The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  “I guess it would. So do you—”

  “For such a thing we would have required guarantee of payment. We are small hotel, Indian hotel. Not like larger, Western-style hotels, where such calls are made on daily, even hourly, basis.”

  “I know. That’s why I was hoping you’d—”

  “But madam, for that I must check my records.”

  “You mean you can’t remember?”

  Raki’s eyes widened. “So much goes on. Every day, every day. I will look in the records.”

  The registration book, Marina noticed, was no longer on the counter. Raki spoke in another language to the old woman, who went down the hall. She returned in a few minutes, clutching the book. As she gave it to him, she darted a look at Marina.

  Raki climbed on a chair behind the counter, deposited the book on the desk, and bent over it. “It is January you were saying?”

  “The fifteenth.”

  He opened the book, leafed through, then hesitated. “The pages are gone.”

  Marina was so surprised she couldn’t react for a moment. The old woman, she saw, had moved into the lobby and was standing near Vijay. “Gone?”

  “Someone has pulled them out. You can see.”

  Raki pushed the book toward her and she saw the uneven edges where several pages had been ripped out. “How could it have happened?” she said.

  Raki didn’t seem upset or perplexed. “They tear them out sometimes, use them to start the fires,” he said blandly. “I tell them not to do it, but they are ignorant.” He spoke to the old woman, a sharp tone in his voice, and she left the room.

  “Does this mean you can’t remember the call, and you don’t know who made it?”

  His eyes were limpid and sincere. “So many things, madam. So many things. Now the pages are missing. I cannot say.”

  Marina turned away, and Vijay said in her ear, “It is too bad. Shall we go drink some tea?”

  As they emerged on the sidewalk Marina said, “He didn’t even bother to think up a plausible story. He knows who tore those pages out, and why.”

  “I expect you are right,” Vijay said, glancing up and down the street. “Lucky you have your photographs.”

  Marina gnawed her knuckle. “Those torn-out pages mean there’s something to hide. Don’t you think?”

  “Possibly. There may be other explanations.”

  Marina realized they were standing once more in front of the Kumkum Cafe. “I don’t really want any tea.”

  “Nor do I.” Vijay sounded amused. “But I think we had better have some anyway. I think we must wait a little, to see what will happen.”

  As they sipped their tea, Vijay kept glancing toward the street. “What are you looking for?” Marina asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think—yes, I am right. There she is.”

  Marina followed his nod and saw, across the jammed, noisy street, the old woman from the hotel standing in the mouth of an alley. Vijay stood up. “Let’s go quickly.”

  The old woman drew them farther down the alley, speaking rapidly and breathily to Vijay. He answered, then turned to Marina. “She says she can tell you what you want to know about the telephone call. She also says her daughter is very sick. That means we must offer to pay something. We shall say it is for medicine.”

  “Of course.”

  A low-voiced flurry of conversation followed. Then Vijay said, “I have told her we will give her twenty-five rupees now. If she gives good information, we will give her another twenty-five.”

  “Some bribe. Not even five dollars.”

  “For her it is a great deal. All right?”

  “Sure.” Marina dug in her bag.

  When the money had disappeared somewhere in the folds of the woman’s sari, she spoke again to Vijay. He interrupted a few times. When she stopped speaking, he said, “She doesn’t know much. She says someone did make a call to the U.S. It was a man, she doesn’t know his name. There was discussion about paying for the call. Although the man paid for the call and for his room also, he left the same day and didn’t stay the night.”

  The old woman watched Marina anxiously during this explanation, her head bobbing up and down.

  Marina’s mouth was dry. “She says a man made the call. Ask her if she’s seen a— a woman. A Western woman with yellow hair, who wears a sari.” Or is terribly scarred and wears a veil. Or who has dyed her hair red and wears jeans, or Paris gowns. As she listened to their exchange she realized she wasn’t breathing.

  “She doesn’t remember such a woman,” Vijay said at last.

  Wilting, she asked, “Does she have anything else to say?”

  “One thing. Raki tore the pages out of the book himself. She saw him do it, and hide them in a tin trunk in the office where he keeps papers.”

  “I thought he’d done it. I wonder why. Is that all?”

  Vijay and the woman spoke again, briefly. “That’s all.”

  Marina handed him another twenty-five rupees. “Tell her I hope her daughter gets better.”

  When the woman had taken the money and scurried down the alley, Marina said, “How did you know she would come after us?”

  “While you were talking with Raki I watched her. I thought I could see that she understood some of what was going on. After she brought the book I walked away in case she wanted to make a sign to me. She did, or I was fairly certain she did.”

  “Why did she do it?”

  “How much money does she make, do you suppose? Perhaps fifty rupees a month, perhaps less. She saw an opportunity. It’s even possible her daughter really is sick.”

  “Did she see me photographing the pages this morning?”

  “She didn’t say so, and of course I didn’t ask her.”

  They had been walking along the bright, smoky street, elbowing past the knots of people buying food and drink at the open-air stalls. “The next thing is to get my film developed, so we can see what was written on the register,” Marina said.

  “Yes. In fact”—Vijay consulted the bulky digital watch on his wrist—”a man who does some photographic work for USIA is probably still in his shop. We will tell him it is an emergency.”

  22

  Until now, it hadn’t occurred to Marina that what she was doing could be dangerous. As she and Vijay waited in the stifling cubbyhole that was the photographer’s shop, though, her foreboding was as pervasive and strong as the chemical smell. Raki tore the pages from the register because of me, because I asked about the telephone. Couldn’t that mean somebody knows what I’m doing, doesn’t want me to do it?

  Somebody doesn’t want me to see Catherine. She stirred, trying to rid herself of the panic the thought aroused.

  “It will not be long now,” Vijay said.

  “Good.” My ally, Vijay. An ally who, if I go against his mandate, will turn into a hindrance or even an enemy.

  To keep from thinking, she said, “What do you do when you aren’t protecting the consulate from embarrassment?”

  “Less interesting things. I try in various ways to smooth interactions between your people and mine. I arrange, I explain. Many difficulties demand the attention of— how is it said?— a minor functionary.”

  “You grew up in Bombay?”

  He seemed pleased to talk. “Yes. My father is a judge of the high court. I live with my parents and my two older brothers and their wives and children. I have two older sisters, too, who are married. I am the youngest.”

  “Your sisters and their husbands live with you, too?”

  “They live with the families of their husbands. It is the Indian custom, you know, for families to stay together. In America, they tell me, families move apart. Which is better? I don’t know.”

  “I live alone.”

  He seemed shocked. “If you are sick, or need help, or money, who helps you?”

  Patrick’s image came briefly into her mind. “I have to take care of myself.”

  After a moment’s silence he said, “My parents are looking for
a wife for me.”

  Marina was shocked in her turn. “You mean you won’t have any choice about who you marry?”

  “These days many marriages are not arranged. Since I am the youngest, and my parents have grandchildren already, they were in no hurry. I suppose I might have had someone of my own choosing. Now that I am twenty-five, though, they say they have waited long enough. They want to see me settled, with a family.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “All right.” Marina thought she saw unhappiness flicker across his smooth, pleasant face.

  The photographer emerged from the darkroom holding curling sheets of still-damp paper. Marina took one. The writing looked slightly grainy from being blown up, but it would be legible.

  “Now we shall see,” said Vijay.

  They took the photos across the street to a nondescript concrete-block building where some USIA offices, including Vijay’s, were located. Marina followed Vijay up a dim flight of stairs to the small room that housed his desk and a filing cabinet. He turned on the desk light, and she spread out the photos. Vijay circled his forefinger over the prints and selected one. “Here is January fifteenth.” He adjusted his glasses.

  He leaned back in his chair and rocked gently, staring at the page. A long time seemed to pass. At last he said, “Yes, yes.” He beckoned her. “I think I have found it.”

  The page was a hodgepodge of cramped, wavery lines, items crossed out, arithmetical calculations, and words scribbled in the margin. Looking at the section he indicated, the first thing she noticed was that some of it was in English. Sandwiched between lines in a language she didn’t know were the words “Vincent Shah, Delightful Novelty Company,” and a Bombay address. Vijay put his finger on the name and said, “I believe this was written by Raki, or someone else at the hotel. It is the same hand in which other notations are made— how many days someone will stay, costs— do you see?”

  “Right.”

  “This”— Vijay pointed to the line above Vincent Shah’s name and address—” is another name, Anand Kumar. For profession he has listed commercial traveler, and he has given an address in Ahmedabad. The call, you see here, a hundred and fifty rupees, was charged to Anand Kumar. And then this”— he pointed to the last line— “is also written by Raki.” He ran his finger under the line. “I do not know what to make of it. It says, ‘I have told the rope with teeth’—or you might say the toothed rope, something like that. I’m not—”

  “No,” Marina said.

  She saw the heavy-lidded eyes, heard the voice in a rhythmic singsong: “I come from the deep well, from the rich kingdom Nagaloka. I am the wind-eater, the cardamom leaf, the conch shell, the oleander flower, the rope with teeth.”

  The stumbling response came from Catherine and the others: “The wind-eater, the cardamom leaf, the conch shell, the oleander flower, the rope with teeth.”

  Another time he had said, teasing, “If a serpent bites you, Marina, it is most taboo to say, ‘A serpent has bitten me.’ You must say instead, ‘A rope has touched me.’”

  A rope has touched me.

  Somebody was talking. She watched Vijay’s lips move, but couldn’t separate his words from the roaring in her ears. Not another one. What is this, Resurrection Day, all the dead rising up? Will I walk outside and run into Mother and Dad on the street?

  She finally heard, “—matter?”

  And in a few moments was able to say, “It’s Nagarajan.”

  23

  “The wind-eater was because of the way a snake’s tongue darts in and out,” Marina said. “The oleander flower because it’s poisonous like snakes are. I forget why the conch shell and the cardamom leaf. I think they had to do with legendary naga kings. The rope with teeth is obvious.”

  Indian waiters in knee-length red coats, glossy black boots, and elaborate turbans suggestive of regimental uniforms moved among the tables in the bar. Most of the patrons were American or Western European, probably guests at the posh hotel where the bar was located. On a bandstand a combo played a wavering version of “Yesterday.”

  Marina felt woozy from shock and from the beer she had drunk to combat it. “It’s the only explanation.”

  Vijay toyed with his glass. “I said before. It is an expression only. There is no reason to think it means anything.”

  “No, no. It’s significant. It has to be significant.”

  “How can you be sure? You have been thinking a great deal about this Nagarajan. You may see something where there is nothing to see.”

  He was wrong. “It’s written there, ‘I have told Nagarajan.’”

  “Nagarajan died, killed himself in prison.”

  “That’s what they said. Maybe it wasn’t true.”

  Vijay regarded her soberly. She could see he was worried about what he’d gotten into. First she thought her sister hadn’t died. Now she was saying Nagarajan might have survived too. She felt as if her life were unfolding into something that, when fully displayed, would look very much like a nightmare. If Nagarajan’s alive— I can’t think about it. Only, if Nagarajan’s alive, he’ll know about Catherine. If there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s that she would never forsake him.

  “Can you tell me,” said Vijay carefully, “any possible explanation—”

  “No. I can only say he sometimes called himself the toothed rope, and the Rama is the hotel he and his followers stayed at before they established the ashram at Halapur. There is a connection. It isn’t something out of the blue.”

  As she spoke she felt more persuaded herself. According to the files at the consulate, the guard had seen Nagarajan hanging in his cell and the body had been cremated the same night. Because of the climate, it was common to dispose of dead bodies quickly. She wondered how many other people had seen the body, or would have known whether or not a body was actually Nagarajan’s if they’d seen it. He could have bought his way out. Perhaps all he’d have had to do was bribe one guard. He might even have talked his way out. He could be extremely persuasive.

  She remembered arriving at the Halapur ashram for the first time, at the mud-colored house that squatted among other mud-colored houses on Palika Road. Her head had swum from the heat as she paid the minicab driver and stood with her suitcase at the gate. Giggling neighborhood children, Agit More no doubt among them, had gathered to stare as she stood organizing her thoughts. Catherine had come out on the veranda and stood leaning on the railing, watching her.

  ***

  Marina had gotten the Halapur address from Nagarajan’s followers in San Francisco. She hadn’t told Catherine she was coming. When Marina crossed the bare earth and climbed the veranda steps she saw that Catherine looked pale and gaunt. Her hair was pulled back, and there was an angry-looking rash behind one of her ears. She looked at Marina without expression. “So you came,” she said.

  Marina put down her suitcase. “I came to take you home.”

  “I am home.”

  “We have to talk, Catherine.”

  Catherine’s lips curved. “Wait here,” she said, and went into the house’s shadowy interior.

  Marina waited a long time, facing the road. Down the way, at a vegetable stand, a mound of oranges looked molten in the fierce light. The group of children at the gate slowly dispersed. A man in a white dhoti drove a herd of goats past, their bleats lost in the cloud of dust raised by their hooves. From somewhere came a drone she recognized: Guru Nagarajan, Parama Sukhadam. Guru Nagarajan, Chrana Shranam.

  At last a skinny young man with short brown hair and pimples appeared in the doorway. “Come with me,” he said.

  She followed him through a room that was empty except for rolled mats against the wall, and down a short hallway. He stopped in front of a door across which a curtain hung, motioned to her to wait, and went inside. She heard low voices. In a moment he emerged and said, “You can go in.”

  The shuttered room was close, but not as hot as Marina had expected. On a low table was a statue of a
Hindu god— Shiva, the destroyer, she later learned, the god who garlanded himself with cobras. Marigolds littered the table in front of the statue, and their faint fresh odor mingled with the heavier smell of incense. Nagarajan reclined on one elbow on a mat on the floor. He smiled when he saw her and sat up gracefully. “You have come to see me. Most delightful,” he said. He waved his hand at another mat. “Please.”

  As Marina sat down she said, “I didn’t come to see you. I came to take my sister home.”

  Nagarajan looked interested. “Yes,” he said. “But have you never set out to buy apples, and when you reached the market found that the pears were more beautiful, so bought pears instead? Have you never set out for the ocean, but found the mountains so interesting you stayed in the mountains? Of course you have.”

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  “Perhaps not. I see you are very clear about what you want. The bitterest, most worm-infested apple, you say, is better than the plumpest, sweetest pear. I admire such single-mindedness.”

  “You make it sound like—”

  “No, it is how you have heard it, not how I have made it sound.”

  Nagarajan’s face was serious, but she saw a suspicion of laughter in his eyes. His curly black hair, glossy and healthy-looking, fell to his shoulders. The mottled scar on his neck almost gleamed against his golden-brown skin. “I want to take my sister back home,” she said.

  He leaned toward her, and Marina smelled the not-unpleasant odor of his body. “We want and we want. That is where our trouble starts. Is it not so, Marina?” He reached out and, not actually touching her, outlined the side of her face with his fingers. She could feel the warmth emanating from his hand. “Isn’t it?”

  She felt heavy, unable to move. “Yes.”

  He withdrew his hand. “You will stay as our honored guest.”