Sea of Innocence

by Desai, Kishwar

  So if both Marian and Liza had been deceitful, why had the last photograph, of Durga’s tattoo, been sent to me? Was it just to jolt me into leaving? Or to steel my nerves? Or to remind me that I too was the mother of a young, vulnerable girl?

  Multiple questions pressed upon me and I was disappointed that Amarjit had succumbed to pressure and decided to close the investigation.

  Whoever had sent me that last image might have wanted to discourage me from becoming complacent, to remind me that he or she was still around, and that I should be careful. But it had had the opposite effect. I had decided to head for Fernando’s and dig out some more facts.

  Even though it was a short ride, I caught a taxi to Anjuna and walked only the last bit over the cool pale sand (since it was still early in the morning) to Fernando’s. It turned out to be a nicely structured rectangular shack with a slightly more upmarket ambience and clientele than the others.

  It was laid out on two floors. On the ground floor were the normal plastic chairs and wooden tables, while on the first floor were more upmarket silk-covered couches and divans, a deliberate private setting. From here, through the large windows, the sea, a deep blue today, was clearly visible. I was told that, at this time of the year, most Indians had to pay an entry fee. Foreigners were welcomed free of charge, as the shrewd owners wanted to attract those who spent in dollars (or at least at a dollar rate) rather than rupees. What the foreigners did not realize was that they would be also charged higher-than-normal prices for food and drinks, more than making up for the entrance fee they had forgone.

  But possibly because I was a woman alone (despite the colour of my skin) I was given special treatment today. I had been allowed up to the first floor. Free of charge.

  I looked around, imagining the scene that night when Marian and Liza had come to meet the travel agency owner. As well as someone who could have been ‘a minister’. Who could it have been? I wished Marian had taken a little more interest in her sister’s life, and wondered if the detachment could be due to the eight-year gap between them.

  Slowly, as it was barely 9 a.m., a few more people straggled upstairs, mostly because they could smoke here in privacy. I noticed that there were lots of hookahs or shee-shas, as they were also known, scattered about, promising different flavours of smoke.

  At night the scene would be quite different: dim lights, trance music playing, people smoking, eating, drinking and glancing out of the windows at the dark sea. For young people to be unfettered, with this amount of freedom, was probably impossible anywhere else in India.

  But so much could go wrong as well. I remembered the terrifying video of Liza walking on the beach, and then the attack on her by the two men.

  The other girl who had died here, Scarlett Keeling, had also spent a lot of time around Anjuna. If I looked out of the window, I could probably see the spot where her body had been discovered.

  Looking around, I wondered if any of the boys working inside the shack had been a witness to anything that had happened on that night, when Liza had come with Marian.

  Probably nothing they would admit to.

  As Marian had already pointed out, the shack owners and the locals they hired – the panchayat heads, the police, the politicians, and even the media – were all closely associated with each other. Through their youth and schooling, and through marriage, these villagers had known each other for far too long to betray each other over the rape or death of an ‘outsider’. And the other reason was that these shacks had mostly migrants working in them. Their jobs were at stake if they were to confess to what they had seen or heard. They would never be able to return the next season, as they would be blacklisted. The same applied for the beach vendors – they too had to follow the rules laid down by the close-knit community of local leaders.

  The waiter who served me was in his early twenties, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt – exactly the sort of person these shack owners hired. Usually the workers came very cheaply, for less than 20,000 rupees for five months, plus free food and drink. And, as I had found out earlier, even drugs could be supplied as part of their pay. Though, according to the newspapers today, the beaches had finally become drug-free zones.

  This particular boy was probably from one of the northeastern states, like many of the others. Thanks to the lack of jobs in that part of the country, a sizeable number of migrants had come to work in Goa, as restaurant helpers, cooks, guards and so on. The booming tourist trade had provided fairly regular employment and, being young, they no doubt enjoyed the cosmopolitan character and the informality of the beach.

  ‘Hey – do you know someone called Vishnu here?’ I asked as pleasantly as I could. I wanted to encourage him to speak.

  ‘No, madam. I come recently. I know no one.’ He looked at me, startled, as though I was asking him something which would get him into trouble. I had a feeling he had been instructed not to speak too much.

  I couldn’t mention either Marian or Liza as that might alert others. But after my last experience I had a ready-made reason to meet Vishnu. I now knew what would work.

  ‘Don’t worry. Vishnu is a friend. I’m looking for him because I have to give him some money. Someone sent it for him.’ Among the many lessons I had learnt, especially after my interaction with Veeramma, was that on the beach the only way to get even the slightest bit of information, or anything done, was to pay cash. Otherwise no one knew anyone or anything. Or remembered anything. It was too much hard work to do anything for free.

  ‘I just find out, madam.’ He scurried away, looking a little more thoughtful than he had earlier.

  After a while another man strolled up. From his more leisurely gait, well-massaged, shiny body, oily hair and the jogging trousers I assumed he was slightly higher in the hierarchy. He even pulled out the earpiece connected to his mobile phone in order to hear me.

  I was honoured!

  ‘You looking for someone?’ He came straight to the point. But at least he was smiling a little.

  ‘Someone called Vishnu. He used to be here a lot.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I have a message for him and some money.’

  ‘He left. The police came and took him. I think he go to jail.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He trouble some girl.’

  ‘Is he still in jail?’

  ‘I don’t think so. That long back.’

  ‘Do you have an address for him?’

  He hesitated.

  I took out a 500-rupee note and handed it to him.

  ‘Thanks. He also friend of mine.’

  Giving a big grin, he put the money away quickly and then looking over his shoulder to ensure no one was looking, scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I looked at the address, which was of a shop, ‘Rummy Electronix’, at Anjuna village itself.

  ‘But, madam, be careful. He sometimes get very angry.’

  I briefly wondered if I should ask this man about the incident with Liza, then thought better of it. Nor did I want to meet Fernando. I didn’t want anyone to know why I was actually here or else I might not even get a chance to meet Vishnu.

  On my way to the village, I kept a lookout for both Marian and Veeramma, wondering if I could try to get some more information from either of them. But to my pleasant surprise I bumped into Dennis, my ‘Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot rolled into one’, as I told him.

  ‘You’ve added meaning to my dull life,’ I said, gently flirting with him. It seemed a long time since I had done that.

  He obviously decided to humour me, and that felt nice, too.

  ‘It’s always great to help out lovely damsels in distress,’ he said, sounding old fashioned and gallant, living up to the reputation of the legendary figures I had compared him to.

  Hopefully I wasn’t looking so distressed this morning, after all, in my white-and-red dress. For the past few days I had been too involved in other things to pay any attention to my appearance, but now I was pleased I had (quite accidentally)
chosen flattering clothes.

  ‘Do you want to meet later, for a drink in the evening?’ he asked.

  That seemed like a good idea, in more ways than one. I had planned to go to the floating casino, the Tempest, this evening, as I had promised Vicky. Apart from the fact that I liked his affable manner, it would be better if I had an escort with me. I didn’t quite know what I would find in the casino, and it would be good to be accompanied by someone whom I could rely on.

  To my quite visible delight, he barely hesitated, his genial features spreading into a smile.

  ‘Why not? It should be very enjoyable, and perhaps give me material for my next script!’

  If only I could tell him the story behind my casino visit, he would have more material than he could handle for several TV serials. But as yet I wasn’t confident enough about sharing my information with anyone. Not even with men I found interesting and attractive.

  We fixed to meet at around 8.30 at Panjim, where the ferry motorboats picked up customers. Dennis said he would be at the beach for the rest of the day, so I left him and trudged into the village, where I hoped to find Vishnu. After a little meandering through various paths which led through crowded streets, I found the ‘electro-nix’ shop.

  It seemed deserted but for an elderly woman who was half-heartedly dusting the shelves, on which were piled all kinds of electronic gadgets, wires, lights and plugs. I noticed that there was a whole section of both basic and expensive mobile phones and their parts, as well as an array of SIM cards. A few desktop computers and keyboards had been dismembered and lay clustered at one end of the narrow room.

  I watched, amused: she was shaking the duster in the direction of the goods, while her attention was fixed on the tiny television screen jammed between cardboard boxes full of plugs and extension boards. An evangelist was on screen urging sinners to repent.

  I waited till he had completed one round of exhortations and then quickly said, ‘Hi – I’m looking for Vishnu?’

  Her attention barely shifted. ‘Gone out,’ she said.

  ‘Shall I wait for him? How long gone? I mean,’ I corrected myself, still resisting the urge to speak in incomplete sentences, though it was very infectious and somewhat good fun, ‘when is he likely to return?’

  ‘Soon back,’ she said, giving me a quick grin, showing off a surprising set of sturdy, white teeth that belied her age. ‘Sit, sit.’

  I had barely sat down on a plastic stool near the counter, when a large young man appeared in the shop. The left side of his face was covered with scars, as though he had been recently injured. The skin was red and an eyebrow was missing. One arm hung loose at a strange angle. It would be difficult to forget him. And I hadn’t.

  He had ‘repaired’ the Internet in my room on the day that Durga left. The receptionist, Maggie, had been in my room with him, I now remembered. I think she had mentioned that he was an expert with the Internet. As well as with computers and mobile phones, I could see.

  I couldn’t be sure, but I thought she had said his name was Vishnu. Small world, getting smaller all the time.

  I hadn’t made the connection and had frankly forgotten about him till this moment. But at least this coincidence gave me a pretext for starting a conversation with him. Perhaps things were finally moving in the right direction.

  The woman smiled again. ‘She waiting for you, Vishnu.’

  ‘Yes?’ He looked at me and there was (or so I thought) a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  ‘Didn’t you come to Hotel Delite? To my room with Maggie? You repaired the Internet?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He looked a little concerned. ‘Internet gone down again? I come? You should tell Maggie, no? Why you come all the way?’

  Even though the manager at Fernando’s had warned me that Vishnu could be problematic, he spoke in a very gentle fashion, belying those accusations of molestation and a quick temper.

  In fact he appeared quite amiable, his soft mouth twisted in a semblance of a smile. He didn’t seem like a street fighter, unless something had provoked him beyond tolerance. So what had gone wrong?

  ‘Not Internet today, Vishnu. I needed to talk about a common friend – Liza.’

  On hearing the name he became wary and started backing away from me.

  ‘Too much work today. Talk tomorrow.’

  Perhaps his stint in jail had frightened him, and he was worried about any mention of Liza. She was the girl who had put him behind bars, after all. Had there been any truth in the molestation charge?

  I looked around and found to my relief that the woman in the shop was now unabashedly watching TV, and didn’t seem to be listening to us.

  I took out my mobile phone and scanned down to Liza’s photograph, the one that Amarjit had re-sent to me.

  I could sense that Vishnu was becoming increasingly tense. His breath was whistling through his teeth and I knew he wanted to leave. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  He wasn’t just stressed, he was scared.

  ‘Madam I got work. I late.’

  He picked up a bag of equipment and started to leave the shop without even looking at my proffered phone or the photograph. Exactly as Veeramma had done at first. Things hadn’t changed here on the beach, despite what Amarjit may have said. No one still wanted to talk about Liza. Which could only mean that the message had still not gone out that she was safe.

  I reached out to stop him but he shook my hand off.

  ‘I go now.’ Ignoring Liza’s smiling photograph on my phone, half running, half limping out of the shop, he got onto his ramshackle scooter and quickly left.

  ‘Poor fellow. After the police arrested him, something gone wrong with his brain. He very scared of his own shadow. Cries at night like baby. They beat him badly.’

  It was the woman in the shop. Obviously she had been listening to our exchange, after all, and not to the evangelist on the screen.

  ‘What was he arrested for?’

  ‘That Liza you talk about. Some man molest her, you know. And then this foolish boy stop him. The police come at night and take Vishnu away. They say he wanted to rape her. They say Liza sister say like that. Nonsense. This boy impotent, you know. Very weak. Born like that. Thrown in jail for full one year. No case against him, only beatings. Just come back. Now he too scared to speak even. Only work all the time. Police still catch him now and then. Any trouble they come for him. You did, you did – like that, they say. Poor boy.’

  ‘You are his—’

  ‘His auntie Elizabeth. His parents died long back. His father Christian and mother Hindu. I his father’s sister.’

  And Liza, did you meet her?’

  ‘She came to thank him that first time he looked up. Because he help save her from that fellow who try to rape her. But Vishnu already in jail. No one listen to her. Brought him flowers, gave this book. Say sorry, sorry. But no point. Now he come from jail, but she gone.’

  Reaching under the counter she took out a book; it was a collection of well-known quotations. It didn’t look like it had ever been opened. Somehow I doubted if Vishnu – despite his undoubted Internet skills – was interested in reading.

  On the first page, scrawled in a large, uneven childlike handwriting, was the inscription: ‘For My Superhero Vishnu, Be Who You Want To Be, Many Thanks, Liza xx PS sorry for the trouble. See you when you come back.’ She had drawn a curly-headed smiling face under her name. It sounded like she was wishing him well for a holiday with little idea of what would happen to him within the confines of a jail. She did not know that by protecting her, Vishnu had annoyed someone who would never forgive him.

  It gave me an odd pang to see Liza’s name like that, at the bottom of the page. It made her more real, somehow. Up to this point I had been uncertain of her existence outside the videos that I had almost believed to be faked, especially after Amarjit had said they may have been staged. Her signature and the innocent, idealistic message made it even more imperative that I try to find her. She sounde
d just like any other young girl.

  Like Durga.

  ‘His face . . . is it because of the police beating?’ I asked Elizabeth.

  The woman looked away. ‘Who knows who did? Police also have big boss, you know. Only Jesus Christ knows who did it and why.’

  Perhaps if I persisted Elizabeth would tell me a little more.

  ‘What happened to Liza?’

  ‘Madam, we live here fifty years. Girls come and go. She wasn’t first and she won’t be last. White white legs, golden golden hair. English passport. French passport. German passport. Jew passport. Tcha! I seen same story from hippie days. My husband had shack down there. Now we old, so out, out. Young people’s business, they say. Foreigner business, they say. They buy land, property. But need money for land, for drugging. Spoil our boys, our family.’

  She didn’t sound bitter at all, as she became more and more animated telling the story of how the beaches of Goa had changed. If you saw life through her eyes, the fault lay with some of the foreigners who came here, not, as others said, the beach boys who had learnt to exploit them.

  ‘These white girls carry drugs, smile at customs, spread legs for police. Carry drugs everywhere – you know, push in there, push in there.’ She simulated putting something between her legs and up her backside. I watched, fascinated, as this very traditional, God-fearing woman now gave me a quick lesson in drug smuggling.

  ‘And they get big big money. Also shack-fellows get money, because they get drugs at night, from sea. Minister get money, police get money. One night even some minister from Delhi come for Vishnu in car with red light. He own shack on beach. Fernando’s. He come with siren blaring. He ask Vishnu about that girl. But he don’t know nothing. Still they beat him.’

  I nodded. This might not be evidence I could produce in court, but it corroborated what I suspected. Liza had been molested by someone – possibly Curtis – who then chose to make Vishnu the scapegoat. Perhaps Liza had consumed too many drugs that night to remember who had assaulted her. So Vishnu took the rap. But why would a minister come down specially to check what Vishnu knew? Because he was worried that Vishnu had seen something at Fernando’s? Even a cursory look at Vishnu would tell anyone that the man was barely capable of violence. But it was still not clear to me how these events were linked to Liza’s final disappearance.