The Taj had welcomed them with light from a new moon breaking on the incredible curves of its domes. The lake had been tinted with gold for a moment when high cloud allowed a cluster of moonbeams to play upon water which reflected a building conceived in love, and the day had ended by giving a few memories which had restored them all to sanity. Tension had melted while dinner was served on a balcony overlooking the garden, and music from a western style orchestra had wafted upwards by some trick of acoustics. Lara’s Theme from Doctor Zhivago had become one of Grant’s favourite melodies, and in such a setting it seemed to be the most haunting invitation to love which he had ever known.
Lu sent a house-boy together with fifty rupees asking for it to be repeated exactly fifteen minutes later and then he slowly replaced his after-dinner cheroot. ‘Shortly,’ he said at last when he marked Grant’s quizzical expression. ‘But now I want to be alone.’
‘Our company not good enough?’ asked Harmony softly.
‘On the contrary,’ he smiled. ‘But this has been a busy day and I have nothing to show at the end of it. No free and independent Mongolia. So I must make some more plans.’
Grant watched Harmony flush with unexpected embarrassment and decided to bring matters to a head. ‘Maybe you’ll be god-father,’ he said, and bowed politely as Lu folded his hands in a sign of Buddhist respect. The door opened and then he was gone, having disappeared with the same incredible rapidity which marked almost all his appearances.
Harmony lit a cigarette. ‘Acting takes it out of you,’ she said, and suddenly giggled when she saw Grant’s face cloud with disappointment. ‘But I’m not really tired,’ she added swiftly. ‘And if you shower me down I’ll feel even better.’
Grant stared at her with admiration. He now rated her as the most accomplished professional he had ever met. Indeed she was so accomplished in the use of bluff and counter-bluff that he had never dared to speculate as to where she really came from or for whom she worked. It was enough that for the moment at least they were working together.
‘Good,’ she said softly. ‘I’m glad you look at it that way. Saves a lot of explanations. And we can play together too. Just let it ride that we’re really on the same side.’ She drew thoughtfully at her cigarette. ‘Or at least I think we are,’ she added, and fumbled for the zip which moulded her evening gown to her body. She had bought it off the hook after wakening a shopkeeper from his sleep under a hammock near his store. And it fitted her to perfection, the shining orange silk marrying with her silver hair and tawny skin as she sat beside tall candles, and the deep darkness of India reflected through the glass of their window.
She walked towards a dressing room and pointed to the shower. ‘See you, David. But hurry up.’
Grant paused and asked the sixty-dollar question. ‘Still baby-hunting, or what?’
The girl laughed. ‘Still thinking about that! Well, just remember two things. I can take care of myself. And when I want something I try to get it. So figure out the rest.’
He stood up and closed the window drapes.
But as he walked towards his own dressing room the magic of Lara’s aria again roused him to a pitch of wanting which was almost an agony. The agony of wanting the impossible; of wanting to be loved; of wanting to give; of wanting to be free; and of wanting to know the wisdom of all the ages. But above all he felt the agony of wanting the impossible.
Harmony’s dressing room door opened and she flashed past wrapped in a semi-transparent house-coat shortie splashed with turquoise pyschedelic flowers. She paused to caress his cheek with her lips. ‘Get crackin’, man. Heaven doesn’t improve with waiting.’
And then, as he heard the shower turn on, Grant dived for his room. Life was for the living. And the hell with anything else. ‘Coming,’ he shouted.
Hours later Harmony wriggled closer against his chest and ran her fingers through its thick curly hair. ‘One gone grey, David,’ she said at last, and watched his reactions.
He forced a smile, though one part of him felt that it had died. Middle age could be another kind of hell. ‘But never mind. There’s only one,’ she added swiftly when she saw that somehow she had hurt him. ‘I like distinguished-looking men and you are handsome in a kind of off-beat way which sends me.’
‘And the baby?’ he whispered. ‘I could be an elderly man when he was only twenty-one.’
She giggled happily. ‘Wait and see, David. Maybe tonight you got a bull.’ She lifted an arm and snecked out the light.
Grant wakened twelve hours later. The sun was high and a house-boy handed him a tray holding coffee and an envelope.
He slit it open and read it with a sinking feeling.
Dear David,
Not even Mehmet Ali knew at the end if we were ‘goodies’ or ‘baddies’.
What do you think?
Anyhow I’ll keep you posted about . . . everything. And if you have become a Daddy we can talk things over.
Meanwhile I’m off with Lu to do something about Mongolia . . . or somewhere else.
And I took your grey hair with me as a souvenir. Which should make you happy.
I’m glad we met. But take a tip and stick to either Krystelle or Maya. Or even both. Because Harmony isn’t really for you except in the way of business.
See you. And as much of my love as I can afford.
Harmony
Postscript.
Lu has given us both his best wishes and hopes you won’t take this too badly. Which is a bigger compliment than you may realise, because he is a very fussy kind of character and slow to say a guy is okay. But he rates you tops next to me.
P.P.S. And talking of tops I always was on top of you, wasn’t I?
Which must mean something.
Or does it?
Anyhow: and with Lu’s permission ALL my love.
Grant looked at his chest as he dropped the letter to the sheets. A lock of hair had been snipped cleanly off and his one solitary grey hair had disappeared.
He lifted the house phone and dialled Air India. Harry and Frank would know where to find Krystelle, and Paris was a better place than Agra in which to be lonely.
And then he dialled overseas telegrams. Given luck even Krystelle might be waiting for him at the airport. Cables could work wonders and she moved fast when it was necessary, like this was!
The house-boy returned as he completed his message and handed him still one more envelope. A lock of Harmony’s silver hair had been mounted against a tie clip, the strands fixed to a patch of silver cut to shape and trimmed to overlap a plate of thin glass which protected them.
The message was brief and to the point:
Wear this, David, for my sake and remember me in your dreams.
He turned the tie slide over and smiled faintly as he read the inscription engraved on the back: With all, repeat all, my love. Harmony.
He sipped his coffee and lit a cigarette. It was the end of a story.
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[1] Soffia vento. Mafia slang for ‘heat being turned on’.
[2] Pot—marijuana. Acid—LSD or ‘lysergic acid diathalomide’.
[3] Kif—still one more hippie slang word for marijuana.
[4] See Black Champagne.
[5] Capo—head of a Mafia group called ‘a family.’
[6] Consigliere—a counsellor to a capo.
[7] Black Champagne.
[8] See The Girl from Peking and Black Champagne.
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Goddesses Never Die Page 18