“Vanity and lust,” Mr. Cowasjee muttered to himself. He squatted down and put the bundle back in the cupboard. Despite the slicked-back hair she noticed, now, that he was thinning on top.
“Good God, what are you doing? Your A levels?”
Norman stood on the veranda, staring at the ladies. They sat at the tables, pens poised, each with a sheet of paper in front of her.
“Bit old for exams, aren’t you?” he asked.
Jean Ainslie pretended to slap him. “Don’t be so rude, you naughty boy.”
Norman peered closer. They were doing the crossword.
Madge Rheinhart removed the Biro from her mouth. “Anyone got Primates taking the wrong place by cathedral choir, four letters?”
Eithne Pomeroy, a gentle soul who had befriended the local cats, smiled at him. “It’s so kind of you, Raymond.”
“Norman.”
“I think you’re a very nice man, whatever they say.” Eithne turned to the others. “I’ve only got one.”
Madge looked at her sheet. “And it’s wrong, sweetie. Try viaduct.”
“What did you say, dear?” asked Stella, fiddling with her hearing aid.
“Keeps us out of mischief,” said Jean Ainslie, with a wink.
“It’s apse, Madge!”
Norman felt confused. Was he finally losing his marbles? He still had the Daily Telegraph, firmly gripped in his hand.
“Aha, I’ve got Six Down,” said Madge. “Give me a rupee, girls, and I’ll tell you.”
Norman turned to her. With her chestnut hair and clanking jewelry, Madge was one of the few almost-fanciable women here. He pointed to her sheet of paper. “Er, who gave it to you?”
“Evelyn, of course. She said you wanted to share it.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Norman looked around. Evelyn was nowhere to be seen. Typical! Those quiet, genteel women were always the worst. Passive-aggressive, of course—a phrase his daughter used about her starched-shirt of a husband. He attempted a smile. “Always glad to be of service, ladies.”
“What did he say?” Stella’s hearing aid whistled.
“Nothing,” said Madge.
Muriel Donnelly was drinking a cup of tea. “Ugh.” Lips puckered, she replaced the cup in the saucer. “Tastes of cat’s wee-wee.”
“Are you feeling better, dear?” asked Stella.
“I was, till I drank this muck.” Muriel glared at Norman, as if he had made the bloody stuff himself. It was clear that, alone among the women, Muriel was immune to his charms. But then she possessed few of them herself. She sat there, a cockney battle-ax, legs planted apart, stockings wrinkled around her ankles.
Norman gazed at them, heads bent over their crosswords like elderly schoolchildren. A few of them had bravely dyed their hair but the gray roots were showing. Some, like Muriel, were distinctly bald on top. The heat was oppressive. A couple of them were preparing to move inside, into the sepulchral lounge. Norman felt further oppressed by the female atmosphere. Where had all the men gone? What made women cling so doggedly to life?
Two ancient sisters, whose names he had forgotten, were approaching the veranda. One of them clutched a video.
“Look!” she said. “That kind Mr. Khan found us Upstairs Downstairs.”
There was a general twittering.
“The pavement’s in a terrible state,” said the other sister. “It looks like somebody had been mugged.”
“What’s that?” asked Muriel sharply.
“Blood everywhere, great splashes of it.”
“That’s paan juice,” said Norman. You silly cow. “Stuff they chew, then they spit it out. The Indian does a lot of hawking and spitting.”
There was a pause. They all gazed at him, God knew why.
“It’s a purification thing,” he said.
“So that’s what it is,” said Madge. Somebody giggled.
What were the old bitches getting at? Norman felt outnumbered. Women. It reminded him of his wife and daughter, giggling behind closed doors.
Norman decided to beat a retreat. He walked down the rickety steps and made his way around to the back of the building in search of male companionship. This crossword business had thrown him off balance. How could that Evelyn woman have snatched his paper? He had stayed alert, he was sure of it. Here he was, on the other side of the world, and landed in the same fetid nest of female manipulation he thought he had left behind in the various homes in which he had been incarcerated. Indian women wouldn’t have behaved like this. Indian women knew how to please a chap.
And he hadn’t even done the blithering crossword himself yet. He made his way across the threadbare lawn, past the wheelchair ramp and around the corner toward the kitchen. This was a breeze-block extension at the back of the hotel. Behind it were the servants’ quarters: a couple of huts, with corrugated iron roofs, sagging against the garden wall. It still startled him, these few steps into primitive village life.
A naked child stared at Norman as he relieved himself beside the crate of empties. It wasn’t worth trekking to the khazi. Besides, it had been almost continually occupied by Muriel since her arrival. Thanks to the op, the piss flowed more freely now. In the wasteland beyond the wall—soon to be a building site, he suspected—the natives relieved themselves every morning. Norman had seen them through a gap in the brickwork: rows of them squatting in the pearly light of dawn. Though Indians were a modest race they defecated quite openly, turning their backs to the road in the pathetic hope that this posture made them invisible. A good country for elderly incontinents, thought Norman. If they were off on a jaunt somewhere and caught short, the old girls could just pull down their knickers and have a piss in the street.
Norman chuckled as he zipped up his fly. A mangy puppy lay slumped on the earth. Like the rest of India, it seemed to have succumbed to lethargy. Weren’t puppies supposed to gambol, without a care in the world?
Cooking smells drifted out from the kitchen. Norman went in and blinked in the gloom. Fernandez, the cook, was slicing a tomato. The kitchen boy had taken off his flip-flop and was slapping at a cockroach. It was a miracle that meals were produced from this place at all, meals for fifteen people and vaguely on time. Two gas burners supported pans filled with something-or-other bubbling away. Some onion rings were heaped in a bowl. Otherwise there was no indication that lunch would be served in an hour’s time.
Fernandez nodded a greeting. Norman offered him his flask. The cook lifted it to his lips. Norman dropped in most days; there was something undemanding about this grease-spattered little hovel. Despite his rudimentary English, Fernandez was usually game for a chat. Minoo was often distracted, and Sonny popped in only now and then. The bowed old cook, however, was always on the premises; in fact the chap never seemed to have a day off.
This morning, however, Fernandez seemed to be upset. “Memsahib,” he said, rolling his eyes. How well Norman knew that shrug, the eyes raised heavenward. It was the same gesture the world over. The cook took another gulp of the whisky. No doubt Mrs. Cowasjee had been shouting at him again. Norman found the sari-clad firebrand faintly arousing but she seemed to make the servants’ lives a misery, bossing them about and setting them against each other. “She says always she is working,” said Fernandez. “The feets, the food … lunch and then dinner, too much working.”
“The feets?” asked Norman.
“Old memsahibs, very bad feets.”
Maybe I could get her to cut my toenails, thought Norman. Need a bloody hacksaw nowadays.
Fernandez seemed disinclined to talk. Swaying slightly, he crossed the floor and heaved the pot off the gas. It was a shame. Fernandez came from Goa, and Norman enjoyed hearing tales of the topless beaches where the cook’s son owned a café and seemingly enjoyed the favors of a string of Dutch and German nymphomaniacs. According to Fernandez, Goa was one long orgy. Pauline had promised to take Norman there the next time she came to India.
Norman left the kitchen. Outside, the dhobi arrived on his bicycle. It wa
s laden with laundry. Norman’s hankies were returned starched and pressed so beautifully it seemed a shame to use them. Since his op, of course, there had been less need. “Won’t know if I’m coming or going.” Norman still chuckled at the joke. He could always retire to his room, switch on STAR TV and watch scantily clad Mumbai models cavorting to film tunes. Even for him, however, there was something dispiriting about this in broad daylight.
Norman crossed the garden and emerged into the street. The heat was blinding—a glare that made him stagger. The crossroads teemed with people—office workers, hawkers, beggars. The sheer movement of humanity made him feel seasick. A policeman stood on his plinth, blowing his whistle and vainly trying to direct the traffic.
Norman walked up the road. He would go to one of the big hotels—the Taj Balmoral, the Oberoi—and sink a pre-lunch beer. Today might be an auspicious day—they believed all that nonsense—today he might be lucky and meet an accommodating female with a taste for mature men. He walked past the United Ice Cream Parlor and Khan’s Video Rental, past the Hideaway Pub—The Hot Spot That’s Really Cool—a throbbing den into which he had once unwisely ventured, to find its customers of kindergarten age. The road was being dug up in the torpid Indian manner; one man squatted with a bucket while another man, clutching a spade, listlessly tipped in teaspoons of rubble. A sign had been erected showing an arrow pointing right, while another sign was propped up saying Keep Left. This didn’t seem to matter, as the traffic took not a blind bit of notice anyway. As usual, various young men took it upon themselves to accompany him.
“How are you, sir?”
“You are from which country, sir?”
“Please step inside, sir, you want fine tarts?”
Norman stopped. “Fine tarts?”
“Fine brass, sir. Come inside my shop.”
“You are from which country, sir?”
“London, and bugger off.” Suddenly, Norman felt homesick for London—the rain, the incurious inhabitants, his daughter, who despite everything loved her old dad. It had been nice when Pauline was here, bustling around, putting his Wisdens on the bookshelf and settling him in. India had powerfully affected her. Every day she had doled out sweets to children who had flocked around her, pulling at her legs. It probably came from having no kids of her own. Now she was long gone, and not due back for months.
Across the road was a park. It was just a small place: a dried-up fountain; a few trees, bristling with starlings. Families sat on the grass drinking soda pop. In each group sat a granddad. Norman stopped. Supporting himself with his stick, he gazed across the traffic. How right it was, that they brought their old granddads along; how happy they looked, the patriarchs, surrounded by their loved ones! Lucky bastards.
Beside him a taxi stopped and a woman climbed out. She was a gorgeous creature, maybe thirty years old, wearing a silky tunic and slacks. She stopped and looked at him.
Norman rallied. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. With an effort he cranked into gear, changing from neglected paterfamilias into a grizzled Casanova. What a seductive smile she had! What glistening, crimson lips! The invitation was unmistakable.
He would ask her to accompany him to the Taj Balmoral to partake of some liquid refreshment. Norman opened his mouth to speak, but then she spoiled it.
“Do you need help?” She stepped closer, her face concerned. “Are you lost, uncle?”
It took a moment for this to sink in. “Certainly not!” said Norman, and marched away up the street.
Caring for the daily needs of a Hindu god is similar to coping with a bedridden invalid. At midday the god is given a hot bath and anointed with saffron powder. Sandal paste is applied to the statue’s breast and feet. It is clothed in clean garments and decked with jewels and garlands of flowers. When the god is ready, the curtain is reopened so that the god can be seen by the devotees. Next comes lunch, specially prepared by Brahmin cooks in the temple kitchens. Baskets of food are placed before the god. Finally the statue is offered quids of betel-nut and its mouth is washed with water.
PETER HOLT, In Clive’s Footsteps
The hotel was sunk in somnolence. It was the middle of the afternoon and most of the residents were having a nap. Some of them slept for hours, as if preparing for the sleep from which they would never awaken. Even the servants slumbered. Evelyn’s room looked out over the back. Through the iron grille of her window she could see the mali snoozing on his rope bed. The puppies lay strewn around like dead things. In the shadow of the wall the sweeper, apparently an Untouchable, lay on the earth, where he was indistinguishable from a pile of rags. Evelyn felt an intruder, gazing at these exposed lives, but in fact she liked this room better than her original one overlooking the garden. She had more privacy, a luxury denied to the staff.
Evelyn sat on the bed and wriggled her toes. Mrs. Cowasjee had given her a pedicure. She had painted her nails a pearly pink. Evelyn knew that it was trivial to find pleasure in such a minor thing, but there was no denying that it was a morale-booster. She had missed Beverley’s sagas, of course—she had written her manicurist a letter but had received no reply—and Mrs. Cowasjee had seemed even grumpier than usual. Evelyn’s tentative inquiries about the shoes, and her first meeting with her husband, had been met with a contemptuous sniff.
Evelyn walked to the lounge. Jimmy, who was dozing in a chair, struggled to his feet. Despite her protestations that she could do it herself, he went to the fridge and fetched her a Thums Up (Absolutely No Natural Ingredients), a drink to which she had become mildly addicted.
Evelyn went out to the veranda, stepping over a line of ants that were making their way into the hotel, presumably to carry on eating it. Only yesterday she had opened a biography of Dr. Crippen, one of the books that had been left behind by former visitors, and found its pages crumbling to sawdust.
She sat down with her drink. Jimmy hovered in the doorway.
“It’s all right, Jimmy.”
“Madam would like something else?”
“No, thank you.”
Still he stood there, a shadowy waxwork. Always, everywhere, eyes were upon her—people wanting to serve her, to sell her something, people simply wanting to accompany her in the street in a desire to be helpful. Indians were so very hospitable and polite, so eager to welcome a visitor to their country. It certainly made a change from England, but it could become somewhat wearing. Though Jimmy was a servant, he was still more or less a man and she didn’t want him to see her bare legs, so pitifully white and bruised from the slightest knock. Of course there were worse sights in India than her thread veins, but she still had her pride. In fact, when she was young her legs had been her best feature. She could remember the exact moment when, puzzled by the phrase a nicely turned ankle, she discovered that it was a compliment and applied to herself. Even now she could recall the blush of pleasure. It was at a tea party in Horsham, when she was sixteen years old.
“Watch out for snakes.”
Evelyn jumped. Madge Rheinhart stepped out onto the veranda.
“Eithne swears she saw a cobra,” said Madge, “but you know what a nervous little ninny she is.”
Madge looked beautifully groomed, as always—burnished helmet of hair, silk blouse and slacks. Sleep never rumpled her. Even with her glasses on, Evelyn couldn’t detect a wrinkle on that face. It was hard to believe she was as old as Evelyn; she seemed a different species altogether. Evelyn suspected a few nips and tucks. She wondered if it made one feel any younger, to stall time in this way. It was not a question she could put, even to Madge.
“I wish I could jettison my tights,” said Evelyn. “In this climate … well …”
“Things can get a little clammy,” laughed Madge. “Be a devil and go native. You’ve got gorgeous feet. Mine are hideous—Mrs. C nearly had a fit.”
“You’ve been to her too?”
Madge nodded. “We’re all going; she does a mean pedicure. What you need are some glamorous sandals.”
“I don’t have any,
” said Evelyn.
“Come along. We’ll go to the Oberoi, it’s got the best shops.”
“But—”
“Come along, sweetie. The nice thing about India is you never have to think about money because everything’s so cheap.”
For those on a fixed income this wasn’t entirely true, but Evelyn surrendered. A thing she missed, since Hugh’s death, was another person making the decisions.
The Oberoi Hotel was only a mile up the road, but Madge ordered a taxi. It was too hot to walk, and besides, they would get pestered. Evelyn liked the taxis; they were called Ambassadors, but they were really old Morris Oxfords and reminded her of trips to the seaside when she was little.
“Such a happy time.”
“What did you say?” asked Madge.
“Nothing, dear.” Evelyn liked Madge; Norman called her the Merry Widow. Madge already knew her way around the city—Prada shops, Gucci shops. She said that all the best boutiques were to be found in the big hotels.
They were just getting into the taxi when Muriel Donnelly hurried over. “Got room for one more?”
Later it all made sense. At the time, however, Evelyn was mildly surprised. She presumed that after three days of being confined to The Marigold, feeling poorly, Muriel wanted a jaunt. Her behavior, however, was odd. On the way she didn’t speak. The driver swerved around cows and scooters; Muriel gripped the torn hole where the doorknob had once been and stared fixedly out the window. When they passed a group of Europeans, she swung around and gazed at them until they were out of sight.
“How can anyone sightsee in this weather?” asked Madge.
“The Ainslies do,” replied Evelyn. “They’ve gone to the Bull Temple.”
“Doesn’t that woman drive you round the bend?” said Madge. “So bloody smug. Dragging her husband around like a prize exhibit, crowing because she’s got one and we haven’t.”
“Madge!” said Evelyn.
“Boasting about her bloody son. Sometimes I wish something would happen to her, just to wipe that self-satisfied expression off her face.”
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel Page 12