Meeting Max

by Richard Brumer

  Chapter 4

  India at last!

  Rick’s feet pressed hard on Indian soil. The pollution still consumed him. He wondered if this was a harbinger of a bleak reality yet to come. Did he want to be in a country where he couldn’t breathe the air or drink the water?

  Rick wheezed his way through his surroundings. He could see particles of dirt and sand near the streetlights hanging in the air, adding to the foggy atmosphere. He hoped these conditions were only present at the airport because of takeoffs and landings on sandy runways. He wanted so much to be in India and knew he had to adapt. Maybe the polluted, odorous, and dirty India was the real India, the India he couldn’t smell or see in his Lonely Planet Guide.

  He’d once believed human beings needed two things to survive, clean air and water. Delhi didn’t have either. The air filled everyone’s lungs with pollution, and those brave enough to drink the tap water took the chance of coming down with Delhi Belly. He put a handkerchief over his mouth and threw his backpack into the next auto rickshaw in line outside the airport. He had to get some sleep in a real bed.

  They drove off, leaving a trail of dust and sand. The driver pushed on the horn incessantly as they made their way out of the airport onto a main road. He maneuvered his way around hordes of people, who walked between the traffic like phantoms in the night.

  Rick leaned forward and asked the driver, “Is Delhi always this polluted?”

  “No, sir, it is usually worse,” he replied in his lilting accent. “After one or two more days, it will not be a noticeable thing for you.”

  Rick was thrilled to be in a country that was so different from anywhere he had ever been, but at the same time, he was sickened by the air and his stomach was twisting in knots.

  As they drove along the crowded streets, every detail flooded his eyes. Women’s colorful saris sparkled in the night, and the multitude of yellow and black three-wheeled auto rickshaws fought to go nowhere in a hurry. They were all creeping along, blowing their horns nonstop, as throngs of people weaved between the vehicles. It was a bumpy, uncomfortable ride. Rick leaned back in his seat and thought about Elena.

  There’s something strange about her, something beneath all her innocence.

  He was beginning to wonder how much she had hidden from him during their conversation.

  I might never see her again.

  When the driver stopped at a traffic signal, a beggar lady came up to the open rickshaw with a baby in her arms. She put her thumb and two fingers to her lips as a gesture that she needed food for the infant.

  The stop was brief, and Rick was aware of her presence, but he looked straight ahead. The driver moved forward and a sense of guilt consumed Rick when he looked at the beggar lady in the rearview mirror, a mother and baby, now just shadows.

  The night was alive with the throaty sounds of roaring motorcycles as the pedestrians breathed in their fumes. Soon, they left the noisy traffic and highways, with their wild cacophony of nervous street sounds. Everything became quiet. Rick’s driver took him down a narrow, unpaved road to a locked wooden gate. Behind it stood his home for the next few days.

  He knew in advance that staying with Indian people at their own residence would be a more personal experience, but he was also aware that if he were with Elena, a luxurious hotel would be his first choice. She liked the lavishness of a five-star hotel, and he knew she wouldn’t fit in here.

  Lubna, Rohit’s wife, showed him to his room as her son, Raj, carried his backpack. The room was spacious and clean, with a full-size bed in the center and a large, colorful Indian tapestry above the dark wood headboard. Framed watercolors of the Indian landscape were arranged artistically on one wall and sculptures were scattered about.

  The bed was inviting. He quickly unpacked, showered, and drifted off to sleep within minutes.

  ***

  Morning came. He dressed, grabbed his daypack, and walked out to the patio just outside the dining area. Rohit brought him a copy of the Hindustan Times and informed him breakfast was almost ready.

  Rick glanced through the newspaper. He read an article about isolated terrorist attacks in different parts of India, but from where he sat, he heard nothing but birds singing in the sunshine.

  An elderly British couple who occupied the other guest room were at the breakfast table when Rick entered the dining room, his newspaper folded and tucked into his daypack.

  Robert was a big man with sparse, sandy-colored hair, clad in a light khaki outfit. His round rimmed glasses gave him away as an intellectual. His wife, Elizabeth, showed none of the typical British behavior and could be the kind of person one could meet at a local town meeting.

  Everyone shook hands and introduced themselves when their host family, which included Rohit, his wife, Lubna, and his mother, Barindra, joined them. Together, they enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast of Indian pancakes, scrambled eggs, tea, and warm chapati. They chatted about where they were from and the countries they’d visited.

  “What I find most fascinating about this country is its culture,” Robert said, sipping his tea.

  “I agree with you there,” Rick said. “It’s amazing how your perspective changes when you leave the country of your birth. Now that I’m here, I feel like America is still so young and without an established culture. I think cultures need thousands of years to evolve in order to pass on its nuances from long ago.”

  Rohit shook his head as he chewed his food and said, “Oh no, I think America does have a culture, but it’s based on technology. Culture here in India is so…different.” He seemed unable to find the words, and washed down his breakfast with another swallow of tea.

  “You may have a point there,” Rick admitted with reluctance. “It’s a shame how obsessed people are with their computers these days.” No one disagreed with that, and they lapsed into silence as they finished their meal.

  ***

  After breakfast, Rick bargained a good price with a young, energetic auto rickshaw driver who took him to Connaught Place, a very busy area similar to Columbus Circle in New York City. He bought a mobile phone and signed up with Airtel, as Elena had suggested. It would give him the opportunity to stay in touch with her and would be useful for booking rooms at other homestays.

  He checked his e-mail at a cybercafé and realized he hadn’t given his e-mail address to Elena. Despite this, he wasn’t worried. He was sure they would connect.

  There were a few messages in his e-mail inbox from colleagues inquiring about his trip and one from his brother, David, who lived in the British Virgin Islands with his wife, Daniela.

  Replying to his e-mails, Rick told his friends how he’d grown to like Delhi, that it was a city in motion and he was happy to be part of it.

  Pollution still enveloped him, but it was tolerable now. There was not much greenery in Delhi, so he headed to the nearby Lodi Gardens, a place he’d read about in his Lonely Planet Guide. It was the only area in Delhi that would provide him with a quiet, peaceful setting and clean air.

  Rick stepped off the street, away from the clatter and into the serenity of Lodi Gardens. He felt the contrast. It was as if a door had closed behind him. All was calm. He instantly felt the fresh breeze flowing over him, filtered by the trees, clean and pure.

  He sat on a bench and listened to the songs of the birds as he thought about Eric. Finding him could never have been done from the United States. Rick knew he had to be in India to do it.

  He thought of Julie and his college days as he succumbed to the sweet fragrant air around him. His feelings for her told him what it was like to be in love, but their relationship was short lived, only a taste, and he never found love again.

  Rohit had explained to him that in India, parks such as the Lodi were traditional meeting places for young people in love, and they served as safe havens for couples whose relationships were not approved by their parents. Rick watched young men and women passing by, hand in hand, apparently in love, finding solace and safety walking in these gardens, so
aking up its stillness.

  After leaving the gardens, he looked for an auto rickshaw to take him back home. Out of nowhere, the same driver who brought him to the Lodi drove up and came to a dead stop. They greeted each other with huge smiles as if they were old friends.

  He told Rick his name was Permanand. He was high-spirited, and his broad grin appeared to be engraved on his face, displaying his perfect teeth. He was energetic, optimistic, and about thirty-five years old. Permanand had a round face and shiny black hair, strands of which rested loosely over his forehead, giving him a boyish look. His English was good, although he spoke in Hindi English, but Rick felt the driver’s knowledge and intuition about the ins and outs of this city of extremes left little to be desired. Every word he spoke was with a smile and a gesture.

  On the way back to Rohit’s place, Permanand stopped briefly to introduce Rick to his wife, Shyama, who was selling flowers on the street. She sat on the ground, her slim body surrounded by colorful blooms. She blended in with them, as if she were a blossom in the midst of a garden.

  Shyama was lovely, with olive skin and jet-black hair that swirled around her shoulders each time she moved her head. The entire picture of her with the flowers was a work of art.

  Afterward, they stopped at Humyun’s Tomb, where Permanand told Rick the story of the Mughal Emperor. He seemed thrilled to pass his knowledge of Indian history to the American. Rick asked Permanand to teach him some Hindi and Permanand’s face lit up with excitement.

  With a slight bow and his hands extended, Permanand said, “Ap kaise haiṅ. It is meaning, ‘how are you?’ Shukriya. It is to say ‘thank you.’” He then introduced Rick to other useful phrases, such as, I would like some, and names for taxi and tea, which Rick picked up quickly. He was good with languages and was fairly fluent in French, Spanish, and some Hungarian.

  “You are good, Mr. Rick. You are speaking Hindi very good, sir.”

  Within an hour, Rick was bouncing the recently learned phrases back at him. One word he planned to use often was chalo. It meant ‘let’s go,’ and Rick repeated it many times with gusto, practicing it while Permanand laughed and slapped his hands on his thighs. Rick believed his guide to be a one of a kind human being and felt lucky to have found him.

  “Permanand, I would like you to be my personal driver and my only driver while I’m in Delhi. If you agree, you would have to be available when I need your service.”

  “Yes, boss, it would be my pleasure to serve you!” Permanand exclaimed, beaming. “I am very desperate and enthusiastic to help you. I am glad you are needing me.”

  “Shukriya, Permanand.” Rick thought that desperate was a little dramatic, but this was India. “The boss part is unnecessary. We’re friends now.”

  “Thank you. You are a kind fellow, Mr. Rick. I will stay with you as long you are needing me, and you pay me what you think is right and no baksheesh.

  “I know you are an honorable man. It is good that we are meeting today, because yesterday I took a chance and ate some bad food. I suffered from loose motion, and it would not be a good thing for you to see me that way. But today, I am very fine.”

  “I have an idea of what you mean, but I would think that your body is used to spicy Indian food.”

  “Maybe I am being punished,” he mumbled, wobbling his head from side to side. “I always eat vegan, but I had mutton for the first time.”

  “Mutton comes from older sheep. Maybe your body is not used to it.”

  “It may be, but the loose motion was very bad. My wife stayed home to nurse me, and her sister took Shyama’s place to sell the flowers. My wife is a very good person. She told me that the meat from the goat was not good for me.”

  “A goat?” Rick asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Mr. Rick. In India, our mutton is from bakra, or you say ‘goat.’”

  “Oh, I see. Well, you had better stick to vegan. I’m not a vegan, but I always eat close to vegetarian,” Rick added as he mentally filed the word bakra in his mind.

  ***

  Rick called Elena’s hotel using his new Nokia and was told there was no Elena Weisz registered.

  Was she not staying there?

  He left his number anyway and called again later, hoping he would have more luck talking to someone else, but the response was the same.

  Was the contact information wrong? Did she change her mind and go somewhere else? Was she playing some sort of game on the plane, leading me on?

  Rick felt helpless. His mind was filled with questions, and the questions didn’t bring answers, only more questions.

  Everything she talked about pointed to her desire for them to meet in Delhi. Sixteen hours in a plane brought them together, or at least that’s what he thought. She’d been so convincing.

  Rick called several times the next day. The answer was always the same. There was no Elena Weisz registered.

  What happened to her?

  He went to the hotel and spoke to the manager, asking if the hotel was part of a chain and if there was more than one in Delhi. The manager assured him there was no other place with that name and the number he called was correct.

  Is she in a hospital?

  His imagination was drunk with scenarios. He went home to Rohit’s house and fell into a deep sleep, then awoke an hour later, startled.

  Who was Sudar, the man who had driven her away from the airport? Why didn’t a hotel driver pick her up?

  There were no calls for him on his mobile and none the next day. Finding Eric was his reason for being in India. He had to let thoughts of her go. Elena would remain a mystery.

  Chapter 5

  When Elena expressed her feelings about her first love, it reminded Rick of his bittersweet love for Julie and the reason he was in India. Perhaps Elena was clinging to her memory too hard, never letting go, still searching for another Dan. She was asking for the impossible, and, as a result, found no one. Rick was no different. He’d idealized his time with Julie over the years, forgetting their bouts of anger and frustration.

  It was late 1979 when he first met Julie in the library at NYU. They were both nineteen. She was a nursing student and he was a political science major with the intention of working for the Foreign Service for the U.S. Department of State. She sat across from him at a solid oak table, immersed in writing.

  She wasn’t beautiful in the popular sense, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her straight golden blonde hair fell behind her like a curtain and came to rest over her shoulders. She wore no makeup and her sparkling blue eyes gave her a wholesome look. He saw her as she was, with an inner smile that lit her face.

  It was fall and the air was crisp and sunny. The windows of the library were open a crack to let in the cool fresh air along with the street sounds of busy Greenwich Village. She peeked up at him with a polite grin, and he smiled back.

  After a while, she closed her book, leaned back, and stretched.

  “What are you reading?” Rick asked.

  “Pharmacology. I have an exam coming up in two days.”

  “You want to be a pharmacologist?”

  “Not really. I’m a nursing student. Pharmacology is one of the pre-reqs.”

  “Nursing, that’s a tough course. You have to be really into it. I assume you like to help people.” He extended his hand across the table. “I’m Rick, Rick Newman.”

  “I’m Julie Phillips.” Her hand felt soft against his. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here. What do you like to do for fun?”

  Before she could answer, a female student sitting at the end of the table looked up from her book and turned toward them with raised eyebrows, holding her index finger vertically against her lips. Rick held up his hand, acknowledging her implicit request to keep their voices lowered.

  Julie went on with barely a whisper. “Don’t have much time for fun, but I read a lot, love movies, dancing, cheeseburgers, and exploring the Village.” She covered her mouth, grinning. “That sounded so silly, but I don’t li
ke to define myself. I might become that person, and it may not be me. I don’t know if that makes sense.” She cocked her head, her eyes tired from long hours of studying.

  “I get the idea. I haven’t defined myself either. I’ll keep living my improvised life as I go along. I’m sorry if I interrupted your work. It’s just that, uh…”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m getting ready to leave anyway.”

  “You have another class?”

  “No, I did what I had to do here. It was great meeting you. Maybe we’ll…”

  “Hey, it’s a nice day. Sunny, not too cold. How about a walk? Unless you have to be somewhere.”

  Julie’s face lit up. “No, sounds good. I would like that. I’ve been cooped up here for the past three hours. I need a break. Let’s do it.”

  Soon, they found themselves walking down Minetta Lane, a quaint street in the heart of Greenwich Village. It was a narrow strip, one block long, between a line of small brick houses on one side and empty storefronts on the other.

  It didn’t look like much at first glance, perhaps not even on second glance, but Minetta Lane had its own magic for Rick. Maybe it was because when people stepped off the noisy adjoining street and onto Minetta Lane, they felt the contrast and discovered the comfort of silence. The tops of skinny leafless trees on the sidewalk arched over the roadway and formed a lacey canopy. The air was fresh, the sunshine full, and the conversation easy as they chatted about school and their lives.

  They left Minetta Lane, walked to Washington Square Park, and sat on a bench across from the commanding Fifth Avenue Arch, a short distance from New York University. A musical jazz group nearby played West End Blues with a trumpet taking the lead. It was New Orleans style, loud and sexy, right in the groove, as they moved their instruments up and down, keeping time with their feet. A brown hat sat on the ground, inviting donations.