For Love of Audrey Rose

by Frank De Felitta

  “This street is in Benares?” Janice asked.

  “Why don’t you just telephone?” she offered, indicating the desk phone.

  Trembling, Janice’s fingers traced out the number inscribed on the paper. There was a muted storm of static, a buzz and three clicks, and then a voice answered. It sounded old, neither male nor female, and it was asking a question.

  “I’m sorry,” Janice said, trying to control her voice, “do you speak English?”

  Quizzically, the voice responded by repeating its question.

  “English,” Janice repeated, louder. “Do you speak English?”

  Now the voice became irritated, in the manner of nearly deaf persons, and for the third time it shouted back its question. Janice looked around helplessly. The receptionist took the receiver from her hand. A few quick words were exchanged, and the receptionist hung up.

  “Mr. Mehrotra has several jobs,” the receptionist explained, pulling out a small map from a drawer. “Most likely he is at his position here.”

  “Thank you—thank you.”

  Elated, Janice carefully folded the map and put it into her handbag. She was so happy, she almost did not know where she was going. At a small shop—more a three-sided booth than a shop—she bought a more durable blouse and a pair of the cheap wicker sandals that all the women of Benares wore. She hailed a taxi and showed the map to the driver, who nodded and sped off.

  At last the taxi found the street. It was slimy with cow dung, wet, squashed, and mingled with dropped fruit, long mashed into a single green slime on the stones. The street was ancient, the walls leaned over it, and shadows of buyers and sellers mingled into a single ever-changing black shape against the ground. Janice paid the fare, and walked slowly, as though feeling her way. The street intersection circled on the map turned out to be the junction of two alleys, dense with brassware, portraits of religious gurus, and men who stared out at her with vacant black eyes.

  Janice approached a shop. A clerk labored over a huge ledger at one side of his shelves of brass. He looked angry, as though he would rather be almost anywhere else. He looked too educated, out of place. With a burst of energy, he began computing the long columns of entries.

  “Mr. Mehrotra,” Janice said gently.

  He looked up. His face was round, and he wore black-rimmed glasses. He needed a shave. His black hair was curly, and his eyes small and nearsighted. He wore a white shirt and white pantaloons, sandals, and three gold rings. He seemed glad to be interrupted.

  “Mr. Mehrotra,” Janice said. “My name is Janice Templeton.”

  Uncomprehending, Mehrotra shook her extended hand. Then his face paled. His eyes widened until he stared at her.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “It’s really me.”

  Mehrotra leaned across the shelf, staring unashamed into her face. He swallowed nervously and tried to smile.

  “I gave your letter to Elliot Hoover,” he said.

  “Thank you. I’ve come to meet Mr. Hoover.”

  Mehrotra smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. It was nervous, and he backed away, casting quick glances at the neighboring shops.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why is it you have to meet him?”

  “Because my husband is ill.”

  “What? I do not understand, Mrs. Templeton.”

  Janice paused. She sensed that Mehrotra was guarding Hoover, that he would have to be won over or she would never get past the clerk. At least it meant that Mehrotra and Hoover were still in close contact.

  “Will you have some time free this morning?” she asked softly, “so that I can explain?”

  “Time?” Mehrotra laughed. “I have nothing but time.”

  He threw his columned book back onto his canvas chair. Then he violently closed the shop, shoving revolving shelves of brass trays and pots inside the booth, rolling down a quick iron gate, and locking it. He tucked the key into his pocket and took Janice by the elbow.

  “Please, do not slip on the blood.”

  Janice gasped. In the fetid quarters of the back alleys, a heap of diseased chickens had been thrown, and the dogs had charged into them, sending flickers of blood against the walls.

  “Be careful of the ox cart.”

  A dark brown bullock rumbled by, pulling a creaking wagon in which a man appeared to be fast asleep, holding a short black whip.

  They left the system of alleys, emerged into the sunlight, and the air smelled of the turbulent Ganges not far away. Mehrotra suddenly turned on Janice.

  “Why have you come for Mr. Hoover?” he demanded.

  Tongue-tied, Janice did not know how to begin.

  “You know,” she began, “you know—about Ivy?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, after she was cremated, my husband became ill. He began to study, to think that Ivy—that Ivy might come back.”

  Mehrotra stamped his foot with impatience.

  “Of course she will come back! What has that to do with your husband’s illness?”

  “I’m— You’re making it so hard to explain.”

  “Come! Come with me and tell me.”

  They walked out from the last of the cramped buildings, the last of the brilliant wood and stone temples, the last of the ox carts. It was suddenly spacious. Enormous steps led down to the Ganges, and periodically tall sculptured stones, like rounded pyramids, rose to punctuate the miles of riverbank. The activity on the huge steps was incredible, thousands of human beings crowding into the water, some under wicker umbrellas on the steps, and smoke rising from clusters of wood and cloth, trailing high into the implacable blue sky.

  “Is this—is this where Ivy’s ashes—” Janice stammered, reeling, holding on to Mehrotra’s arm, which stiffened as it felt her weight.

  Mehrotra understood and gently supported her, putting an arm lightly around her shoulder. His voice softened.

  “It was not exactly here,” he admitted, “but nearby.”

  He pointed to a stretch of the stone steps beyond a cluster of men so old and emaciated they looked as though they had already become corpses. Mehrotra paused, sensitive now, and his voice lowered.

  “In the early dawn,” Mehrotra said gently, “we took the canister of ashes and went down to the Ghats—these steps—and spread the ashes slowly into the middle of the Ganges. Elliot Hoover and I. And I watched him pray, and then we came to the shore and the sun dried our clothes.”

  “And did he say anything?” Janice asked.

  “Only that he hoped Ivy’s soul had found peace.”

  Mehrotra took Janice down the Ghats. She was afraid of the dense groups of Hindus, afraid of the smoke, which she now realized came from funeral pyres shamelessly arranged in public. It seemed as though the whole of Benares was dedicated to death, a methodical, sober business, neither morbid nor joyful, but matter-of-fact, like selling vegetables.

  “It is nothing,” Mehrotra reassured her. “Death is Benares’s biggest business. All these temples, woodcutters, tourist vendors—this is Lord Shiva’s city, and Lord Shiva, the Dancer, is the god of destruction.”

  Pyres were now visible all down the Ghats, on all the levels, almost down to the lapping water itself. Children walked among the fire-tenders, barely cognizant of the consumption of human bodies all around them.

  “Was that… was that the last time you saw Mr. Hoover?” Janice asked, trying to keep pace with Mehrotra as they climbed down the riverbank.

  “No, I saw him twice more. He came to my brother’s wedding, and then about four months ago…”

  Black-skinned men, absolutely naked, faces flattened and aboriginal, came in between them. Janice fought her way to Mehrotra again. Suddenly they were on the lowest step. The Ganges splashed up and soiled her beige slacks.

  “Four months ago?” Janice insisted, breathing hard. “Where is he now?”

  Mehrotra turned, the sunlight brilliant on his unshaven cheeks. He smiled softly.

  “Elliot Hoover has gone on a pilgrimage,” he said qu
ietly.

  Janice, startled, found herself unable to say anything.

  “To the South,” he continued, smiling at her mysteriously.

  “Will he come back?”

  Mehrotra shrugged. “Normally one is gone about a year. That would mean eight months from now.”

  Janice covered her ears as a white boat, its decks overloaded with passengers, sounded its horn.

  “Eight months?” she yelled. “That’s impossible!”

  Mehrotra took her slowly along the bottom step of the Ghats. He gave a coin to a beggar, but stepped over the others.

  “Why is that impossible?” Mehrotra asked placidly.

  “I need to see him.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “My husband thinks that Ivy—feels very sure that Ivy has come back.”

  “You already told me that.”

  “And we must know for certain.”

  Mehrotra looked at her, surprised.

  “Why?” he asked blandly.

  “Because he has been institutionalized for thinking it!” she said, and then burst out, “Because he believes he’s found her.”

  Mehrotra’s eyes fastened upon hers. “And you? What do you believe?”

  Janice could only return his piercing gaze as the great and overwhelming question hung between them. She shrugged in helpless dismay.

  “You mustn’t have doubts,” he said earnestly. “Reincarnation is a fact of life. With all of us.”

  “Yes, here. But in New York…”

  “You’re not in New York now. Look, believe your heart. What does your heart tell you?”

  “It’s my head,” she laughed ruefully. “It doesn’t quite want to latch onto it.”

  “You Westerners,” Mehrotra mocked. “You live in little cages. Would you believe me if I proved it to you?”

  She looked at him, surprised at the jocularity in his voice.

  “If you had faith,” he said, holding up a finger, “you would not need proof. Nevertheless, I can show you something. Yes? Come with me.”

  Janice followed him into a dank, dark alley. It was so moist that a kind of thick, green moss grew at the base of the walls.

  Then the alley grew narrow. Finally, it was no more than a passageway between leaning stone walls.

  Mehrotra turned at a wooden gate, climbed rickety steps, and stepped onto a wide, surprisingly clean, stone floor. Tall windows poured rectangles of warmth onto the stone. An aged woman, a younger woman, and five black-eyed children stared shyly at Janice.

  Mehrotra spoke rapidly, pointing to Janice. She thought she heard Elliot Hoover’s name mentioned. Then he identified the family to her, one by one.

  “My sister, Aliya. Her mother-in-law and the children. They’re Aliya’s.”

  Aliya smiled pleasantly.

  As Mehrotra chatted with his sister, deferring in his speech to the mother-in-law, Janice looked around at the children. They huddled at the door, and when they saw her looking, they ran back into the kitchen. The enormous depths of the black eyes startled her. They were like shaded pools, naive, and troubling in their purity.

  Aliya gently handed Janice a cup and saucer, then set a strainer on the cup. The tea burbled musically into the small chinaware. Aliya did the same for Mehrotra and the motherin-law, casting shy glances at Janice.

  “Arun!” Mehrotra called.

  Shyly, a slender boy, about ten years old, emerged from the kitchen and nestled himself onto Mehrotra’s lap.

  “Now,” Mehrotra said, “my sister’s mother-in-law will tell you the story of her Uncle Vinoba.”

  Mehrotra directed the mother-in-law to begin. The lady had a slightly humped back, so she had to move the chair to face Janice.

  “I will translate,” Mehrotra said.

  The woman began. The language did not seem even to have syllables, only melodic rambling.

  “She is speaking a very old dialect,” Mehrotra whispered, “about the days of her mother. It was when the British were in India. She always begins the same way.” Mehrotra translated: “In those days, not far from here, the British had rubber plantations. But they always made the men elect a foreman of their own choosing to be the go-between. In this way, they controlled the workers more easily.”

  The aged voice continued.

  “Now Uncle Vinoba wanted to be that foreman. After all, the pay was good, he could have a hut to himself and sometimes wear the company watch on a chain.”

  Janice leaned toward Mehrotra to hear better.

  “Now, in those days, there were always rebellions in the rubber plantations. Uncle Vinoba ingratiated himself with the workers. But also with the British. To make a long story shorter, he was elected to lead a rebellion. Now this was very bad, because he was afraid of the British. But he did not want to anger the rebels. So he said yes.”

  Janice nodded, sensing Mehrotra waited for a reaction. The old woman rattled on.

  “The rebellion was planned for the full moon. One group would attack the soldiers on the north road. One group would sneak into the company headquarters and kill the British. Naturally, as leader, Uncle Vinoba would go to the headquarters.”

  Janice watched the children. Now they sat quietly in the room on the floor, as though eager to hear the story over again. Some of them anticipated, their mouths moving, as though they had nearly memorized it.

  “Suspecting nothing, the men watched Uncle Vinoba walk to the headquarters building. But when he got inside, he told the British everything. A messenger sneaked out the back way to alert the soldiers. Guns were brought down from upstairs. Then Uncle Vinoba went back to the rebels.”

  The old woman took a very deep breath and suddenly leaned forward.

  “Well, Uncle Vinoba sweated like a pig. But exactly at midnight he led the men forward. They tiptoed up the red carpets—the British love red carpets—Uncle Vinoba in front. All at once, the British jumped out from the side of the stairwell, from the bottom floor, and down from the upstairs. An enormous roar of gunfire, and all the rebels were killed. Except Uncle Vinoba. It was said that the blood was found even on the ceiling.”

  There was a long pause. The old woman fanned herself with a paper and bamboo fan.

  “Uncle Vinoba became the foreman. He lived alone, never married, and always carried a knife with him, even though he never cut the rubber himself. After all, most of the workers were related to the dead men.”

  Mehrotra patted Arun on the stomach. Arun giggled.

  “One night, about a year later, the widows broke into his hut. They grabbed him, tied him up, and dragged him screaming out into the forest. There they secured him between two rubber trees. The elephants were brought in, and for each man who had died, an elephant was made to step on him. That was twenty-one times, because there were fifteen in the fields and six killed in the headquarters. Anyway, his screams echoed all over the plantations. The soldiers were too frightened to come, because they thought it was an unnatural sound, or maybe the wild dogs from the mountains. In the morning the British found a length of rope, broken ferns all around, and tangled-up pieces of broken, red bones. Poor Uncle Vinoba.”

  The story went on, but Mehrotra ignored the old woman.

  “Now, Mrs. Templeton. There are fifteen dead men in the fields. Six in the headquarters. How many is that?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  Mehrotra lifted Arun’s shirt. Spread across his back, in uneven double rows, were peculiar cherry red markings, like scallops in shape. Their shape fascinated Janice. They were almost delicate, not at all gruesome or disfiguring, and Arun smiled shyly.

  “Have you ever seen an elephant’s footprint?” Mehrotra asked.

  She looked at him, startled.

  “Look, Mrs. Templeton. Here are the toes, the heavy weight at the back, where the marks are thicker.”

  She found it difficult to believe.

  “Twenty-one marks, Mrs. Templeton,” Mehrotra said measuredly. “Five years ago, when we visited our cousins where the rubber plantatio
n used to be—it’s a shirt factory now—Arun became very frightened, and he did not know why. Now he will tell you what he said.”

  Mehrotra whispered in the boy’s ear.

  Arun turned to face Janice, closed his eyes, and with difficulty, formed the words, “I—hear—guns.”

  “See?” Mehrotra demanded. “‘I hear guns.’ In English, Mrs. Templeton! And he never studied English, then or now!”

  “I—hear—guns,” Arun repeated, pleased at the reaction.

  Arun slid off his lap, and went to join the other children.

  “Every village, every town, every quarter of every large city is filled with these stories. A girl has the markings of a dead aunt. Or a man suddenly acts strangely and speaks a different dialect. Or a child must visit a certain area where he has never been. Why? Because they are the living incarnations of the dead! That’s why! Believe, Mrs. Templeton!”

  Janice followed Mehrotra back into the brilliant sunshine that poured upon the multitudes who pressed upon the sacred Ganges. He took her by the elbow and led her through waves of ascetics and urban faithful.

  “About Elliot Hoover,” Janice stammered.

  “I was afraid—I must confess—you had some romantic interest,” Mehrotra shouted above the prayerful cacophony. “I protect him.”

  “Then you can tell me where he is?”

  “Elliot Hoover is at an ashram on the Cauvery River.”

  “Where is that?”

  “In the State of Tamil Nadu.”

  “Is there a telephone there?”

  Mehrotra laughed. “Not at the ashram. And it will take at least a week, if you are lucky, for a letter to find its way into the mountains.”

  Mehrotra pulled her gently toward him, just as an ox cart lumbered by, dropping loose sticks of firewood for the Ghats. He felt her trembling.

  “I think you must go yourself,” he said quietly. “It is the quickest.”

  Janice looked at the round, still-unshaven face, the owl glasses, and she saw the steadfast darkness of his eyes, the unwavering compassion. She knew now why he and Elliot Hoover were friends.

  “I think I’d be afraid to,” she said weakly.

  “Afraid? Of India? Don’t travel after dark, that’s all.”

  The mere thought made Janice’s head dizzy. The South conjured up an unpleasant image, vague but festering with gross jungle growth, animals like baboons, villages with dysentery.