The Moon's Complexion

by Irene Black

  He flicked through the book again and came to a chapter entitled “Did Mark Salers abuse Maighréad?” It was based on interviews Hannah had conducted with some of Maighréad’s friends from her teenage years. One of them quoted an occasion when Maighréad had come in with a black eye and said she’d run into a door.

  Could this be taken as evidence of self-abuse? Well, if you dig deeply enough you can read anything into anything to prove a point. However, weigh that against Salers’ character: his record of cruelty, his instability, his obsessive behaviour. Weigh that one incident against the lack of any other incidents that could be construed as self-induced injury. I can only conclude that, in my opinion, based on all these facts and my own first-hand observations, Mark Salers was guilty of inflicting abuse of the most horrific nature on his innocent and vulnerable young wife.

  Ashok suddenly felt drained. For the first time in years, an image of Maighréad standing in the hospital corridor seared into his mind. She’d called in to see him at the John Radcliffe and was holding a bloodied handkerchief to her nose. “Damn,” she was saying. “Someone just swung the door into my face.” Then the image faded.

  This, Ashok thought, is one secret that I’ll keep from Hannah.

  Forever.

  Chapter 20

  It seemed as if the train journey to Cochin would never end. Ashok arrived in Ernakulam, Cochin’s grimy, modern Doppelgänger, hot and exhausted in the pitch-blackness of a late, tropical night.

  A silver sliver of moon lent no light. He made his way down to the harbor and realized that the huge, black shapes looming out of the darkness to the right meant that he had somehow ended up to the left of what appeared to be an impenetrable storage depot. He should have been on the other side, from where the boats to the island ferried guests across the bay.

  When he reached the water’s edge, he could make out a quay in the distance, dimly illuminated by the glowing neon insignia of the nearby Seagull Hotel, but he could see no way of traversing the massive industrial area, packed with cranes, containers, and warehouses. In any case, there were no lights around the quay itself. Ashok guessed that the boats had stopped for the night.

  He stood for a moment, wondering what to do. He could go back to the road, get an auto to the Seagull Hotel, spend the night there, and make the journey to the island tomorrow morning. There seemed no alternative. He was desperately disappointed. If only there was some way.

  Suddenly, the silent night was shattered by an unearthly clamor, like an army of deranged roti beaters. A primitive sound perfectly suited to the decrepit little wreck that now loomed out of the night and made fast at a small jetty that Ashok hadn’t previously noticed. The boat stank of creosote, oil, and rotting garbage.

  A figure emerged from the shack that masqueraded as a cabin and called across to Ashok.

  Ashok shrugged and shook his head. Sorry, don’t speak Malayalam.

  Still the character persisted, shouting urgently at Ashok across the din of the ancient engine.

  Is he offering me a lift, I wonder? “Residency Island?” he called back.

  The man wobbled his head affirmatively and held up ten fingers.

  “Ten rupees?” Ashok called.

  Another wobble. The man held out a calloused hand to help Ashok on board, guiding him down a couple of steps into the cabin. Without further ado, they cast off.

  Ashok surveyed his savior warily as the boat pulled away into the blackness. A real cutthroat. Was he really only after ten rupees? It seemed unlikely. He felt around with his feet and located a loose piece of planking. If it came to an attack he would have to make a lunge for it. At least he stood a fighting chance. But the man was thickset despite being a foot shorter than Ashok. A life at sea had turned his muscles to steel. Ashok imagined the headlines. “Body of Eminent Ophthalmologist washed up on beach in Kerala.” It was with some relief that Ashok saw that the boat was indeed heading out towards Residency Island.

  They couldn’t dock directly at the island. A pontoon of ferries was moored between them and the quay. Ashok had to negotiate these in the blackness, struggling across each one to step over into the next. Was that the fourth or fifth? He lost count. Finally, he hauled his exhausted body onto the shore.

  He could see the lights of the Resident’s Palace shining through the treetops in the distance. He felt a twinge of guilt-ridden familiarity. It was here that Willi’s eager body had consoled him when he had lost Hannah four years and a lifetime ago. Another secret to be kept from her.

  The palace, a run-down affair largely composed of timber, had once belonged to an English Resident and now provided rooms for unfussy, adventurous travelers who were not pushed for time.

  He stood, looking at the warm glow from the windows and wondering. Is Hannah in one of those rooms? Is there less than half a mile between us? His heart was beating fast now, and he felt weak with anticipation. He forced his legs to take him down the path through the trees to his destination, to his destiny.

  Inside the palace, the lights were dimmer than they appeared from outside. The reception desk was manned by a sleepy night watchman, whom Ashok startled into life, and who viewed him with the terror of one who has just seen a ghost materialize at the foot of his bed. Ashok glanced at the clock over the reception desk. Ten past eleven! He had no idea that it was so late.

  “From where you are coming at this hour?” the night watch demanded.

  “From UK,” Ashok replied, watching the man’s mouth drop open in shock. “I’m looking for Miss Hannah Petersen. Is she staying here?”

  The man consulted the guest register, all the time casting nervous glances at Ashok.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Petersen were here. They left today.”

  Ashok’s heart nearly stopped. “Mr. and Mrs. Petersen? Let me see that?” He snatched the register off the man and whirled it around to face him. The entry showed that Hannah and Siddarth Petersen had arrived on the twenty-ninth, yesterday. Ashok’s sigh of relief was audible. “Not Mr. and Mrs., you fool! Hannah Petersen and Siddarth Petersen. Siddarth is a small child. Hardly a Mr.”

  The man looked offended and bristled with hostility.

  Damn, Ashok thought, cursing himself for his rudeness. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’m very tired. Could you tell me where they’ve gone?”

  The man looked dubious. “She was only saying, Sir, she would spend some nights in Ernakulam.”

  Ashok could scarcely credit it. All this way, and she’d gone. He forced himself to fight back his frustration. After all, she hadn’t gone far. Tomorrow, he would find her.

  Right now, disappointment and jetlag had got the better of him. He turned to the smug-faced night watchman. “Well, could you fix me up with a room for the night? I can’t get back to Ernakulam now.”

  “So sorry, Sir, all rooms taken.”

  Ashok detected the triumphant tone of one who has the upper hand.

  “Then tell me. What am I to do? I can’t stay here, it seems. And I can’t get away.”

  Night watch shrugged. “Nothing to be done, Sir. So sorry.”

  Confound the fellow. Exhaustion and disappointment overwhelmed Ashok.

  “Look,” he said, “all I need is a bed for the night. You can put me in the boathouse for all I care. Just get me a bed.” He plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a well-stuffed wallet, which he placed nonchalantly on the counter.

  “Well, there is one room unoccupied, Sir. But bed is not yet made. Room is not yet cleaned.”

  As soon as Ashok entered the room, he felt Hannah’s presence stamped upon it. The lingering scent of her perfume hung in the heavy, still air. Fleurs de Provence, Ashok thought. Still the same. He stood for a moment and glanced around him. Other than the perfume, he detected no tangible evidence left of Hannah.

  As he pulled back the blanket and fell wearily onto the bed, his shoulder caught on something hard. A book. He picked it up. It was R.K. Narayan’s Gods, Demons and Others. Ashok remembered recommending the boo
k to Hannah. He opened it. Hannah had written something inside the front cover.

  The murderous cut of time

  the guarded hand of love

  such mysteries of the inner self

  of which the heart alone can tell.

  All these and so much more

  within the moon’s complexion dwell.

  He fought back tears.

  As he leafed through the pages, something fell out. He felt his heart quicken. It was a photograph. Ashok remembered Willi taking it with Hannah’s camera. He and Hannah together outside their room at the Pandava Hotel in Chennai.

  * * * *

  There were over fifty elephants on the Maharaja’s College Ground: temple elephants, gathered together for a monumental celebration, a fair for locals and tourists. The line of elephants fanned outwards in a huge semicircle, according to size, the largest in the center. Each was festively attired in gold livery and colored parasols. In front of them was a pandimelam band, which looked to Hannah to be composed of an array of strange wind instruments. The sound they made briefly took her back to another band and a wedding in Madras.

  “Sounds more like pandemonium to me,” she shouted to her delighted son. “What a raucous din! But I suppose that’s only because we’re not used to it.”

  As they made their way across to a large grandstand at the far end of the field, Hannah was aware that their progress was being watched by a group of white-clothed officials at the entrance to the grandstand. Not surprising, she thought. Hers was the only European face in a sea of several thousand Indians.

  “Hallo, Madam!” A well padded, carefully coiffed woman stepped out from the group. “We would like the little boy to open fair, please.”

  “What? Open the fair? How?”

  “He will please make an offering of sugar cane to lead elephant. It will be very nice. Then Chief Minister of Kerala will speak. You both sit here, Madam. I will call you.” It was clearly an order.

  Bemused but obedient, Hannah sat with the child on her knee and waited.

  “What’s happening, Mummy?”

  “Who knows, darling? This is India. Anything’s possible.”

  The official lady was back. “You will come, please.” She led them across the grass to where the elephants were swaying in patient grandeur.

  Ramdas, the lead elephant, was huge. Hannah picked up her son so that he could reach its mouth with his piece of cane, which was bigger than he was. Siddarth clapped and shouted. Press cameras flashed. The band, which had stopped for the ceremony, struck up again. A young reporter singled out Hannah as the official was whisking them back to their seats.

  “You are coming from?”

  “England.”

  “Oh, UK. And your name, please?”

  Hannah told him.

  “This is your first visit to our country?”

  “No. My second.”

  “Ah, Madam, I see you like India! And what is your profession?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  The young man looked impressed. “Of course,” he said. “Hannah Petersen. I have heard of you. You are very famous writer. I have read your books.”

  A likely story, Hannah thought. Wonder what he’d do if I asked him to name any.

  “Yes,” he continued, “Fair Game, As a Matter of Fact...I have read them all, you see.”

  “Well, I’m flattered!” Hannah said in genuine amazement.

  “And you are currently working on?”

  “A book on Sri Lanka.”

  He scribbled on his notepad. “And what else do you intend to see in Kochi?”

  “Want to see sindog!” Siddarth chipped in.

  Hannah smiled. “He means the synagogue. We’re going there tomorrow.”

  Later that evening, Hannah and Siddarth made their way through the darkness to the Seagull Hotel.

  Hannah sat on the bed next to her tireless child and smiled. What a day it had been. Siddarth’s eyes were still bright with excitement.

  “Mummy...” The child took her hand.

  “What is it, darling?”

  “Will you read to me? About the gods?”

  Hannah rummaged in her shoulder bag. Gods, Demons and Others was missing. It must have dropped out of her bag at the elephant fair. But it wasn’t the loss of the book that stabbed at her heart.

  The child was looking at her, smiling. “Never mind, Mummy,” he said. “Can buy anuver.” And his eyes closed, and he was fast asleep.

  Hannah stayed by her sleeping son, stroking his hair and chiding herself for letting the shadow of her lost photograph cloud a perfect day. After all, she had others at home. How can I be sad when I have you to share my life? What fun we had today at the Gaja Mela watching all those fabulous elephants. And that reporter! Well! He tried his best, poor man, to find out how I’d acquired my cute little Indian baby, but I’m afraid he drew a blank there. That’s my secret. One day it will become yours, too, though that’s a day I dread.

  Once again, her joy was obscured. Unbearable thoughts surfaced as she watched the child. One day he’ll demand to know the truth about his father. What shall I tell him? That he would have given his life for me, that day in Nanjangud? That we had such a short time together? That we shared a past tragedy? That I thought we were so much in love? That I couldn’t imagine a future without him? That the thought of him still burns a hole in my heart?

  She gave an involuntary sob and bit her lip for fear of waking Siddarth. But still the unwelcome thoughts forced themselves into her mind. One day, she would have to face them head on.

  And he’ll ask me why we parted. How shall I answer him? Shall I say that he deceived me? Or that perhaps Kipling was right when he said “East is East and West is West”? Perhaps, indeed, “never the twain shall meet.” Perhaps we never really understood each other at all. Perhaps the whole affair was merely an illusion triggered by the circumstances that brought us together.

  She stood up and started quietly pacing the room, caught now in a web of eventualities and heart-searching.

  And yet…and yet I keep asking myself, why was I so ready to believe that he’d deceived me? What if it were not true? Was I so fickle, to change from one moment to the next? Why was I so ready to believe the worst of him? Was this the legacy of Mark Salers? Was it that, in some way, Ashok still represented the past, whose horrific conclusion had so nearly engulfed me? In fact, was it really he who betrayed me? Maybe it was, in the end, I who betrayed him.

  By now she was obsessed by the train of her thoughts, struck down again by the despair that she dreaded so much but that always seemed to catch her out when she should have been at her happiest.

  There are so many questions I can’t answer. Like the Asian who used to come to the cottage while we lived in Sri Lanka. He used to stop and talk to Bert when he passed Colonel Henry’s gate. It must have been Ashok, though I have no proof. But who else could it be? Who else would have left a poster of Ganesh in the shed for me? Who else would have understood the memories that Ganesh would evoke? Memories of the day we met in Bangalore, and the day in Mamallapuram, when he said he loved me. The god of good fortune. I am quite certain that this is what he was wishing for me. And did he try to leave me a more tangible message? That torn off scrap of paper on the shed floor? But I’ll never know, will I? All the writing had been smudged and faded to oblivion by time and lawnmower oil.

  She lay down on the bed and turned to look at her son, as she fought back insistent tears.

  Perhaps you will want to find him, your father. What shall I say to you then? You must not look for him? He doesn’t know that you exist, and he must never know? It would destroy his own family, his wife, his children, his parents, his in-laws? How can I tell you that you have no right to meet your father and he has no right to know about his son? And yet, my darling, that’s the way it has to be.

  We were planning to come to Kerala together, your father and I. That’s why I brought you here. It was to be our promise of a life together. Now you are t
he fulfillment of that promise, because through you, your father will always be a part of my life.

  * * * *

  A misty sail of Fleurs de Provence had blown Ashok soothingly through the night. In his dreams, the huge bed had become a ship, steering him steadily onwards to a safe anchorage.

  He had been the first passenger on the first morning ferry back to Ernakulam from Residency Island. Waiting at the jetty, Ashok had tried to usher his fragmented ideas into some sort of logic. The night watchman had said that Hannah was in Ernakulam. He would wait at the main jetty. Wherever she was headed, she would almost certainly have to take a ferry.

  At the main jetty, chaos reigned: an ordinary workday, with the work force piling up to squeeze a fraction of space on the overcrowded ferries to Willingdon Island or Fort Cochin; other workers pouring off arriving boats. Ashok was again hit by despondency. The Residency Island ferry was mainly for tourists, therefore may have come to life later than the other ferries from Ernakulam, which very likely had been plying the waters since the early hours. If Hannah had made an early start, she could be anywhere by now. He was faced with a dilemma: to wait a while in case she showed up or to chase off after her to God knows where. He decided to wait for an hour then move on. He stood near the ticket office, where he could watch the departing passengers, and started to make contingency plans.

  Where would she spend the day? Remind me to take you to see the Jews of Kerala one day, he had said to her that day in the train to Chennai. This, then, might be her first priority. In that case, she would certainly head for the synagogue in the Mattancherry quarter of Cochin. But Hannah had a day’s head start on him. Surely she would have been there yesterday. In which case, what would be her destination today? The Dutch Palace, perhaps, with its magnificent frescoes of the Hindu pantheon? Or the ancient Chinese fishing nets, unchanged since the time of Marco Polo?