The Assassins

by Jeremy Trafford

  Thinking of Narayan often brought back memories of Rick.

  Max had kept his friendship with Rick alive. He even asked him to be best man at his wedding, and that had somehow helped to heal the hurt between them. Rick had amused Clare and Max at the reception, standing unsteadily on a table, pretending to be even drunker than he was. He crooned a romantic song from the 1930s, but with salacious variations of his own invention. He clutched the microphone greedily to his mouth and quivered with simulated rapture.

  Clare was pleased that Max had such a colourful and outrageous friend, for whom she also felt a humorous concern. Rick’s accounts of adventures with various women, about which he boasted with exuberant untruthfulness, never put a strain on their sympathetic friendship. Max still sometimes worried that he hadn’t told Clare anything about his brief sexual relationship with Rick, but he justified the omission by resolving to commit himself to his wife exclusively. Because of that, he hadn’t been concerned by Narayan’s immediate appeal when he met him in Los Angeles. It was something he could contain; it would not threaten his marriage. Clare had gone away on a month’s visit to London, to see her mother, who’d fallen ill. The next time he invited Narayan home, Max stated clearly how happy he was in his marriage.

  ‘When will you be getting married yourself?’ Max asked.

  ‘Oh, some day,’ Narayan replied. ‘It’s inevitable. Pretty well everyone gets married in India. Not to want to have children would be thought of as being really freakish, although we’re supposed to ration them these days.’

  ‘What about the family you come from?’

  ‘There’s just the two of us. Our parents died in a car accident when we were teenagers.’

  ‘That must’ve been traumatic,’ Max said.

  ‘I mustn’t be self-pitying. I live with my sister, Vijayalakshmi, which we shorten to Vijaya. She’s quite a livewire, rebelling against what she sees as her repressive, conventional female upbringing. We live in our parents’ old house, but she’s soon to marry Tammy, a cousin of ours. She’s very much in love with him, although she’d sooner cut out her tongue than admit it. Tammy, being far more English than Indian because of his English public school education, thinks romantic love a bit embarrassing. We’re a very small family in the immediate sense, but our extended family is alarmingly big.’

  ‘You mentioned some elephantine uncles. I remember.’

  ‘So huge and heavy they’re difficult to ignore. There are some nosey aunts as well; they don’t exactly make life any easier. Vijaya has secret names for them that aren’t too complimentary. One she calls The Battleaxe, because she’s sharp and lethal. The other is The Sergeant Majorette because she’s got a bit of a moustache and expects us to do her instant bidding. She’s loud too, with a voice like a mad screech owl. The two are deadly rivals. Well, I exaggerate, but you’ve no idea what the pressure of family life in India is like. Even at one remove away, you can seldom escape its strangling influence.’

  ‘Families in America can sometimes be strangling too, you know.’

  Narayan laughed.

  ‘I often thought I’d like to live in America. I love what I’ve seen of Americans so far. I’ve experienced extraordinary friendliness and hospitality. As I have with you, and as I have with a guy who took me to a restaurant in Venice Beach. It specialises in vegetarian food. He jokes about the cult of the cowboy in America.’

  ‘Who is this guy?’ Max asked. ‘And what’s the cult of the cowboy?’

  ‘José,’ Narayan replied. ‘He’s a Hispanic immigrant. He lives in a house very unlike this one. It has a view of a gas station and a lot of concrete jungle. The cult of the cowboy means steak eating and hard drinking and being forever on the move; it’s the cult of masculinity, toughness and hitting back. And now you have a cowboy president, he claims.’

  ‘Yes, we do. To be fair, though, he gave up the hard drinking a long time back.’

  ‘But he hasn’t given up attacking the wretched Indians, by which he means Afghans and Iraqis. I too think that’s pretty crazy.’

  ‘So do I. My father was fanatically supportive of the Iraq invasion, but I demonstrated against it in a candlelit procession. He was mad at me for doing that. We had some very bad arguments.’

  ‘I also argued with my father. He was not all that affectionate. My mother influenced me far more. She was a devoted strict Hindu, and I’m a rather lax one. Still, my religion is important to me, as is being a Tamil. I’m extremely proud of being Tamil. My cousin Tammy thinks I’m being too regionalist on this account. But we Tamils produced music, dance and poetry, and our bronze sculptures are among the finest in the world! I’m boasting, Max, and I must be off now.’

  ‘So soon?’ Max was aware of the disappointment in his voice. ‘Where are you going?

  ‘José has invited me for a meal to meet his family. I must introduce you to him some time, although he’s always going on about top-dog WASPS, with their high salaries, guarded condominiums and gilded private medical insurance. But you’re a conscientious liberal, Max. I’m sure you’ll get on. Look, it’s really kind of you to ask me home and let me prattle on. I hope to meet Clare soon, when I’ll try and be rather less of a chatterbox. I’m afraid it’s a family failing. Vijaya’s even worse than I, if that’s possible.’

  Narayan laughed and, being on the point of leaving, held Max’s hand in a very prolonged handshake. Max didn’t infer anything from this because he’d heard that Indians were demonstrative. Despite that, the action stirred him.

  A week later he invited Narayan to his home again, suggesting they swim together in his pool. He’d always been uncritically proud of having this, although he now felt a touch less confident about it. The two of them undressed and dived into the pool. Narayan swam well, and Max thought his body looked beautiful as he moved through the water. He loved the hard curves of Narayan’s body, of his thighs and pectoral muscles especially. He liked the fact they were not overdeveloped. Later, Max stood on the poolside and watched Narayan swimming underwater in a sheath of whirling bubbles. He felt a thrill as he emerged from the pool; drops of water glistened on his skin and formed tiny rivulets that coursed down his body.

  Afterwards Narayan did some yoga exercises. Max quipped that his contortions must be so uncomfortable, and wondered if he inflicted them on himself for the sake of his poor soul. Narayan was sitting cross-legged, his fingers resting lightly on his knees. He was so still and calm that Max was startled when he spoke.

  ‘Tell me, do you believe in immortal souls, Max?’

  ‘I’d give anything to do so, but I find it difficult.’

  ‘Why? Because you think the soul is just the brain, and the physical brain dies when the body dies?’ Narayan paused. ‘Oh well, I admit that’s quite a question. And here am I, a physicist knowing a fair amount about the physical world, yet still believing there’s a spiritual one that is far more significant. You know, the more I examine the physical world, the more it seems to have been designed somehow.’

  ‘Rank heresy in the eyes of many modern scientists,’ Max observed.

  ‘I know, but it seems so beautifully and intricately designed. How could life have just happened from the chance vagaries of evolution? Although it’s not always for human benefit, as it seems to us. Then there’s the mystery of it all. The world of physics seems almost wilfully enigmatic, and science doesn’t explain it all away. It only makes it seem more impressive.’

  Whatever his doubts about the physical world, Max was certainly finding Narayan impressive. There was a tranquil air about him as he practised yoga on the lawn or lay sprawled and happy among cushions on the floor. He enjoyed listening to a CD of classical Indian music – an evening raga played by Ravi Shankar – that Max had bought to impress and please him. Narayan fell asleep one evening without intending to, his body so clearly at peace that Max almost envied him.

  Max hadn’t touched Narayan’s body yet and thought he didn’t wish to. He tried to convince himself he only wanted his aff
ectionate warm comradeship. But he found him increasingly appealing and his very innocence was one of the main causes of his appeal, that and his intellectual earnestness, his curious humour and the fact he came from this remote exotic culture. Max certainly didn’t want to make a physical pass at him, feeling this would be cheating on Clare. But he wanted to be physically close as well as mentally intimate. He wanted to share so many things with him, believing he wouldn’t need anything more than this.

  Eventually he suggested Narayan should stay late to watch a DVD. Max had borrowed Satyajit Ray’s Pather Panchali from a friend who was a film buff. They watched it till half past one at night in the morning. The beautifully shot scenes of village life in India greatly moved Narayan, such was his nostalgia for his country.

  When it was over, Max said it was too late to drive him back and invited him to sleep on the sofa in the living room. The night was hot and muggy, and Max suggested they have a shower to cool down. They went into the bedroom and undressed. Max again put on the CD of Ravi Shankar and went into the bathroom, exhilarated by the music. As he stepped into the shower, he nonchalantly invited Narayan to join him. He offered to wash his back, joking that washing another man’s back was part of the new cult of male bonding, which was almost obligatory in America these days. Max hoped that joking about it would make it seem more naturally acceptable. But Narayan delayed joining him, and began speaking of the raga’s subtle improvisations and how glad he was that Max had taken to its spontaneous beauty.

  When Narayan finally moved under the shower, Max soaped his back, his hands sliding over the muscular wet body. The raga continued its progression, which caught at him with its plangent charm. Max pushed Narayan beneath the shower, the lather pouring down in a froth of bubbles that foamed in a slow ripple down his back.

  Max turned the power shower full on, and it pounded on Narayan’s head. With an action that seemed almost involuntary, Max put his hand through the cascade to touch Narayan’s face.

  ‘I’ve never felt this much for another guy before,’ Max said.

  The raga suggested both yearning and frustration, the sitar rising to a climax and the drum beats quickening.

  ‘Please don’t say things like that,’ Narayan replied. ‘You go too far.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Max said. ‘I didn’t mean to. Don’t be mad at me.’

  ‘I’m not mad at you.’

  ‘Then let’s just listen to the music, shall we?’

  The raga had moved on to an echoing of delicately plucked strings, and the singer’s voice had descended to a trembling hush. This sense of melancholy connected with Max’s mingled tenderness and bafflement. Since he had come this far, if only half-intentionally, he felt he should at least explain.

  ‘Sorry… but I’ve fallen for you a bit. Idiotic of me, isn’t it?’

  He searched Narayan’s eyes, seeing disquiet and confusion, and then a sudden defensive hardness. Narayan stepped out to go into the bedroom. Max feared he’d now phone for a taxi and go back home, never appearing again in Max’s life. When Max went into the bedroom he saw Narayan standing by the window.

  ‘I don’t understand you, Max,’ Narayan said. ‘You’re a married man.’

  ‘I deeply love my wife, but it’s possible to love two people. We can love in different ways.’

  He’d used the word ‘love’ at last, but it had come out on impulse and he now regretted it. Narayan didn’t reply but abruptly left to go and spend the night on the sofa. Sleep eluded Max for a couple of hours. He felt shame at the advance he’d made, however hesitantly, but then relief that he’d not actively pursued it. Early the next morning, Max found Narayan lying on his side in a strangely vulnerable position, one arm outstretched.

  Max was still standing there, not wanting to wake him, when the phone rang. It was Clare calling from London. She said her mother had just died. Max felt a sharp stab of guilt over his now undeniable attraction to Narayan. He woke Narayan to tell him of Clare’s loss, adding that he had to go to London to support her. Narayan was sympathetic and acted as if last night’s incident hadn’t happened at all. Max was relieved. He resolved to discipline his feelings, maintaining only a sympathetic friendship with him, whatever its intensity.

  Max caught a flight that same evening, and reached Clare’s mother’s house the next afternoon. There, surrounded by the furniture she’d known through childhood was Clare; she was enormously distressed. Only after much coaxing did she express the guilt she felt about her mother, an emotion that clouded her grief and shock.

  ‘I have such mixed feelings about her because of Violet. I feel guilty that, as a girl, I was slightly jealous of her. I feel that I didn’t love either of them enough.’

  Max sensed her need of him acutely.

  ‘Don’t go in for distant retrospective guilt, for God’s sake,’ Max said. ‘I’ve had enough of that myself. You’ve been very good to Violet since. Don’t worry about it so. No intense relationship is free of such anguished doubts.’

  Her admission of her feelings of guilt intensified his own. His sorrow for her filled him with such tender concern he almost wished to forget Narayan altogether.

  ‘I’ll have to spend longer in London,’ Clare told Max after the funeral. ‘I can’t leave Violet until she’s more settled. She suffers from severe breathing problems, and this could be aggravated by her bereavement. Darling, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to stay on with her for a time.’

  Even if he’d wanted to stay with her, Max had to return home for a photographic assignment. He felt frustrated at the idea of further separation from Clare, while admiring her protectiveness towards her sister. He sent Narayan a text message, restrained to the point of blandness, saying he hoped to see him again when Clare was back with him in Los Angeles, to which he received an equally bland reply of equivocal assent. As the plane back to the USA climbed skywards, he watched through scattered cloud the winding of the Thames into the heart of England. He couldn’t help wondering about the windings of his own divided heart, and where the half-hidden river of his future could be taking him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When Clare returned to the hotel in the middle of Madurai, she saw Max sitting on the veranda, looking as if he’d been waiting quite a while for her return. The sight encouraged her; she loved being missed by him. Nonetheless, she feared what Tammy had implied. She knew she had to find out the truth for herself. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘We went down to the river and lost our way.’

  ‘After Veerapan’s warning, is it wise to wander around like that?’ Max asked, great concern in his voice.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Clare chided, albeit gently. ‘We can’t be thinking like that for the rest of our time out here. Or we’d never go anywhere at all. Anyhow, Tammy looked after me. He should be back soon. Are you looking at the photos? I’d love to see them again.’

  Max handed her the camera and she scrolled through some of the images. She stopped at the one taken at the election meeting, also wondering if the face in quarter-profile might be the boy’s, and if the blurry figure in the background could possibly be the cripple. There followed several shots of the procession, and the rioting. The photos showed police wielding batons, a man in handcuffs, and an angry crowd.

  There were photos Max had taken before the assassination: an old woman in a mobile clinic, being operated on to remove her cataracts; a man having a vasectomy; a village school with posters of Gandhi and Nehru and other political heroes going back to the Emperors Ashoka and Akbar. There was a shot of a modern well and one of irrigated paddy fields. She liked the image of Shiva with his circling arms, his flames of life, one hand outstretched in that gesture of fearlessness Clare found increasingly so inspiring.

  ‘They make for a good balance,’ she said. ‘The subjects are so diverse.’

  ‘Yes, but the photography itself is so uninspired.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. You’re so ridiculously hard on yourself.’

  Clare felt sorry for Max’s los
s of confidence but also impatient that he didn’t fight it better.

  ‘Why give in to this self-undermining mood of yours?’ she asked. ‘This loss of heart in all you do that’s good?’

  ‘And what have I ever done that’s really good?’

  ‘That book on Mexico for one thing.’

  ‘Which got all those bad reviews.’

  ‘From professional rivals,’ Clare countered. ‘You got three good reviews, which you’ve typically forgotten. Didn’t you get a sense of real achievement from it? Isn’t that what ultimately matters? Think of what we’re doing together. All the research you’ve done. History… mythology… religion. You’ve read much more than I have. You put me to shame.’

  ‘In LA I had more time to research,’ said Max. ‘Not having a proper full-time job like you had. You know what gets me really badly? I’ve earned so damn little in my career.’

  ‘What’s it really matter about earning money?’

  ‘Only that my father earned it for me. And you make far more than I do, and without my initial advantages. You didn’t come from a cushy, moneyed background.’

  ‘You’ve got such a complex about being over-privileged, but don’t start comparing and competing. Haven’t we agreed we don’t compete? About anything, let alone our earnings. As for your father, he left you money! So what? If it hurts that badly, give it away. You’ve already donated some to good causes.’