The Overnight Palace

by Janet Sola

  “I’m, um,” I take a second to fix on my new name. “Elena. From San Francisco.”

  “Cool,” she says. “I’ve got a great idea. Let’s head out to the night market. I’m going to take this cheap shit blouse back to the vendor and you can hunt for your painting.”

  “How would I do that? Look under cobblestones?”

  “Well, maybe somebody snatched it and then fenced it. I know people in the market. They can point us in the right direction maybe.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It was pretty crazy out there before. I think I should lie low.”

  “That whacky festival they call holi ended at sunset. It’s all back to basics. Come on, did you come all the way here to mope?”

  “Mope? Me? Is that what I look like I’m doing?” She’s right. It’s so easy for me to fall back into endlessly stirring the simmering pot of my thoughts. “Well, OK. For just a while. I mean, not that I think I’ll find my painting, but I’ll keep you company.”

  “Great, meet you in the courtyard in fifteen,” she says as she bounds off.

  Once I’m alone again, I look out to the horizon. The city is now wrapped in twilight. A light goes on in a distant window, then another and another, until hundreds are glowing like fireflies in the forest of houses on the hills. I imagine the dwellers of the magical city of Udaipur as they are uncoiling their turbans, loosening their saris, settling down to their spice-laden dinners.

  When I meet her in the courtyard, Cathy is still wearing her hot-army-mamma outfit. I don’t say anything, but I must have given her a look. “I don’t care what anybody thinks,” she snaps. “I’m not going to change, and I’m not going to let some crappy patriarchal standard developed to suppress women tell me how I should dress.”

  “Right on,” I say. It seems a little disrespectful of cultural standards, but I’ve noticed people with chutzpah can get away with almost anything. In a minute we are in the darkening street, Cathy striding and male heads turning the entire way. Except for a kind of aggressive clumsiness in the way she moves, she really could be a model. Next to her, I feel as if, in spite of my efforts, I’m still a “madam” kind of person, a bit prim. I’m glad I’m covered up, but secretly I admire her bravado.

  She stops for a minute, and, just before we go into the tunnel that leads to the city proper, takes out a cigarette and lights it. Men pass us. Some of them wear turbans, some wear lungis, the sarong-like skirt worn by males that wraps at the waist. Others, usually the younger ones, are dressed in Western clothes, jeans and shirts. But all of them give Cathy a look, not so much of lust, but of wonder.

  “I’m getting tired of all the attention,” she says, a bit disingenuously I think. She blows smoke out the side of her mouth and smiles. “I know I sound like a bitch, but just wait till you’ve been here a few months like me. You’ll start to go nuts. Just whatever you do, don’t get involved with an Indian man.”

  The idea makes me laugh out loud. “I didn’t come here for romance,” I said. “I mean, yes, I did. It’s the most romantic setting in the world. But not the kind of romance you’re talking about. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “Well, I hope to God that’s true. My boyfriend’s an Aussie. Rich, which is a bonus. I’m going to meet him in Delhi in a few days. You ought to come with me. I’m already tired of this supposedly exotic old stuff. Who cares about old forts and palaces anyway? We could do some upscale clubs, decent shopping.” She lifts her chin and inhales deeply. “Want a drag?” she asks. I shake my head. “So why did you come?”

  “I guess . . . .” I struggle for an answer that makes sense. “I guess I want to discover new sides of myself. Maybe to write.”

  “Hey, you’re kidding,” she says. She flicks her cigarette to the ground, crushes it with her boot, and we continue on our way. “I’m a writer too. I lived in Australia for a few years before I came here. I worked for the Aussie version of the National Enquirer. Good money, going through people’s garbage and all that. I went through Mel Gibson’s trash can.”

  “No way,” I say.

  “Stick with me and I’ll tell you the deepest, dirtiest secrets you can imagine.”

  We both start giggling like schoolgirls as we emerge from the tunnel and find our way to the dense row of shops and stalls. Cathy leads me to one where drapes of brilliantly colored garments hide the shopkeeper. She doesn’t waste any time. She brushes the garments aside and immediately goes into full battle mode. “You told me it was bloody silk,” she says, pulling the burned garment from her bag and waving it in front of her.

  “Silk,” says the surprised shopkeeper, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking up at her. “Yes, silk. Very good, very beautiful.”

  “Silk, my friend, does not melt like plastic. Look at the edge.” She holds the blouse up to his face, pointing to the spot where she held the match.

  The shopkeeper shakes his head. “You smoke cigarette, then burn. Then you want money back.”

  “No,” says Cathy, “you’re the one who cheated me.” Her voice rises until it becomes one shrill note that plays against the guttural mumbles of the shopkeeper. People are turning and watching. Suddenly, I’m embarrassed by the whole thing and want to hide.

  “I’ll be back,” I tell her, although she isn’t listening, and I float away. Without the white heat of the sun and the press of the crowds, I can relax and watch the parade of life. Here’s a group of women from the villages, walking arm in arm, proud of their tight bodices and pushed-up cleavage and skirts of a thousand mirrors. There’s a wedding procession, with the bride and groom being carried on a pedestal by four men. She’s covered in a scarlet veil glittering with sequins. He looks as solemn as if he were going to his execution. A line of earnest revelers follows them, shouting and chanting.

  Then I see a familiar shape in front of me. She’s in a different place, but I know it’s the skinny cow, which I somehow recognize as distinct from all the other skinny cows in town. Maybe it’s her sad, wistful eyes. Tonight she’s chewing on a plastic bag again. What happens to these cows at night, I wonder. Does someone lead them home? Do they have owners? They’re supposed to be holy, pampered, but they seem more like lost souls. I have to give this cow something to eat, I decide. What do cows eat? Grass. Well, there’s no grass, but something vegetarian. Chapatis would do. I quickly cross the street and buy some of the tortilla-like patties from a vendor. The cow gobbles them up with the same unruffled enthusiasm with which she was devouring the plastic bag.

  As I’m bending down to feed her, something catches my eye from the other side of the street—a shadow of a hand waving to me. I look up at a young man, eyes glittering in the dark, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt.

  “Hello, Mademoiselle Elena,” he says. His T-shirt says “Paris” on one line and “Fun City” below it. He’s young, lean, and handsome. I don’t recognize him. “You are a very kind lady to feed this cow. But they are always hungry no matter how much they eat,” he says. He gives me a dazzling smile. I still don’t know who he is. He stops smiling, frowns, and squints his eyes. “I have hurt my eyes from painting so much in the dim light,” he says in a serious tone. Oh no, my own speech. I can’t help but laugh.

  Now I see the face I saw in the shop earlier today, the serious young painter working in the bad light. The same luminous eyes, the same sculpted features, the same eyebrows that almost meet over his narrow, perfect nose. His hair is thick and dark and cut in an old-style American anithero kind of way, with one lock falling over his forehead.

  “You look different. No . . . turban.” I roll my hand around my head.

  “Yes, I must wear for tourists who come.” His mouth twists into a wry grimace.

  He is standing quite close to me, but I feel the gulf between us. I am one of those tourists—even though I think of myself not as a tourist but a traveler—that he had to dress up for. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. On this warm night, so many people are out, drifting by us. I hear the shuffle of
their feet on the stones, the singsong murmurs of their voices, a backdrop to this long moment of silence. In that moment, I also hear the echo of history: colonizer, colonized; consumer, consumed.

  In the same instant, his grimace turns into a playful smile. I’m being too dramatic. After all, we are not actors in a historical or socio-economic drama. We are just two people.

  “Do you enjoy your beautiful painting?” he finally asks me.

  “Oh, that. My painting.” I shake my head. “I’m afraid it disappeared before I even got to my guesthouse. Maybe someone took it in the crowd. It was very crazy after I left the shop.” I twirl a finger in the air to indicate craziness. I must be nervous, because I’m talking with my hands, something I don’t ordinarily do.

  “Yes,” he agrees. “Indian people are sometimes crazy. But steal, no. Rajasthani people are very honest. They do not do this. Your picture is not gold. Not silver. Only a small painting.” His English, I notice, is different than most Indians. A different accent, more casual, without the clipped chirping sounds that inflect the language of many English-speaking Indians. His voice is calmer, slower, more sensual.

  “Well, I’m very sorry to lose it.” I inadvertently let out a sigh.

  “Maybe I can help,” he says.

  “Help?”

  “Help find this lost painting.”

  “How?”

  “This man that paints your picture, you see, is a very fine master artist. He can make you another just the same. Not just the same, I am sorry. But very alike.”

  “But I thought this master painter is no longer on this planet.”

  “Yes, of course, on this planet.” He looks taken aback that I would say such a thing. “He is here on Planet of India. Place of Rajasthan.”

  “Well, then someone was lying. He told me this was an old painting. Maybe a hundred years old, your boss said. So whoever painted it must be . . . well, dead.”

  He looks at the ground, then up at me again and directly into my eyes. He is calm, but I can hear the flash of anger, or pride, in his voice. “No. Not my boss. Some days I paint for him. Some days I do not. If I feel like it or not. He lies, this man. He tells you a lie. To get more money. How much do you pay for this?”

  Too much, I think. The whole thing is too much. “I thought you just said Rajasthani people were very honest.”

  “Yes. But not all. Most.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. I can’t get my money back, obviously.”

  “Miss Elena,” he says, “I am telling you I know this painter. He is alive. One time, many years ago, he is my teacher. For many years he paints beautiful paintings. He lives in a village not too far away. He is now an old man.”

  “Your teacher. Really?”

  “Yes. I want very much to be a great painter such as this man. So I am telling you this artist is alive. This painting is not old. But it is good.” Suddenly he grins. “Like me. I am not old, but I am good.”

  Yes, I think, he may not be old, but I am, at least compared to him, and it’s strange that this young guy seems to be . . . flirting with me. Suddenly, the entire conversation seems insane, a microcosm of the whole macrocosm “planet of India” craziness. “Well, thank you,” I say. “Nice to see you again. I really must get back to my friend.”

  “Yes, nice to see you again.” He pats the cow on the head and once again gives me his razzle-dazzle smile. “I ask your name but you do not ask my name.”

  “What is your name?”

  My name is Sahil. Sahil the painter,” he says.

  “Sahil. The painter. I’ll remember. Good night,” I say as I walk away.

  When I find my way back to the line of shops, I can hear Cathy’s voice before I see her. She seems to be shouting in Hindi. How strange. And there, still at the shop, among drapes of clothes for a curtain, and with a glowing bare bulb for lighting, she holds center stage. Now she has an audience. A group of boys has gathered around the front of the shop. They move their heads back and forth between Cathy and the shopkeeper as if watching a tennis match. I politely wave to get her attention, but she ignores me. Finally, I stage-whisper her name, which causes all eyes in the audience to turn toward me, as if I were a new character making an entrance. She glances at me, winks, and gets in one final insult. The shopkeeper throws a blouse at her; she grabs it and leaves.

  “Come on,” she says, victoriously holding up her new garment. “I think he’s learned his lesson. Let’s get out of here.”

  As we walk, she gives me a blow-by-blow account of what she said, what the shopkeeper said, how important it was not to let him get away with anything. I’m about to ask her how she acquired her apparently fluent Hindi, but as we near the tunnel I hear a voice call my name. “Miss Elena.” I turn around to see the young painter again. I’m a little surprised and, to be honest, a little pleased. It seems centuries since any man has paid any attention to me at all—except Peter, of course, and usually to criticize me—especially a funny, sensitive, handsome young man.

  “I am going this way to my house,” he says. “Do you mind if I walk with you and your friend?”

  Before I can answer, Cathy says, “Yes, we do mind.”

  “You don’t have to be rude,” I mutter to her under my breath.

  “Yes, I do. Come on.” She picks up her stride. As we enter the tunnel, I can hear her army boots clomping on the cobblestones.

  “Some people come to India, but they do not like the Indian people,” Sahil says, still at my side. “They have too much . . . too much . . . inside.”

  “Too much attitude?” I say.

  “Maybe too much anger. Better to leave anger back home.”

  Cathy is way ahead of us now, probably out of earshot. “Yes, that’s true. I don’t know her well. I don’t understand her anger.”

  “We should talk of happier things.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  “Do you know the story of this place? Very famous place. Come, I show you.” As we exit from the tunnel into the street again, we pause by the massive wall. The nearly full moon lights the wall with a phosphorescent glow. And then I see them, dozens of palm prints of different sizes.

  “Go. Put your hand on one,” he says, and I do.

  My hand is huge by comparison. “They must be the handprints of children.”

  “Some are children, some are ladies. These ladies wait for the men who fight in war. If the men lose and die, the ladies walk into fire. Then the children follow until all are gone.” He hovers his hand inches over mine, which is still on the tiny handprint. “She makes this picture of her hand the very last thing, before she goes to the fire. So the world does not forget her. This is a famous story of Rajasthan,” he says.

  I shiver. “I’m not sure that’s a happier story.”

  “Come on,” says Cathy, who is standing off to the side, waiting for me, pacing and smoking. “Everybody knows this story. Let’s go.”

  “Sometimes sad stories from a long time ago can bring happiness, if they are beautiful. Your friend does not like these stories.”

  “But I like them.” And in fact I do. I like seeing the world through eyes that understand these stories. I like the magic and the mystery. I like him. In fact, I decide, I like him all the more so because Cathy is so boorish toward him.

  “Your friend does not speak nice to me. I must go. If you like, I can come tomorrow and I can help you find this master painter. If you tell me the name of your hotel, I can come.”

  “I don’t know. I think I should just give up on this painting.”

  “Good idea. Give up on the painting, Elena,” Cathy says. “It’s just a cheap touristy piece of crap anyway.”

  I bristle. “I guess to you everything here is a cheap piece of touristy crap.”

  “Whatever,” she shrugs.

  “Now I remember the name,” I tell Sahil. “Lake something. Peaceful Lake.”

  “Yes, I know it. I can come for you at what time you like.”

  “All right. How about
eleven in the morning?” He smiles at me again before he vanishes into the dark. As soon as he leaves, I know that I didn’t agree just to piss off Cathy, but because I’m really looking forward to seeing him again. There is something intriguing about him, something that makes me feel he’s the beginning of a story, although I have no idea what kind of story. And then there’s the lure of this master painter, in my imagination a sage and elusive artist, the embodiment of the old India, or at least my idea of it.

  The streets widen as we near the lake. Here and there the barrier of buildings opens to ghats, the steps that lead into the water where people gather and talk, where the women wash clothes in the daytime. Now they are nearly deserted and so quiet I can hear the water gently lapping against the stones. When Cathy and I reach our guest house, we find the heavy wooden gate is locked for the night. “I think he looks a bit like Johnny Depp,” I blurt out as we knock. She rolls her eyes at me, exactly the reaction I expected.

  The glum face of the manager finally appears. “You ladies are too much running around,” he says as we trudge in.

  “Sooo sor-reee,” says Cathy as she heads off to her room. “You gotta get over the romantic bullshit syndrome,” she fires at me as we part ways. “It never has a good outcome.”

  “You gotta get over the cynical tough-chick syndrome. And you know what, it was a really beautiful painting.” What did I expect of someone who works for the Aussie version of the Enquirer anyway?

  Up the stairs, on the rooftop, the night sky is waiting for me. The white palace on the lake is now a ghostly apparition, its ethereal loveliness reflected in a silver shimmer. A city in love with itself. A city that needs nothing from the outside world. And here I am, alive, inside its walls.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cathy’s Story

  The next morning, I dress in a floral cotton skirt and a long-sleeved lavender T-shirt, the costume I deem appropriate for visiting a dignified artist in a traditional village. In the courtyard, I order a cup of tea. It’s still early in the day, many hours before my planned excursion. No one is awake besides the shoeless boy who serves as the waiter, but it’s already hot. I take my tea and return to the cool of my room.