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.
Dorothy 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.
Dorothy knew she had been ungracious earlier, but it was all so overwhelming. Years, it had been, since she had cried in public. She knew, of course, why she hadn’t told them earlier. The pity, the sympathy, the fluttering around her—it would have been suffocating. Now the lid had been lifted. She could stir in her box and feel people’s breath on her face. Back home, in her former life, the waxworks stood on their plinths. When she was young she believed that at night they woke up. They stepped down and mingled, chattering across the centuries.
In a former life, she, too, had stood on a stage. Her career as an actress had been a failure. Even at the time she had known the reason. To surrender yourself, the freefall of it, you had to trust others to catch you. Tonight she had come nowhere near explaining, but she had felt the kindness of strangers.
Dorothy walked down to the gates. Wrapped in a military blanket, the chowkidar slept. As she stood there, something unclosed within her. Across the road the little bazaar was dark. In the streetlight she could see bodies slumbering; they lay like waxworks that nobody would pay to see. Nearby, the elderly beggar lay in his usual spot. He was swaddled in a cloth. Only his feet protruded, wearing surprisingly smart shoes.
It was three in the morning. In Karishma Plaza, however, the lights blazed. When she was little, this office block didn’t exist. St. Mary’s Convent had stood across the road, shaded by tamarind trees. Her teacher, Sister Ruth, had owned a pet monkey. Once, Dorothy had seen two nuns sitting on the swing, laughing like young girls. They were young girls.
She remembered the office building across the Marylebone Road, the security guard swiveling around on his chair. He was Indian too. Maybe he was dreaming of his lost homeland, just as she did, the traffic sliding between them.
Dorothy walked back toward the hotel. In the bushes a cat meowed for Eithne, who had deserted him. It was cool; Dorothy wrapped her dressing gown around her. From their pots, the lilies exhaled their perfume.
The moon shines bright; in such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise; in such a night
Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls
And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents
Where Cressid lay that night.
Dorothy paused on the driveway, looking up.
Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.
At the side of the hotel a light shone, illuminating the veranda. It was Muriel’s room.
“Norman’s not back,” Muriel hissed from her open window. “He was sozzled tonight.”
Dorothy went indoors to Muriel’s room, and sat down. Muriel climbed back into bed. She wore a flannel nightie printed with flowers.
“It’s just like school here, isn’t it,” said Dorothy. It was school.
“He’s dead, I know he is,” said Muriel.
“Norman?”
“No. My Keith. Somebody’s died tonight.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Dorothy. “A lot of people have died tonight but your son’s not one of them.”
“I can feel it.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
She felt close to Muriel tonight. Muriel had seen her childhood home. Afterward they had traveled around the city and Dorothy had pointed out the few places she dimly remembered, the few that remained—Nancy Mayhew’s house, now the Inspectorate of Highways; the bungalow in Cunningham Street where Dorothy had gone for dancing lessons, now a restaurant serving Steak’n’Seafood Sizzlers. The fog dissolved, revealing the landscape of her past. She thought: How could my parents have sent me away, across the world?
“Children are what keep you alive, see,” said Muriel.
“Do they?” asked Dorothy. “I wouldn’t know.”
“They’re how you carry on after you’ve passed,” said Muriel. “I’ve given up this Indian rubbish. It doesn’t work.”
“I think the only thing that lasts is art,” said Dorothy.
“I wanted to tell Keith what happened, see,” said Muriel. “I never did; I kept putting it off and now it’s too late.” Her fingers kneaded the coverlet. Without her teeth, her face had fallen in. “They sent me away because of what happened with Leonard.”
“Leonard?”
“They had me evacuated to Melton Mowbray,” said Muriel. “It was like the end of the world, like farther than here. They took away my baby, I was only sixteen, see, they took away my baby and sent me away.” She started crying. “And when I got back Lenny was dead. He was the love of my life, Dotty, he had such lovely hair. And then I married his brother and Keith was born and Paddy was his father but somewhere there’s this other little boy but Keith doesn’t know and this other little boy, Charlie was his name, he was made with love.” Muriel raised her face. It was terrible to see. Dorothy looked around for a Kleenex but there weren’t any.
“I’m so sorry,” Dorothy said. “So very sorry.” Just for a moment she thought: This would make a good documentary.
Muriel wiped her cheeks with the coverlet.
“I was sent away too,” said Dorothy. “When I was eight, not sixteen. My parents sent me away from here, to boarding school in England. It was the end of my world.” There, she had said it. “I’m sure it was for my own good, but I felt utterly unwanted. India was stolen from me. India stole my parents from me. Nobody could love me after that because how could they, when my parents didn’t? Oh I don’t know. My whole life has been a mess.”
She stopped to catch her breath. She thought of her friends, the bright young men with whom she had worked, so many of them dead from AIDS; she thought of her Hungarian lover and others before him and she realized: I’ve never told anybody this. Here I am telling it to a toothless old lady from Peckham who’s probably not that interested anyway.
Far away in the lobby the phone rang. There was nobody around to answer it.
It rang and rang, while the two women sat there, lost in their thoughts, and then it stopped.
If thy soul finds rest in me, thou shalt overcome all dangers by my grace; but if thy thoughts are on thyself, and thou wilt not listen, thou shalt perish.
The Bhagavad Gita
Norman’s death stunned the residents. A heart attack, apparently. They sat in the lounge, under a solitary paper chain; the stringing up of the Christmas decorations had come to a standstill.
“I can’t believe it,” said Hermione. “Such a character. Such a life-force.” She was a churchgoer and nice about everybody.
“I still don’t understand how it happened,” said somebody.
“He lost his way in the bazaar,” said someone else.
“But what was he doing there?”
“Buying something, I suppose. A Christmas present.”
“But wouldn’t the shops be closed?”
“Perhaps they stay open late at Christmas, like Dickins & Jones.”
“In the bazaar?”
“But surely they don’t believe in Christmas, here.”
“Yes they do, dear. We taught it to them.”
>
“For God’s sake!” interrupted Madge. “The man was on the razzle, the randy old tomcat.”
“Madge!”
“He had a heart attack on the job.”
There was a silence. Hermione shifted in her armchair.
“What job?” asked Stella.
“Peter Sellers went that way.”
“Did he really?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“—with his wife. That film star.”
“His poor daughter.”
“Whose, dear?”
“What are we going to tell her when she arrives?”
“If one has to go, it’s got to be the best way. Quick.”
Outside it had clouded over. A breeze blew through the door, chilling their cheeks. After all, it was December. The paper chain shivered.
“I know! Britt Ekland.”
Minoo had told them the news at breakfast. Norman’s body had been taken to the hospital to await instructions. His daughter had been informed and would be arriving the next morning, a day early. What’s the hurry? thought Douglas. Norman’s son-in-law, apparently, had changed his plans and would be accompanying her. It seemed you had to die before people traveled across the world to visit you. Neither of Douglas’s children was coming for Christmas; that must be because he and Jean were still alive.
Douglas had had mixed feelings about Norman, but his death had affected him deeply. Already he had been feeling rocky. That night, weeks ago, he had put something into words and nothing could erase it. The word “ghastly,” which he never normally used, had lodged itself in his head. I am married to a ghastly woman. She’s boastful. She’s boring. She’s fathomlessly smug. The thought of spending the rest of my life with her is too ghastly to contemplate. How strange that he had never realized it before. They had always been so busy rushing around, off to Portugal, off on some NADFAS tour. Maybe it had been lurking but he hadn’t dared to admit it because then, like the nuclear bomb, it could never be uninvented.
Norman’s death had demonstrated, if such proof was needed, that life is short. If only good manners worked, when it came to death. After you. No, after you. They had been precious little use in the past. In fact it was good manners that had made him marry Jean. Oh, she was lively and attractive, he had enjoyed going to bed with her, but to be honest he had married her because she had presumed they would and he didn’t want to be considered a cad. Forty-eight years had passed, seemingly in his sleep. And now, sooner rather than later, he would die. YOU first! Like jumping into the sea on a freezing day. You go first and tell me what it’s like.
No doubt the women in The Marigold envied his marriage. How little they knew. He had a strong desire to confide in Evelyn. She and Dorothy were the only people who might understand. This was impossible, of course. He must take his secret to the grave.
Lunch had been served—coronation chicken or fried pomfret. Life had to go on, meals had to be cooked and cleared away. The servants, no doubt used to the presence of death, carried on with their duties. The residents, of course, had suffered their losses, but India seemed to display the flimsiness of life on a larger scale than the one to which they were accustomed. Olive Cooke swore that a bundled-up body lying beside Gulshan Crafts, opposite, had been there for two days.
The sun had come out. Evelyn sat on the veranda, a sparrow in her lap. It had been walloped by the ceiling fan and lay there, stunned. This had happened on several previous occasions. Various women had nursed the birds on their laps, but so far none had revived.
“Just off, Mum, see you later.” Theresa crossed the veranda.
“Where are you going?”
Theresa smiled. “Shopping.”
Good Lord, her daughter was wearing lipstick! The effect was transforming. The last time she had worn it was for Evelyn and Hugh’s silver wedding.
Evelyn watched Theresa walking briskly toward the gates. She suspected that her daughter was going to buy her a Christmas present. She hoped she wouldn’t have to be polite about it; usually Theresa got her some item from the Greenpeace catalogue that Evelyn discreetly passed on to her cleaning lady.
“Any sign of life?” asked Douglas from the next table.
Evelyn looked in her lap. The sparrow hadn’t stirred. “Not yet.”
“Oh well, hope springs eternal.”
Douglas sat with his wife, who was writing a letter. His Wilbur Smith was propped in front of him, but Evelyn knew that he hadn’t been reading it. They were all somewhat distracted by the news. It was already disorienting to realize they were living in Dorothy’s old school. Today, however, there was a jumpiness in the air. One-and-a-half down (Eithne being the half); whose turn was next?
So Norman was, as Madge somewhat crudely called it, on the job. It was called le petit mort, Evelyn knew that. From her own admittedly limited experience, lovemaking was a companionable rather than near-death thing. She wondered if Graham Turner was a virgin. He sat under the peepul tree writing in a notebook. One had only to look at him to guess that this was probably the case. What had he got to show for a lifetime in the civil service?
Then there was her own daughter. Theresa, too, hadn’t had much luck in that department. The few love affairs that Evelyn knew about had ended in a welter of recrimination. Theresa made things so complicated. She wanted to turn everything into a relationship, a word that to Evelyn always spelled trouble. Once people called it that, everything seemed to go wrong. Why couldn’t Theresa just be happy? Time was short—terrifyingly short. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Evelyn had learned that at school, where of course it hadn’t meant a thing. Here, despite the little fusses and annoyances, she sensed she was in the company of people who, somehow or other, had this at the back of their minds.
And tomorrow Christopher would arrive, with family in tow. She knew he had booked this holiday especially to see her, but the prospect filled her with dread. It would all start up again as if there had been no interruption … the blame, the resentment. You always sided with Christopher, you and Dad, I was never the sort of daughter you wanted me to be. Boarding school, no doubt, would rear its ugly head. Good Lord, Dorothy had been banished across the world at eight years old and she was all right. Well, maybe not all right, but she had survived.
And Theresa was so indiscreet. Had she no sense of decorum at all? In our family nobody believed in talking, she said. She had certainly made up for it since. At their first breakfast she had tried to explain Munchausen syndrome to Jimmy, the bearer, who was serving them Sugar Puffs. She believed that servants were people and should be included in the proceedings.
“I used to pretend I was ill,” Theresa told the old man. “Just to get people’s attention.”
“I don’t think he understands, dear,” said Evelyn.
“I used to limp on walks.”
“Theresa, they don’t have to pretend to limp here.”
She had to admit that Theresa seemed to have perked up since yesterday. That hug on the stairs had been something of a breakthrough. But Theresa was a turbulent woman and at a tricky time of life. It must be terrible to realize that the possibility of children had finally been extinguished. After all, without children, who would look after a person in her old age?
Who? Evelyn ignored this thought. She gazed into the garden. Graham Turner put away his notebook and went indoors for his nap.
Evelyn touched the sparrow. It was rigid, either from fear or from death. Whichever reason, she would let it lie there a little longer.
“I keep thinking he’s going to burst out of the hotel booming ‘fooled you all!’ ” said Douglas.
Evelyn presumed he was talking to his wife, but Jean had dozed off; he was talking to her.
When a man is not lord of his soul then this becomes his own enemy.
The Bhagavad Gita
“With a rising population of eight million, Bangalore is one of the fastest-growing cities in Asia,” read Christopher. “Listen, kids. At the cutting edge of the technological re
volution, Bangalore is a thriving modern metropolis with pubs, clubs and great shopping opportunities.”
They were traveling on the coach from Mysore. Across the aisle, the children sprawled in their seats.
“Sounds promising, eh?” said Christopher. “If you’re all templed out.”
“Temples suck,” said Clementine.
“Buildings can’t suck, sweetheart,” he replied.
Beside him, Marcia flung back her head and glugged from the water bottle. He thought of her lips clamped around his cock. That woman sucks me like chrome off a trailer-hitch. Where had he heard that? Some film. His wife thrummed with energy. To be truthful, her demands on this holiday had been somewhat overwhelming—sucking, straddling, pressing his buttocks into her as she experienced her spectacular multiple orgasms. After each one he thought she had finished, but no, another was on its way. However soft and shrunken he had become, she still availed herself of his body; in fact it hardly seemed to matter whether he was inside her or not. Whether he was there at all. To be perfectly honest, she could be rubbing herself against a traffic post. The night before, she had summoned him into the shower. While attempting to pinion her against the tiles, he had slipped on a bar of soap and nearly ricked his back. Of course the noise she made was gratifying, but he worried that the children would wake up in the next room. India seemed to be having an unsettling effect upon her.
The coach had come to a standstill. The driver hooted. Outside the window was a truck stop, a scruffy place puddled with oil. Horn Please was painted on the parked trucks. Good Luck. Christopher’s fellow vacationers leaned into the aisle to see what was holding them up.
Beside him, truck drivers lounged on rope beds. How contented they looked! They lay there, smoking cigarettes. Sealed into his air-conditioned coach, Christopher felt thrust into intimacy with these strangers. The place reminded him of his flat in Clapham—undoubtedly squalid but somehow simple in its demands. Nobody asked anything of these men: they drove, they slept, they smoked without Marcia reacting as if she had caught them masturbating. Christopher had a sudden desire to wrench open the coach door and step into another life. Good Luck! He could climb into a gaudily painted lorry and drive away. In America his wife did the driving because she said he drank too much. In America he had screwed up his career and financially ruined his mother. In America his children treated him like a servant.
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel Page 24