The Moon's Complexion

by Irene Black

  Hannah clambered back on board the truck. This time, sheer grit and determination not to look an idiot in front of vast numbers of grinning men paid off. With a superhuman effort, she managed to hoist herself back onto the gas cylinders with comparative dignity.

  “You were so cool,” Willi breathed. “I’d have wet myself.”

  “I used to live in Belfast,” Hannah said simply, wishing she felt as cool as she appeared. She was remembering that they had overtaken Salers. He was behind them somewhere, stuck, like they were, in Nanjangud.

  Chapter 13

  Apart from the occasional Christmas banners strung across shop windows and an odd Santa—sweltering inside his red suit while he drew attention to this shop or that with the aid of his hand-bell—Bangalore made little of Christmas Eve. Throughout the day, reports were coming in about the situation in the Mysore region. Ashok’s anxiety grew with each new piece of information. He heard that Tamil homes and farms were being set alight by Kanarese neighbors, with whom they had lived in peace all their lives until now. The reverse was happening across the border. The whole of the area around Nanjangud and Gundlupet was under curfew. Tamils were fleeing from Karnataka to Tamil Nadu, and vice versa. Trains were being halted, and passengers assaulted in both states. Livestock was reported killed in the fires. There was an unsubstantiated report of an old woman burned in her hut.

  Ashok made repeated trips to the car workshop. The mechanic said he was doing his best. Ashok’s knowledge of motor mechanics was negligible, and he had to accept the man’s word. By lunch, the car situation was unchanged, and he’d still had no word from Hannah. Meanwhile, all Ashok’s attempts to secure a vehicle from elsewhere had failed. His mind ran amok, and he struggled to curb his worst images of what might have befallen the two women. If they managed to get out of Bandipur before the curfew, they’ll have stopped in a hotel along the route, he insisted to himself. The phone lines are certainly down. They couldn’t possibly get word through. They’ll simply have to sit it out until it’s all over. Neither side, he reasoned, would risk harming their cause by attacking Europeans. Or would they?

  At two o’clock in the afternoon, the phone rang.

  “Ashok, can you hear me?”

  “Hallo, hallo, Hannah? Is it you?”

  “Yes. The line is very fuzzy, Ashok. Can you hear me now?”

  “I can hear you, Hannah. Where are you? Are you safe?”

  “We’re in Nanjangud. In a deserted bungalow. Used to be rather grand. We’re quite safe. Don’t worry.”

  “Thank goodness. Hannah? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I can’t hear you very well. Listen. We’ll have to stay here till this blows over. We aren’t getting much information here. Have you heard anything?”

  “Things are a bit hairy, Hannah. It could take some days. Any sign of Salers?”

  “Days, did you say?”

  The line went dead. Ashok put the phone down with a sense of relief tinged with irritation that they had not been able to complete their call. He had wanted to tell her he was so sorry, that he would come get her just as soon as he could get through, that he’d been out of his mind with worry. He had wanted to reassure himself that Salers had not materialized.

  With nightfall, marginal progress had been made on the Fiat. The mechanic triumphantly held up a small pin that he had succeeded in making.

  “It was very, very hard to get this to fit,” he told Ashok. “Now I have to make one more.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Come tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.”

  No point in arguing. No further word had come from Hannah, so Ashok decided to go and check Salman’s email. Perhaps Duncan had come up with new information. Salman, as always, was at the bench.

  “Three emails for Hannah.” He grinned. “Sorry—couldn’t help glancing at them. Looks as if you’re in for some competition, isn’t it? But one problem has resolved, no?”

  Ashok looked at him quizzically. Competition?

  He opened the first one.

  Have evidence that Salers is Terry Bull—but I guess you’d already worked that one out...

  He turned to the second email.

  Sender: Chief Superintendent Peter Harris, Surrey Police.

  Dear Miss Petersen

  I am sure you will be relieved to know that, acting on new information received from Mr. Duncan Forbes, we have today arrested a man at Heathrow Airport.

  However the man concerned, who was apprehended on a flight from Bombay, was not, as suggested by Mr. Forbes, the released prisoner Mark Salers.

  The man’s name is Paul Philip Fenton and he is a private investigator, who was hired in England by an American, one Dr. Elliott Bannerman. The New York Police Department is, of course, liaising with us to investigate this matter further. However I can tell you that Fenton was found to have in his possession notes pertaining to a Dr. Ashok Rao. It would appear that Bannerman was looking for material with which to blackmail you into withdrawing the publication of your latest book. The notes suggest the possibility that this could be achieved by threats to discredit Dr. Rao.

  We do, of course, need to discuss this with you and would request you to get in touch as a matter of urgency.

  On behalf of the Surrey Police Force may I say that I am delighted that this matter has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. I trust you and Mr. Forbes will now be able to enjoy the remainder of your holiday in peace.

  Peter Harris

  Unable to grasp the meaning of the email, Ashok read it again. It was good news, wasn’t it? But it didn’t make sense. A Bannerman plot after all? Then what about the altered copy of A Small Life? And why wish Hannah and Mr. Forbes a happy holiday? Was this email a fake? Someone clearly had their facts wrong. How did they get hold of his email address? Through Forbes? Who else?

  “I think you’d better look at last email.” Salman said.

  Incomprehension changed to horror and disbelief as Ashok read it.

  Sit tight, I’m on my way. Arriving Bangalore Christmas Eve. Try not to worry.

  Duncan

  P.S. Don’t go out at night. And keep your hotel room door locked.

  What the hell is going on? First an incomprehensible email purportedly from the British police. And now this idiot. It was a complete nightmare.

  Ashok needed to collect his thoughts. He printed out the emails and wandered over to the campus coffee bar. Here he bought a cup of coffee and sat at a table beneath a kapok tree.

  He looked again at the second email. Could it be genuine, after all? It certainly made sense that Bannerman could have sent an agent to dig up some dirt on Hannah or at least find some way to threaten her that would make her withdraw publication. He’d failed to intimidate her by threatening her directly, so he’d get at her through her friends. That also explained the attacks on him and Willi. But what about the book? Could it be that it wasn’t sent by Salers at all? That Bannerman’s agent sent it and the pearls? And tampered with the photographs? Had Duncan been misled? Of course. And Fenton—hadn’t that been the name of the fat guest at the Pandava? Suddenly he understood. It was a false trail to implicate Salers, so that no one would suspect Bannerman. While we were all tying ourselves in knots over Salers, Fenton would slip quietly back to England, to report to Bannerman, who was lying low there. Brilliant. Only… A grin slowly spread over Ashok’s face. He’d failed, hadn’t he? He’s been arrested. Our troubles are over. Ashok sat back, letting it slowly sink in.

  Then he remembered Duncan. His euphoria fled. Duncan’s appearance on the scene would be about as welcome as a mosquito inside a mosquito net. Hannah had said very little about him, but the fact that he was prepared to come all this way to help her left Ashok uneasy. Hannah had hinted at more than a mere working relationship between them once. This impulsive act implied that Duncan had hopes of resuscitating it. Well, it’s too late to tell him to get lost. He’ll be here by now.

  * * * *

  Five mi
nutes after the Law Enforcement Officer had ordered Hannah and her companions back across the Nanjangud bridge, their propane gas truck had turned off the main road onto a track to the left. It made its way down to an ancient, double-fronted bungalow. Despite, or perhaps, because of the tumbledown appearance, Hannah was struck by its beauty. It was set on the banks of the river, in a neglected, tree-studded garden, a silent paradise in the surrounding inferno. The truck was parked under a tree in front of the house, whose shadow protected it from the blaze of the sun. Since the crew spoke no English, the Europeans had no way to communicate verbally with them. On impulse, Hannah pressed a hundred rupees into the driver’s hand, although she knew that the journey was by no means over. Once they were off the truck, the Indians melted into the scenery and disappeared.

  The house was deserted except for a retainer, an ancient Methuselah, who had surely been inadvertently left behind when the house had been abandoned an indeterminate number of years ago.

  “How long do you suppose it’s been since anyone lived here?” Willi said.

  Hannah shook her head. “Impossible to tell in this part of the world. Looks like a remnant from the Raj, but who knows. Must have been very grand in its prime, though, don’t you think?”

  They studied the gabled porch, a room in itself, supported by neo-classical twin pillars at each corner and topped by a pointed roof of red Mangalore tiles. Beneath this imposing edifice, one could just make out a heavy, ornate, wooden door. The porch was flanked on each side by huge, half-octagonal bay windows, over which ran battlemented parapets.

  “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s turn of the century,” Hannah said.

  “I need to find a loo,” Willi said.

  The three boys came across to them. Obviously embarrassed at their previous display of gutlessness, they were intent on appearing chivalrous.

  “We are going to look for somewhere to eat,” one of the Germans said. “Perhaps you would care to join us?”

  “Have you tried asking the old boy?” Willi said.

  She marched across the grass to where the old man leaned against a tree, smoking a cigarette.

  “Look here,” she shouted, “we need toilets, you understand? And lunch.”

  The old man studied her for a moment, while he continued to puff at his cigarette, clearly not unmanned by her outburst. Willi looked around at the others. They watched her with interest, but no one moved to help her out of her predicament. They were far too curious to see what would happen next.

  “Toilets!” she shouted, this time even louder. “Lunch! Food! You savvy?”

  Slowly the old man lowered his cigarette. “Come,” he ordered her and started to walk towards the house.

  “I think he understood,” Willi shouted across to the others. “Come on.”

  They followed the old man up the steps to the porch, where he selected one of several large, rusting keys that dangled on a chain from his waist and inserted it with some difficulty into the door lock. The door squealed loudly as it swung ponderously open.

  For a few seconds, they blinked in the darkness that was such a contrast to the white, heat-saturated day outside. Gradually, they could make out a long, dark, wood-paneled hallway, into which were set three doors, one to the right, one to the left, and the third straight ahead. Fumbling with another key from his set, he opened the door on the left and gestured to the boys that they should go in. Then he unlocked the right hand door and pushed it open. It moaned in protest. Hannah and Willi stepped hesitantly into the vast room.

  To their surprise, it was furnished. Massive, sun-bleached drapes of once heavy but now threadbare silk drooped down across the great windows. Under the graying dustsheets, they could make out various shapes approximating chairs and an enormous dressing table. Near the bay window, the outline of a huge, stately bed looked ghostly under its funereal drapery. To Hannah, it all seemed very Victorian.

  Stepping past them, the old retainer lumbered through the room to a door at the far end, which he opened. “Toilet,” he said.

  Hannah said, “Thank you. May we stay here? Until the road is clear?”

  The man’s head swayed in a gesture that Hannah now understood.

  “That’s very kind. We will pay for the room, of course. Can we eat here?”

  The old man’s head wobble was less affirmative this time. “I don’t know, Madam. Maybe. You wait please.”

  The bathroom, in keeping with the rest of the house, was very grand, or at least it must have been so in its heyday. The enormous bath was encrusted with mould and other detritus, the gold-colored taps on the washbasin had long since ceased to function, and the toilet chain hung down, decorative but impotent, from its voluminous water tank.

  “This whole place looks as if it’s been left over from a Gothic film set,” Willi said.

  Hannah laughed. “After lunch, we must go down to the river and fill up that clay pot with water so that we can flush the loo.”

  “Good idea,” Willi said. “Why not do it now, while we’re waiting?”

  Together they manhandled the pot, which had been standing on the floor in the corner of the bedroom, down to the river behind the house. Although depleted farther down, the river was nevertheless quite lake-like here, as if caught behind a floodgate. Snowy white egrets skimmed over the water’s smooth surface. Silence. To the left, the Mysore-Ootacamund road-bridge spanned the river. They could see the smoke from the burning truck at the far side. A wide flight of steps formed a ghat that led down to the end of what was once, no doubt, a well-tended lawn but was now dried out and tired-looking. Two women, apparently unconcerned about the chaos in the village, were busy doing the laundry. Clean linen and saris were spread out to dry upon the steps. In the distance, other fires were raging, and a feculent veil smudged the sky. Hannah and Willi filled the pot with cloudy river water, and Willi went off to cajole the three lads into helping them carry it back to their room.

  The old retainer spotted Hannah sitting on her own by the water and came to talk to her. “No lunch here. Sorry,” he said, “but I take you to hotel.”

  Hannah had by now learned that “hotel” seemed to be the generic Indian term for a small restaurant or cafe. None of them had eaten since eight o’clock that morning. By now, it was nearly two o’clock, and the prospect of several more hours without food was grim. The suggestion therefore was met with approval from all five. They followed the old man through deserted cattle pens and across the main road.

  The “hotel” was set back from the road and amounted to little more than a large hut with a tattered awning. Thankfully, they stumbled inside, away from the heat. The place was functional and clean.

  After the meal, a simple thali, Hannah decided to try contacting Ashok.

  “Is there a telephone?” she asked one of the serving men. He stared at Hannah blankly. She took out fifty rupees and repeated her question. The man immediately ushered her into the cooking area, where she spotted a telephone resting in a dark corner on the edge of a stone sink unit. Her call to Ashok was frustrating because they were cut off. She tried vainly to get reconnected but had to content herself with the knowledge that she had spoken to him and he knew they were safe. His assertion that they might be stuck there for several days left her with a feeling of unease. So far, Willi had apparently not registered the fact that Salers must have reached Nanjangud after they did and had therefore also been turned back. Best not to tell her, she decided. It was not knowing exactly where he was that bothered Hannah. A chameleon poised to spring.

  As they got up to leave, several policemen came in to lunch. Willi saw a chance of salvation. She found one who spoke English and explained their predicament to him.

  “Position for the moment is hopeless,” he said. “Very dangerous. No vehicles are able to get through. Only police jeep. You go out onto main road and wait there. Maybe police jeep is coming in Mysore direction.”

  This seemed a better alternative than heading straight back to the old house. Th
ey knew that, if their attempt failed, there was no danger of the truck going without them for the next few hours.

  They sat on the verge in the blazing sun and waited.

  * * * *

  Ashok returned home via the Chamundi. Best inform the hotel that Hannah’s return has been delayed, he decided. At the same time, he could check on Duncan.

  “Has a Mr. Forbes booked in?” he asked.

  The receptionist checked the guest list.

  “No, . Should have arrived earlier, but there is delay at Delhi airport. Some severe storms. So flight will be arriving very late. I think he will be at hotel by one a.m. only.”

  It was impossible to sleep. Ashok kept hearing the telephone, jumping up and realizing that the night was playing tricks on his mind. He couldn’t wait to tell Hannah the news of the arrest. Thank goodness. She was safe. But there was also the matter of Duncan Forbes. Having resigned himself to the fact of it, he was now impatient to confront Forbes before Hannah did. By four o’clock, he decided that there was no point in lying in bed worrying. He got up quietly and dressed.

  Even the rickshaw-wallahs were asleep at that time of the morning, so Ashok waited until five o’clock before he went out into the cool dawn air to rouse a sleepy driver into life. He loved the start of a new day. The earth smelled innocent. The trees on the lane, fat with chlorophyll, wafted aromatic perfumes. No rude motor-horns punctured the stillness, and the main road was still free from the airless, fume-laden pall that would strangle the city as the day wore on. Yet activity existed—the first stirring of the ingredients that would bind together into the rich, spicy stew of the daytime metropolis. At this time of the morning, the street traders flocked into the city, wheeling their carts of fruits and vegetables along the main road. Some shops, like little sheds, were opening up their garage-like doors to reveal the myriad mysteries within. The occasional truck thundered by, pariah dogs began to root in the gutter, a cock crowed.