stella drained her glass of wine and rose unsteadily to her feet.

“Oh Lord,” muttered Madge.

“The tinkling piano in the next apartment,”
sang Stella.

Graham joined in.
“These foolish things …”

They looked at him, in surprise.

“… remind me of you,”
they sang together.

The sisters from Fife joined in, slightly off-key. So did Mr. Desikachar, who had a pleasant baritone voice.

Suddenly they were plunged into darkness.

“O
h oh, a power cut,” said Stella.

Minoo barked an order to Jimmy, presumably to find some candles. They heard the old bearer blundering against Eithne’s wheelchair as he made his way from the room.

Eithne uttered a shrill laugh. “What fun! We can play Murder in the Dark.”

“I know another game,” said Keith, making his way toward Theresa.

“Oh!” squeaked Stella.

“Sorry, wrong person,” said Keith.

“Do carry on,” Stella giggled. “It was rather nice.”

“Let’s play London Tube Stations,” said Madge. Her cigarette glowed in the dark. “Guess the one that doesn’t have any of the letters of
mackerel
in it.”

“That’s just silly, Madge.”

“What did she say?”

“Dollis Hill.”

“No, it’s got an
l
.”

Minoo said: “I know. Think of the most comical Parsee name. Many of us are called by the name of a trade—”

“Euston!”

“No, it’s got an
e
—”

“Cashmeresweaterwallah,” said Minoo.

“I give up, Madge.”

“Sodawaterbottleopenerwallah,” said Minoo.

“All right then,” said Madge. “If you really give up. It’s St. John’s Wood.”

They sat in the blackness, waiting for the lights to come on. Somebody cleared her throat. Faintly, they could hear the
tick-tock
of the grandfather clock.

After a moment a voice said: “Do you think this is what it’s like?”

“What?”

“
It
. Do you think it’s like this?”

“For goodness’ sake, Hermione, don’t be so morbid!”

There was another pause.

“I know. Moorgate.”

“We’ve finished that game, Eithne.”

“Anyway it’s got an
a
and an
r
—”

“And an
m
—”

Pauline felt a hand removing her paper hat. “Are you all right?” asked Ravi.

She nodded. “Are you?”

Maybe he nodded; it was too dark to tell. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“What?” she asked.

“The children’s thing,” said Ravi. “You really want to do it, don’t you?”

She nodded. His hand stroked her hair.

Dorothy spoke in the darkness. “There was a gully behind our house. Egrets, herons … I nearly drowned in it once. I used to dream about it.”

She fell silent. Outside, the veranda creaked.

“Someone’s here,” said Douglas. “Listen.”

Madge flicked on her lighter. Illuminated from beneath, she resembled a skull. She
was
a skull, of course; they all were. “Can you see who it is?”

They heard the veranda door opening. “Ma?” said a voice. “Is anybody there?”

Jimmy entered with some candles. For a moment, a man was illuminated in the doorway. It was Christopher. Then the breeze blew the candles out and they were plunged back into darkness.

“Christopher, is that you?” asked Evelyn.

“What’s happened?” he asked. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

“Why are you back?” asked Evelyn, alarmed. “Has there been an accident?”

Somebody scraped a match alight. Briefly they glimpsed Christopher’s wild eyes.

“Why aren’t you in Goa?” asked Evelyn. “Where are the others?”

“Ouch!” yelped somebody as the match burned her fingers. Darkness engulfed them.

“I can’t talk now, Ma,” said Christopher, his voice shaky. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Tell her now, for God’s sake,” said Madge. “We’ll find out, sooner or later.”

They sat in the darkness, waiting.

“I’ve left my wife,” Christopher said.

There was a gasp, like a wave pulling back over the pebbles.

“You’ve
what
?” asked Evelyn.

“And my children.” His voice was thick. “Yesterday. The coach drove away and I just stayed there. On the pavement outside the hotel.”

“Crikey,” said Douglas.

“Like thingy in that film,” said Madge.

“Jack Nicholson,” said Graham.
“Five Easy Pieces.”

“I fell in love with somebody else,” said Christopher. “I’m going to live with her.”

“What about Marcia?” asked his sister. “The children?”

“They don’t need me.”

Suddenly the lights came on. Christopher stood there, disheveled.

“You can’t just do that,” said his mother.

“I know,” he said. “But I have.” He stared at the room. They saw now that there was a suitcase on the floor. Jimmy instinctively moved toward it. Then he stopped, and glanced inquiringly at the manager.

“My God,” said Theresa. “You, of all people.”

“Sit down, old chap,” said Douglas. “You need a drink.”

Christopher didn’t move. He wore a turquoise short-sleeved shirt. There were damp patches under the arms.

“Who is this woman?” asked Madge, with interest.

“She’s the greeter at the Taj Balmoral,” he said.

“Ah!” exclaimed Sonny. “Aisha or Jana?”

“Aisha,” said Christopher.

“Good choice.” Sonny nodded. “She’s the babe.”

Graham Turner loosened his tie. “Well I never,” he said.

“Where is she?” asked Theresa.

“In the garden.”

“Why?”

“She’s shy,” said Christopher.

“But I thought she greeted people.”

Christopher still seemed incapable of movement. He looked at Pauline. “Isn’t that the sari?” he asked, puzzled.

“No it’s not!” said his mother.

“The sari I gave you?” asked Christopher.

Pauline frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, he’s just confused.” Evelyn turned to her son. “Do ask your lady friend in, darling. It’s chilly out there.”

Christopher jumped. He swung around and walked into the garden. “Aisha?” he called “Aisha?” Deep in the darkness, a cat meowed.

They sat there, waiting. Eithne gave a giggle. “Goodness me. And such a nice man. He helped me wind my wool.”

Douglas drained his beer glass. “What a day,” he said. “Anyone else got something to tell us?”

“Douggy, this is serious!” said his wife. “The man’s left his family.”

Madge laughed her husky, smoker’s laugh. “At least nobody can accuse us of falling asleep.”

“Except for Dorothy,” said Pauline. “
She
has.”

They turned.

Dorothy sat in her chair, the paper hat crooked. There was something odd about the way she was slumped.

Ravi grunted. There was a scrape as he pushed back his chair and leaped to his feet.

When the Lord of the body arrives, and when he departs and wanders on, he takes them over with him, as the wind takes perfumes from their place of sleep.

The Bhagavad Gita

D
orothy’s ashes were scattered in the garden of The Marigold, her lost Eden, where she had played as a child. Adam Ainslie, her protégé, had flown out; so had a distant niece, bearing out Douglas’s observation that one had to be dead before anyone paid you a visit.

“Out, out, brief candle,”
Adam read:

“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more …”

Douglas was deeply disturbed.
Is this what it’s like?
somebody had said, during the power cut. He knew that it must have been an easeful death, simply to remain asleep when the lights came on, but he was gripped by panic.

“Are you all right, Dad?” asked Adam.

“Fine!” Douglas blew his nose.

“I feel so guilty.” Adam sat down on the veranda steps. “I should have visited her. In London. I was always so busy, and now it’s too late.”