The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  27

  Monkeys skittered along the wall beside the steps and chased each other through the trees. One crouched and regarded Marina with bright black eyes and she stopped to look at him. Two women on their way downhill, brass water jars balanced on their heads, picked their way through the crowd climbing toward the cave temple.

  According to a very correct secretary at the Delightful Novelty Company, Vincent Shah was away on a business trip and would be back in a week’s time. Marina had said she’d call again, and she and Vijay crossed the road and plunged into the crowd surrounding the Gateway of India.

  As soon as they approached the water’s edge, they were assailed by boys waving tickets and calling, “Elephanta? Elephanta?” The touts swirled around Marina. “Best price, madam. Best boat.” The glittering expanse of the harbor was full of vessels— not only the gaudy Elephanta tour boats, but huge tankers with rust-streaked sides, sailboats, fishing smacks. As Vijay negotiated for the tickets, Marina had the inexplicable feeling that she was on vacation, and she and Vijay were friends out for a pleasant afternoon’s excursion. That she believed Nagarajan was alive and she was going to Elephanta to search for his traces seemed like a bothersome detail she could almost ignore in the bright sun, with the air full of whirring mechanical pigeons and the smell of salt water.

  When they found a seat on the flat-bottomed boat Vijay took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, and Marina could see the holiday atmosphere had affected him too. Like a tour guide, as the boat slid away he pointed to an equestrian statue near the Gateway and said, “That is Shivaji, a great warrior and hero of the Hindus.”

  She had heard the name. The memory of tumbled rock seen through the greasy window of a bus came back to her. “Didn’t he and his followers have forts in the hills not far from Halapur?”

  “Quite right. It is too bad, really. Once that land was Shivaji’s kingdom. Now it is the home of thieves and bandits, these gangs of dacoits.”

  “What do they steal?”

  “Whatever they can. They terrorize villages, sometimes they kidnap also. I myself call them simple thieves, but some claim political basis— against caste, or the tyranny of the rich. One named Baladeva is said to be the Robin Hood of India— at least by some of the newspapers.”

  “Does he rob from the rich and give to the poor?”

  “Certainly he robs from the rich. I think that is the only similarity. Although some of the poor people, because they are ignorant and probably afraid, do venerate him. Occasionally he comes from his stronghold in the hills and shows himself openly in the villages. The people bring him food and gifts.”

  “Why doesn’t he get arrested?”

  “That is the question they are asking in Parliament also.”

  They had chatted companionably throughout the trip. Vijay talked about his life, which included, in addition to his job, seeing a great many films and going to parties with what he called his “set.”

  ***

  Vijay was calling from up ahead on the path. There was only a snack bar at the boat landing, and no sign of any entity called Elephanta Trading and Tours. Confirming this had taken them no more than three minutes. As Marina berated herself for her stupidity in imagining they would uncover anything here, Vijay had suggested they make the climb up to the cave temple the island was famous for. “We must see the temple,” he had said. “It is a Shiva temple, very ancient, very beautiful. Who made it and when, nobody knows for sure.”

  “A Shiva temple?” Disquieted, she had almost refused, but Vijay looked so eager she consented.

  As she left the monkey behind, her breathing began to speed up more than was warranted by the mild exertion. “We’re almost there. Not much farther,” Vijay called. She waved at him and resumed her leaden climb.

  The steps widened, stone elephants marking their borders, and ended in a broad courtyard. The temple was carved out of the rock of the hill, its low columns stretching back into the cave. Small groups straggled through it after guides, and people wandered individually or in twos and threes.

  Marina conquered an impulse to turn and run. It was ten years ago. I’m back in India, and there are lots of Shiva temples in India. I was bound to see one sometime.

  She followed Vijay past the stone doorkeepers into the twilight of the cave. He led her from one to another of its large sculpted panels depicting Shiva in various guises: as half man, half woman; killing a demon; as Nataraja, king of dancers; as the bringer of the Ganges to earth. Vijay told her their significance, obviously repeating stories he had known from childhood.

  They stopped in front of a huge three-part face that loomed out of the rock. “This is the most famous,” said Vijay. “People say Brahma is creator, Vishnu preserver, Shiva destroyer. Here, Shiva has all three aspects.”

  ***

  “The serpent is most beloved of Shiva,” whispered Nagarajan.

  Marina blotted her face. Dazed, she walked with Vijay to the temple’s central enclosure, which contained a cylindrical stone shaft, rounded at the top. “That is the lingam, symbol of Shiva,” Vijay said. “It represents the phallus, but also the sacred fire.”

  Nagarajan was kneeling beside her bed mat in the darkness. He was naked, his penis erect. “You will come with me, Marina,” he said.

  Surely she hadn’t gone with him. Surely she hadn’t. But yes, she had gone. His room smelled of incense. She remembered his hair falling around her face, and a feeling like showers of sparks igniting, burning, fading beneath her skin. His voice spun a melodic web inside her head. “The serpent is beloved of Shiva,” he whispered. “It can stand by itself” —he laughed and indicated his penis— “which means it is very powerful.” He had tasted like unknown spices, and his body was strong and sinuous. The dweller in the deep well, the guardian of the great treasure. Nagarajan, Eternal Giver of Happiness.

  She put her hands to her face. She and Vijay sat on an outcropping of rock bordered by a low stone wall. Across the water was distant Bombay. “I should have thought,” said Vijay. “Of course we should not have come here.”

  “I betrayed my sister. Betrayed her in every way.” Marina’s face felt hot and swollen. “I played both sides. I told her Nagarajan was a fraud, I complained to the consulate. I swore every day that I would leave, would never go to him again. But at night—”

  “No, please. You must not tell me this.”

  “At night, I couldn’t stop myself from going, and she knew it, all of them knew it. He’d had them all, played with them. Do you know what? If he had had a little more time, if he hadn’t been arrested, I would have been dressing in saris and chanting along with the rest of them. I probably would’ve stood by while he killed that young boy, Agit More. I probably would’ve helped him.”

  “Please—”

  “Somebody saw a pariah dog dragging Agit More’s head down Palika Road. They found the rest of him buried beside the house. Buried so shallowly dogs could dig him up. Maybe Nagarajan was trying to prove he could raise the dead, but the dogs beat him to it.”

  “Marina, I—”

  “I could’ve gotten Catherine out before it happened. I could’ve dragged her out, but I waited and waited because I couldn’t quite bear to give him up just yet—”

  “I will not listen to this, Marina!” Vijay’s lips were trembling. He stood, turned his back, and walked a few steps away from her.

  Marina felt the cool stone beneath her hands. Perspiration made a liquid track past one of her ears.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You said horrible things.” His voice was choked.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He turned toward her again. “You are determined to try to find him?”

  “I have to know what’s going on.”

  “How can you know?”

  She hadn’t thought about it, but the words came. “I’ll go back to Halapur. Talk to people there, the guard at the prison…” Her voice trailed off.

  His shoulders sagged. “Perh
aps it is time to leave. Shall we return to the boat?”

  They didn’t speak on the way down the hill. His face, when she glanced at it, looked solemn and closed. She had struggled never to think of what had happened between her and Nagarajan. When she discussed it with Clara, she was detached, clinical. Patrick knew, but he didn’t want to talk about it. She had never before been so possessed by the memory.

  Attempting to ease the strain, she said, “Do you think the people at the snack bar have heard of Elephanta Trading and Tours?”

  “Perhaps I should ask before we leave.” Vijay’s tone was courteous but distant. When they reached the landing stage she waited on the ramshackle dock while he talked with the elderly man who ran the ice cream stand.

  He joined her in a few minutes and said, “That was easy enough. Elephanta Trading and Tours is the company responsible for bringing supplies over to the island. The agent in charge is a man with a twisted back and a club foot. His name is Raki.”

  28

  The trip that had begun in unexpected enjoyment ended bleakly. They disembarked at the Gateway of India and walked silently back across the street to the hotel. In the lobby Vijay said, abruptly, “I must leave for an appointment. Tomorrow morning we go to Halapur. The driver and I will be here at seven-thirty.”

  “You’re coming with me?”

  “Why not, since it is my job to accompany you?” His tone was remote.

  “You’re obviously feeling—”

  “How I feel does not enter in.”

  “Vijay—” She was at a loss. “Can you come have tea, or a drink?”

  He checked his watch. “I must go to my other commitment.”

  It was no use. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  She watched him walk briskly away. Give me a break, Vijay. I know you’re prim and proper and I shouldn’t have babbled on about having sex with Nagarajan, but just— give me a break. Don’t you think I would’ve shut up if I could?

  She went to her room and collapsed on the bed, letting the air-conditioning dry the perspiration from her skin. Tomorrow, Halapur. It was the next obvious move. There was one Bombay lead she hadn’t followed up, though. Joginder. He might know something, but even if he didn’t she should find him, see how he was. Joginder had saved her from the mob, from the sight of the burning ashram. If Vijay had stayed around, he could’ve accompanied her, but he had an important appointment. And besides, she wasn’t planning to break into anything. She washed her face, brushed her hair, and went downstairs to have the doorman call her a taxi.

  Although Marina had visited Joginder in Bombay before she left the last time, she didn’t remember much about the place where he had lived with his brother except that it was in a warren of tin-roofed houses off the road to the airport. The driver grunted when she described it and pulled into the clogged traffic, where red double-decker buses, bicycles, motorbikes, ox-carts, and cars competed for space.

  She stared out the window, unable to escape Nagarajan’s image. Knowing his power, he had toyed with her, playing on her desire and despair. His beauty, perfect except for the mottled scar at the base of his throat, was addictive, dangerous. Angry at her helplessness, she had focused on the scar. Because he didn’t want her to touch it, she had always tried to, and never succeeded. Even overcome by passion, even asleep, he would push her fingers away. It was a game she’d played, and like every game she played with him, she’d lost. She tried to concentrate on anything else. A tree with fiery blossoms. A woman in a green sari, shading herself from the sun with a white umbrella.

  The driver slowed and looked at her inquiringly; she recognized the place. He turned into the winding dirt street and she knew the way without having to stop and ask. When they pulled up in front of the house, with its packed-earth yard and sagging frame of weathered, unpainted wood, she asked the driver to wait and crossed to the open door.

  She rapped on the door frame, then peered inside. A woman with long, loose hair, holding a naked baby, pulled the baby closer and stared at her. In a corner an older woman crouched.

  “I’m looking for Joginder. Joginder?” She wished for Vijay and his command of the language.

  She thought the younger woman understood. She beckoned Marina in and led her to a back door opening on a tiny courtyard. In a corner, squatting in the dust, was a figure Marina barely recognized as Joginder.

  His face looked caved in, and his mouth moved in a ceaseless mumble as his hands twisted and writhed. He did not look up as she approached. “Joginder?” she said, but he continued to mutter and stare in front of him.

  She crouched down. “It’s Marina. From the ashram, remember?”

  “He rarely speaks.”

  She looked up, startled, into the face of a man who bore a strong resemblance to Joginder. She had, she remembered, met Joginder’s brother briefly when she came here before. She couldn’t remember his name. “I’m—”

  “I remember you.” The man’s face was bony and handsome, but his eyes looked tired. “You were here long ago.”

  She got to her feet. “Yes. Then, I came to thank Joginder for helping me. I was hoping to talk with him again.”

  A small distortion of his mouth was gone an instant later. “He is as you see him. After he came from Halapur, he changed. For years now he cannot work. He must be led like an animal from place to place. His wife, his children, have gone to another. What else could she do? We could help only a little.”

  “Does he ever speak?”

  “From time to time. But he speaks only to his guru.”

  “His guru?”

  “Sri Nagarajan.”

  Marina fought to keep her voice steady. “Are you saying…”

  “I am saying that he speaks as if to someone, but there is only air. He speaks as if Sri Nagarajan were before him.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says, over and over, that he will be faithful, he will keep the great secret. That is all.”

  “Keep the secret?” She plunged ahead. “Do you think he believes Nagarajan is still alive?”

  “Who can say what he believes?”

  Marina looked at the gibbering, dust-covered figure of the man who had led her away from the mob and the burning ashram. “He’s been like this since he came from Halapur?”

  “He changed slowly, but since that time he was never at ease in his mind.”

  Never at ease in his mind. Both of us running away from the fire. “I’d like to give you something toward his care.”

  “You are kind, but he is my brother. It is for me to look after him.”

  She tried to insist, but Joginder’s brother impassively refused as they walked to the door. When they said goodbye, he said, “I am sorry you do not find him better. I still hope— he is my brother. But I begin to think he will not be better in this life.”

  She woke the taxi driver, who was dozing behind the wheel, and told him to take her back to the Taj. Nagarajan had claimed another victim.

  29

  Marina ate a hasty breakfast of toast and coffee from room service, took the newspaper from her tray, and went downstairs to wait outside for Vijay. The early-morning air was cool, with only a hint of the sultriness that would come later. Joginder had been in her thoughts since the previous afternoon. He speaks only to his guru. He says he will be faithful. He will keep the great secret.

  She had never believed Joginder to be one of Nagarajan’s devotees. Her impression was that he regarded his work as a job, not a religious vocation. Something must have convinced Joginder that Nagarajan did indeed have great power. Something like Nagarajan appearing to Joginder after Joginder had been told he was dead. He would have used Joginder’s awe and fear to elicit whatever he wanted— help in getting out of Halapur, possibly.

  A car pulled up. Vijay was sitting in the back seat with his briefcase on his knees. His smile when he saw her was perfunctory. “So. It will take us two hours,” he said. He opened his briefcase, got out his pen, and began making notations o
n papers.

  I’m not going to cajole him. She settled in her corner of the back seat and read the newspaper accounts of a train derailment that had left twenty dead, the parliamentary outcry over the temerity of the dacoit Baladeva, the burning of the huts of untouchables. By the time she looked up, they had left the industrial environs of Bombay and were crossing a rocky plain. She remembered the scenery from the bus trips she had taken between Halapur and Bombay to visit the consulate. The car met a bus, and as it flashed by, she searched the windows as if for a trace of her former self, but no pale, strained face looked back at her.

  “There. You see? It is a fort. There, on top of the hill.”

  Vijay had decided to talk. When she followed his pointing finger she saw the rocky ruins. “One of Shivaji’s?”

  “I think so.”

  He was putting his papers away.

  “You’re through with your work?”

  “One is never through with work. For the moment, yes.”

  She would try a little conversation. “How did your appointment go yesterday afternoon?”

  His face closed. “It went well.” He looked out the window for a minute or two, then said, “My parents have found a wife for me. I met her yesterday.” His tone held no enthusiasm.

  “Congratulations. What’s her name?”

  “Sushila.”

  “She’s pretty?”

  “Very pretty. Just finishing at university. Specializing in biology.”

  “She sounds nice.”

  “Very nice.” Vijay drummed his fingers on his knees.

  It was impossible to ignore his disquiet. “Don’t you want to get married?”

  Vijay frowned. “It is suitable that I marry. I want to please my parents. I want to have children. Yet sometimes I feel there is still much to do, to see. I feel that once I am married I will stay in my corner of Bombay only.” He was, she saw, even more upset than she had imagined. “My father says I have been too much with the Americans. That these are American ideas.”