by Dan Simmons
Kali bai are gate nai
I am a God
"Sweet Jesus!" I sat up in bed. The sheets were soaked with my sweat and my pajama bottoms wet from the growing stain of an ejaculation.
"Oh, Christ." I cradled my aching head in my hands and rocked. Amrita was gone. Heavy sunlight poured through the curtains. The travel clock said 10:48.
"Goddammit to goddam hell." I went into the bathroom, flung the pajamas into a bag of dirty laundry, and scrubbed myself under a pounding shower. My hands and legs were still shaking when I emerged fifteen minutes later. My head hurt so fiercely that small dots danced in the periphery of my vision.
I dressed quickly and took four aspirin. Dark stubble stood out against my pale cheeks, but I decided not to shave. I came out of the bathroom just as Amrita returned with Victoria.
"Where the fuck were you?" I snapped.
She froze, her smile of greeting slowly fading. Victoria stared at me as at a stranger.
"Well?"
Amrita's back straightened. Her voice was level. "I went back to the sari shop to get Kamakhya's address. I tried to phone but the lines have been dead. As long as we're staying another day, I wanted to exchange the material. Didn't you see my note?"
"We're supposed to be almost to London by now. What the hell happened?" My voice was harsh, but the anger was already beginning to flow away.
"What do you mean, Bobby? Just what do you mean?"
"I mean what happened to the damn alarm, the cab we'd arranged, the BOAC flight? That's what I mean."
Amrita moved briskly to set the baby down. She crossed to the window, jerked the curtains back, and folded her arms. "The 'damn alarm' went off at four. I got up. You refused to wake up, even after I shook you. Finally, when I did get you to sit up, you said, 'Let's wait another day.' And all this was because you sat up all night reading."
"I said that?" I shook my head and sat down on the edge of the bed. The world's worst hangover still throbbed and threatened to make me throw up. Hangover from what? "I said that?"
"You said that." Amrita's voice was cold. In our years of marriage, I'd cursed at her very few times.
"Damn. I'm sorry. I wasn't awake. That damned manuscript."
"You said you were going to wait to read it on the plane."
"Yeah."
Amrita uncrossed her arms and went over to the mirror to replace a strand of hair that had come loose. The color was coming back to her lips. "That's all right, Bobby. I don't mind staying another day."
An urgency rose in my throat. My voice sounded strange to me. "Goddamn it, I mind. You and Victoria aren't staying another day. What time are the Air India flights to Delhi?"
"Nine-thirty and one o'clock. Why?"
"You're taking the one o'clock flight and catching the evening PanAm flight out of Delhi."
"Bobby, that will mean . . . What do you mean 'you'? Why aren't you going? You have the manuscript."
"You two are going. Today. I have to finish something relating to this stinking article. One more day will do it."
"Oh, Bobby, I hate to travel alone with Victoria — "
"I know, kiddo, but it can't be helped. Let's get your stuff repacked."
"It's still packed."
"Good. Get Victoria ready and the bags together. I'll go downstairs and arrange for a taxi and a porter." I kissed her on the cheek. Normally there would have been an argument at any attempt by me to be dictatorial, but Amrita heard something in my voice.
"All right," she said. "But you'd better hurry. You can't reserve tickets over the phone in India, you know. You just have to show up early and stand in line."
"Yeah. I'll be right back."
"Mr. Gupta?" The phone in the lobby was working.
"Hello. Yes. Hello?"
"Mr. Gupta, this is Robert Luczak."
"Yes, Mr. Luczak. Hello?"
"Listen, Mr. Gupta, I want you to arrange a meeting with M. Das. A private meeting. Just him and me."
"What? What? This is not possible. Hello?"
"It had better be possible, Mr. Gupta. Make whatever contacts you have to and tell Das that I want to meet with him today."
"No, Mr. Luczak. You do not understand. M. Das had not permitted anyone to — "
"Yes, I've heard all of that. But he'll meet with me, I'm sure. I urge you to expedite this, Mr. Gupta."
"I am very sorry, but — "
"Listen, sir, I'll explain the situation. My wife and baby are leaving Calcutta in a few minutes. I'm flying out tomorrow. If I have to leave without seeing Das, I'm still going to have to write an article for Harper's. Would you like to hear what that article is going to say?"
"Mr. Luczak, you must understand that it is impossible for us to arrange for you to meet M. Das. Hello?"
"My article will say that for some reason known only to themselves, the members of the Bengali Writers' Union have attempted to perpetrate the biggest literary fraud since the Clifford Irving hoax. For some reason known only to themselves, this group has accepted money in exchange for a manuscript they claim is the work of a man who has been dead for eight years. And what is more — "
"Completely untrue, Mr. Luczak! Untrue and actionable. We will press charges. You have no proof of these allegations."
"And what's more, this group has despoiled a great poet's name by producing a pornographic paean to a local demon goddess. Authoritative sources in Calcutta suggest that the Writers' Union may have done this because of contacts they have with a group called the Kapalikas — an outlawed cult involved in the city's crime world and reputed to offer human sacrifices to their demented goddess. How do you like it so far, Mr. Gupta? Hello, Mr. Gupta? Hello?"
"Yes, Mr. Luczak."
"What do you think, Mr. Gupta? Shall I go with that or shall I interview M. Das?"
"It will be arranged. Please call back in three hours."
"Oh . . . and Mr. Gupta?"
"Yes."
"I've already mailed one copy of my . . . ah . . . first article to my editor in New York with instructions not to open it unless I'm delayed in my return home. I hope that it won't be necessary to do that version. I'd much rather do the Das story."
"It will not be necessary, Mr. Luczak."
All cabs to and from Dum-Dum Airport were driven by veterans of the '71 Indo-Pakistani War. Our driver had scar tissue covering his right cheek and a broad, black patch over his eye that made me speculate idly about monocular vision and depth perception as we weaved in and out of heavy traffic on VIP Highway.
It was raining again. Everything was the color of mud — the clouds, the road, the burlap-tin hovels piled on one another, and the distant factories. Only the red and white stripes painted around the occasional banyan tree near the roadside added color to the scene. Near the edge of town there were new apartment buildings going up. I could tell they were new by the bamboo scaffolding girdling them and the bulldozers parked nearby in the mud, but the structures looked as decayed and age-streaked as the oldest ruins in the center of the city. Beyond the bulldozers were clusters of lean-tos occupied by huddled forms. Were these the families of construction crews or new residents waiting to occupy the buildings? Most likely the shacks were just the nucleus of a new chawl; the growing edge of 250 square miles of unrelieved slum.
To our left was the white sign I'd glimpsed at night. This side read —
CALCUTTA WISHES YOU
GOOD-BYE
GOOD HEALTH
A woman with pans and a large bronze jug stacked atop her head squatted in the mud beneath the sign.
The airport was crowded, but not as insanely so as the night we arrived. The Delhi flight was already filled but there had just been a cancellation. Yes, the PanAm flight would leave New Delhi at seven P.M. It should be possible to get tickets.
We checked the luggage through and wandered through the terminal. There were no empty chairs, and it took a while to find a quiet corner where we could change Victoria's diaper. Then we went into a small coffee shop to ha
ve a soft drink.
We said little to each other. Amrita seemed lost in her own thoughts and my head still ached abominably. Occasionally I would remember fragments of my dream, and the muscles in my gut would clench in tension and embarrassment.
"If worse came to worst," I said, "and you missed this evening's PanAm connection, you could stay overnight with your aunt in New Delhi."
"Yes."
"Or stay at a good hotel near the airport."
"Yes, I could do that."
A Belgian tour group squeezed into the coffee shop. One of them, an incredibly ugly woman wearing open mesh trousers, was carrying a large plaster statue of the elephant-headed god Ganesha. They were all laughing uproariously.
"Call Dan and Barb when you get to Boston," I said.
"All right."
"I should be there the day after you. Hey, are you going to call your parents from Heathrow?"
"Bobby, I really wouldn't mind staying another day. You might need help . . . with the translating. It's about the manuscript, isn't it?"
I shook my head. "Too late, kiddo. Your luggage is already loaded. You could do without any clothes, I suppose, but we'd be doomed without the extra disposable diapers."
Amrita did not smile.
"Seriously," I said and took her hand, "I've just got to do some follow-up work with Gupta and those clowns. Hell, I just don't have enough stuff to put into an article yet. One day should do it."
Amrita nodded and tapped my ring. "All right, but be careful. Don't drink any unbottled water. And if Kamakhya comes by to exchange my material, make sure she gives you just the material . . . "
I grinned. "Yeah."
"Bobby, why didn't you let the maid in?"
"What?"
"To clean the room. Right before we left you told her to wait until tomorrow."
"The Das manuscript," I said quickly. "I don't want anyone nosing around."
Amrita nodded. I drank the last of my warm Fanta, watched a small gecko scurry across the wall, and tried not to think about the .25-caliber automatic on the shelf of the hotel room closet.
The plane was ready to board and I had kissed both of them farewell when Amrita remembered something. "Oh, in case Kamakhya doesn't come to the hotel, would you drop by her home to get the material?" She began rummaging through her purse.
"Is it that important?"
"No, but I'd appreciate it if it works out."
"Why didn't you just exchange her material at the shop?"
"It was all cut to length. And I was certain we would see her again. Darn, I was sure I had the slip here. Never mind. I remember the address." Amrita took out a book of matches she'd picked up at the Prince's Room and jotted the address inside the cover. "Only if you have time," she said.
"All right." I would not have time. We kissed again. Victoria twisted between us, confused by the crowd and noises. I cupped the baby's head in my hand, feeling the infinite softness of her hair. "You two have a good trip. I'll see you in a couple of days."
There were no enclosed boarding ramps at Dum-Dum Airport. The passengers crossed a wet expanse of tarmac and climbed a stairway into the waiting Air India jet. Amrita turned and waved Victoria's pudgy arm before disappearing into the French-made Airbus. Normally I would have waited for the plane to take off.
I checked my watch and walked quickly back through the terminal to a stand of telephones. Gupta answered on the fifth ring.
"It is arranged, Mr. Luczak. Here is the address . . . " I fumbled for my notebook but came up with the matchbook Amrita had given me. I jotted the street number next to Kamakhya's address.
"Oh . . . and Mr. Luczak . . . "
"Yes?"
"This time you will come alone."
The rain had stopped when I stepped out of the taxi. Vapor rose from the streets and drifted between the old buildings. I had no idea where I was. The address Gupta had given me was a street corner in the old section of the city, but I had seen no familiar landmarks on the way there.
The streets and sidewalks were filling up with people after the rainstorm. Bicycles glided by with bells jangling. The steamy air was thickened further by the fumes from motorcycles. An old bullock, its back a mass of scabs and open sores, lay down heavily in the center of the busy street. Traffic swerved around it.
I stood and waited. The sidewalk there was actually a four-foot-wide strip of pockmarked mud between the gutter and the walls of old buildings. There were three-foot gaps between the buildings, and after being assaulted by a terrible smell, I walked over and peered into one of the narrow apertures.
Garbage and organic wastes rose eight to twelve feet high down the length of the long alley. It was obvious that the residents had thrown their refuse out the upper windows for many years. Dark shapes moved through the stinking heaps. I quickly moved away from the opening and stood by the stream of rainwater and sewage that marked the separation of street and sidewalk.
I watched every face in the moving crowd. As in any large city, the pedestrians had set their faces in masks of hurried irritability. Many of the men wore stiff polyester shirts and bell-bottomed polyester slacks. I marveled that — in a nation which produced some of the world's best and least expensive cotton clothing — the sign of middle-class prestige was the more expensive, unbreathable polyester. Occasionally a sweaty face under oiled black hair would glance my way, but no one stopped except some children, naked except for filthy khaki shorts, who danced around me for several minutes calling "Baba! Baba!" and giggling. I handed out no coins, and after several minutes they ran off splashing through the gutter.
"You are Luczak?"
I jumped. The two men had come up behind me while I was watching the traffic go by. One of them was dressed in the usual polyester, but the other wore the stained khaki of the service classes. Neither looked especially bright or pleasant. The tall, thin one in a print shirt had a wedge-shaped face with sharp cheekbones and a narrow mouth. The man in khaki was shorter, heavier, and dumber-looking than his friend. There was a sleepy, disdainful look about his eyes that reminded me of all the bullies I'd ever known.
"I'm Luczak."
"Come."
They moved off through the crowd so quickly that I had to jog to catch up. I asked several questions, but their silence and the uproar of the street convinced me to keep quiet and follow them.
We walked for the better part of an hour. I had been lost to start with, but I was soon terminally disoriented. Because of the omnipresent clouds, I couldn't even use the sun for dead reckoning. We went down crowded side streets no wider than an alley and actual alleys crowded with people and debris. Several times the two led the way through short tunnels into courtyards of residential buildings. Children ran, squealed, and squatted everywhere. Women pulled their saris half over their faces and watched with dark, suspicious eyes. Other tunnels led to other courtyards. Old men hung over rusted iron railings and looked down with glazed expressions. Babies screamed. Cooking fires burned on concrete landings and smoke hung in the foggy air.
Another short tunnel brought us out into alley which was several blocks long and more crowded than most American main streets. This led to an area where buildings had been razed, but tents and impromptu shelters sat between mounds of rubble. One large pit, perhaps a basement in some previous time, had been flooded by monsoon rains and the filthy drainage. Scores of men and boys splashed and shouted in the water while others leaped from second-floor windows in buildings surrounding the brown pool. Nearby, two naked boys laughingly poked sticks at what appeared to be a drowned and bloated rat.
Then we were out of the residential buildings completely and into a chawl of loosely piled rock walls, gunnysack apartments and multileveled condominiums constructed of old billboards, sheets of tin, and bleached scrap wood. An empty lot held twenty or thirty men squatting to defecate. Farther on, young girls sat on a rocky terrace behind their younger siblings, carefully pulling lice from matted hair. An occasional scrawny dog slunk away as we passed,
but none seemed to possess any territorial instincts here. Human eyes watched from the deep shadows of the hovel doorways. Every once in a while a child would run out, palm extended, but a shout from an unseen adult would quickly call him back.
Suddenly, incense filled the air and stung the eyes. We passed a ramshackle green building which from the sounds of bells and atonal singing rising from an inner courtyard gave the impression of being a temple. Outside the green temple, an old woman and her granddaughter scooped heaps of cow dung from a large basket and kneaded them into hamburger-sized fuel patties for the evening fire. The temple wall was coated for thirty feet with rows of round and drying chunks of finger-patterned dung. Across the mud path of a street, several men were working on a bamboo frame of a hut no larger than a big backpacking tent. The men stopped their good-natured shouting and watched silently as we passed. If I had retained any doubt that my two guides were Kapalikas, it was dispelled by the wake of silence we left in our passing.