Chasing Chris Campbell
Page 9
I was hungry but the chips didn’t appeal. I had abandoned my carrot ‘lasagne’ after only two bites and now a crab curry sounded fantastic. I didn’t want to eat with the guy from the pool and I really didn’t want him to see me out alone.
I wandered down the path that led to the main street. I asked a man lolling at the end where I’d find The Rising Tide, and walked in the other direction when he pointed it out.
The main street was lined with stalls and roaming hawkers trying to sell pashminas and woven handbags. Dark-eyed girls in brightly coloured saris waved at me, and children ran barefoot through the sand-coloured dust. The footpath had been taken over by tables displaying shoes and sunglasses. A cocky young boy called out to me.
‘You lady, you from Americas?’
‘Australia.’
‘Australia! That my favourite. You like Ricky Ponting? He’s the best cricketer. Very good. Not as good as Tendulkar but pretty good. You like cricket? Hey lady, what your name?’
I stopped. ‘Violet.’
‘Hey Violet, you very pretty lady. You want to be my girlfriend?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘You like me. I take you to all the clubs. Tell your father I pay for you twelve cows. Two bulls.’ He winked.
I laughed. ‘No thanks, but thank you for asking.’
‘Twenty cows,’ he shouted as I left.
I found an open air restaurant that boasted crab curry and the best kingfish in town. The prices were astounding – three dollars for crab and one dollar for a serve of rice. I sat reading the menu, feeling like an empress.
‘This wasn’t my recommendation.’
It was the guy from the pool. His sunglasses hung casually in the V-neck of his shirt. Without his hat, I could see he had dark brown eyes.
‘Where’s your friend?’ he asked, an infuriating smile playing on his lips.
‘He got held up,’ I said defensively. He nodded and surveyed the restaurant. Like our hotel, it was empty. Beaten old wooden furniture relaxed beneath a lazy ceiling fan.
‘My name’s Jay.’ He took a seat at my table. ‘Potter. Jay Potter.’
‘Violet.’ I gave him a tight-lipped smile. I didn’t want to encourage him.
‘So, you’re travelling around India?’ He leaned back in his chair.
‘I’m just in Goa for a few days.’
‘Ah-ha,’ he nodded.
The waiter brought a plate of poppadums and some mint yoghurt.
‘How’s the kingfish?’ Jay asked.
‘Very good sir,’ the waiter replied. ‘Made with special spices.’
‘Is it hot?’
‘Not too hot.’
‘Okay, I’ll have the kingfish and some Kashmiri naan. And the lady will have –?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I said tersely.
‘Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.’
‘That’s alright, you don’t have to.’
‘No really, I want to. Think of it as a welcome to India gesture. And a bribe so you’ll talk to me.’ He smiled. It was a friendly smile.
I looked down at my lap and remembered Cass’s stern lecture about opening myself to meeting new people.
‘Come on,’ he said, kinder now. ‘I didn’t mean to tease you before. Let me make amends with a meal and then we’ll go our separate ways.’
‘Okay,’ I said. Then turned to the waiter. ‘I think I’ll try the lobster.’
My dinner companion laughed.
‘Can I get some rice too?’ he asked the waiter. ‘Oh, and bring us two of the coconut rice wines please.’
The waiter nodded and left.
‘Coconut rice wine?’ I asked.
‘You’ll love it,’ he said. ‘It’s like tequila but stronger, and it only costs about twenty cents a shot.’
Moments later it arrived in two silver cups.
‘Bottoms up,’ he said, downing it, then calling for two more. I sniffed mine. It smelled of coconut and tasted of petrol.
‘Yaark,’ I said, banging the cup back on the table top.
The waiter brought the second round.
‘You don’t want another one?’
‘I think my stomach lining is being eroded as we speak.’
‘Think of the germ-killing power of alcohol.’ He nodded at the hand sanitiser poking out of my handbag.
He had a point. The floor was packed dirt. There were birds sitting on tree branches that poked through the glass-less window frames. I reached for the rice wine and threw it down my throat.
My dinner was a curry of white lobster pieces bobbing in delicious sauce. The rice came in a gold bowl with an embossed lid to keep it warm.
‘Brilliant,’ Jay broke a leg off his crab then passed the meal talking about catching fish in a bay a few days earlier. I tried to listen but my mind kept creeping back to the hotel, into the lobby and over to the corner where the computer was. What if Chris had emailed me moments after I’d checked? What if he’d invited me to dinner and was waiting for my reply?
‘Never done that before,’ Jay was saying. ‘We cooked it right there on the beach, over an open flame. We even made the campfire ourselves out of driftwood. And the taste! You wouldn’t believe it. I’d have thought it would need some seasoning or something. But it was perfect.’
I hadn’t said anything.
‘I’m sorry, is this bothering you, me talking about killing a fish? You being a vegetarian and all.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I like it. One man catching and eating what he needs to survive. That’s far better than mega-trawlers sweeping the sea of every living thing in it for the sake of a few tonnes of tuna.’
He smiled. ‘That’s how I felt at the time. It seemed almost … honourable.’
When the waiter brought the bill, I reached for it. ‘You don’t really have to pay for me,’ I said.
‘No, no. Let me.’ He opened his wallet. Through the clear plastic pocket I could see his NSW license. And his name. For the first time since we sat down, my mind focused.
‘Your name isn’t Jay,’ I said.
He froze. I felt a pang of fear. One of Michael’s friends had once told me a chilling story about his cousin and her friend who had been travelling around Thailand. They befriended two older English men who helped them navigate the town. After the girls had had a couple of drinks, the guys offered them a ride back to their hotel. But they didn’t take them to their hotel, they drove them to a gutted old building about forty minutes out of town. They tied the girls up and told them they’d be killed if they didn’t hand over all their money. The girls, crying and terrified, gave the men everything they had, which came to a paltry two hundred and forty dollars. Furious, the men hit them in their faces with the butts of their guns, and told them to ask their fathers to advance them five thousand each or else.
Jay hadn’t answered me. ‘Who are you?’ I asked, snatching for his wallet.
‘Alright, alright, you got me. My name’s Harry.’
‘Harry?’ I was confused.
He passed me his license.
‘Your name is Harry Potter?’
‘Obviously given to me before the book became a worldwide phenomenon. You can see why I introduce myself as Jay. It’s my middle name.’
I laughed with relief. ‘Fair enough.’
‘I’ve considered changing it, but it’s a lot of paperwork.’
‘Couldn’t you just wave your wand?’ I smiled.
‘And now you see why.’
‘Oh don’t. It’s endearing.’
He leaned forward on tanned folded arms and grinned. ‘I’ve endeared myself to you, have I?’
‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean endearing, I meant enchanting,’ I chuckled.
‘All right.’
Outside the sky had turned black but the path back to our hotel was lit by the open shopfronts. More hawkers yelled as we strolled by.
‘Hey preetty ladee. You buy. You buy, pretty ladee.’
‘So what do you do, Harry
, that you can go around shouting strangers lobster?’
‘This is India, a cobbler could shout you lobster.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Seriously? I’m a precocious young wizard.’
‘That seems unlikely.’
‘It’s sort of true. I’m a wizard of the law.’
‘A legal wizard?’
‘I have very strong commercial contracts powers. What about you?’
I hadn’t yet figured out how to answer this question.
‘I’m a scientist,’ I said.
‘Mad or benign?’
I laughed in spite of myself. ‘Benign.’
We walked on in silence.
‘Do you want me to show you around?’ Harry said after a while. ‘I’ve been here a couple of nights.’
I bit my lip. What I wanted was an email from Chris saying he was coming to find me right now.
‘Well …’
‘Fifty cows.’ It was the boy from earlier. He was down on the ground, squatting beside his shoe display.
‘Hey Charlie, where’s your motorbike?’ Harry asked.
‘You rent?’ The boy’s face lit up.
‘Yeah, I rent.’
Charlie jumped up. ‘You come this way.’ He beckoned for us to follow. He zipped off barefoot down the main road leaving a trail of rising dust behind him. We had to jog to keep up with his skinny legs. He scarpered to the end of the block, stopped for a moment to make sure we were still there, took a left and ran down a street that looked identical to the main road.
‘This my uncle,’ Charlie announced when we arrived at our destination – another shoe shop.
Harry gave him four hundred rupees – about eight Australian dollars – and handed me a helmet.
He threw a leg over the bike and motioned for me to follow. ‘Jump on,’ Harry said. ‘Watch your legs. The exhaust pipes can get really hot.’
I hesitated.
‘Come on, what else are you going to do tonight?’
I considered for a moment. There was a chance I could be seeing the love of my life, but more likely I was in for an evening of Indian soap operas alone in my hotel room.
I climbed on behind him.
‘Hold on.’ Harry started the engine. It roared like a very small wildcat, then spluttered, before settling into a rhythmic put-putter-put noise. We were off.
‘I haven’t ridden one of these in years,’ Harry called, skidding slightly on the first turn. We rode up the main drag and out to where shops and shack-restaurants gave way to homes in broad yards, their porches filled with people talking, drinking and eating.
In the built-up areas the trees were strung with fairy lights. But soon we came to open grassy plains. Once we were out from under the tree cover I could smell the ocean mixed with the omnipresent diesel fumes. The road was wide and the ride was smooth. I let go of Harry and held my arms out, letting the air rush over me. The light from the town of Candolim dimmed as we drove until it was just a spot of yellow behind us. Soon we were among vast, dark fields with nothing but moonlight to show the way.
On the horizon I could see a glow of civilisation and soon heard the hubbub of gathered people.
‘That’s the Anjuna night markets,’ Harry shouted, before slowing the bike and parking.
Crowds parted to reveal fire-eaters, animals and rows of stalls lit with paper lanterns. Acrobats who looked as if they’d come from the land of topsy-turvy walked past on their hands with the blackened souls of their feet in the air.
‘Do you know what it reminds me of?’ I said. ‘The Magic Faraway Tree.’
Vendors were selling charred corn cobs and pieces of meat speared on a stick. Harry bought a paper bag full of golden balls.
‘Try one.’ He held out the bag that had been turned clear by the ghee, a fatty Indian butter.
‘Street food?’
‘Yes. It’s gulab jamun. It’s sweet.’
‘My uncle once contracted salmonella poisoning from a samosa he bought from a street vendor,’ I said. This was a lie, but I knew it could happen.
‘My uncle was bitten by a redback hiding under his gear stick, but I still drive.’
Harry pushed the bag closer so it was right under my nose. The smell of caramelised sugar filled my nostrils.
I gingerly picked up one of the spongy balls and took a small bite. The fine shell cracked and burst into a white, steamy centre. I was like eating a cloud encrusted in sugar. It was soft and tasted of honey.
‘Good?’ Harry asked, watching me.
‘Mmm,’ I said, taking another bite. It was delicious.
‘C’mon.’ He took me by the hand and led me to a corner where a man and a dancing cow were performing.
The man lay on his back and played a pipe while the cow stood on his thighs. It was skinny and aloof-looking. She gazed over our heads in an almost regal manner. Heavy fabrics, tassels and bells were draped over her. Her horns had coloured threads wound around them. As the man played, he jigged his legs up and down in time to the tune so the cow appeared to dance. Proudly, serenely, she ducked and swayed in time with the notes.
On-lookers clapped and laughed and threw coins. The man nodded his thanks and continued to control the cow like a puppeteer. I tossed a fistful of change.
‘How did you conjure this up, Harry Potter?’
‘Shush you,’ he said playfully.
‘No really. I’m spellbound.’
He gave me a nudge. ‘Come on. There’s more over here.’
We wandered from stall to stall. Harry bought some drums and I chose two tops – a green one for Cass and an orange one for me. They were embroidered with little mirrors in a style called Abhla Bharat. At a game stall I picked out a hacky-sack for Zach and wondered how long it would be before I could give it to him.
‘For my little brother,’ I explained to Harry.
‘Come on. It’s too crowded here,’ he said.
We rode to a bar where Harry bought a plate of fresh prawns to share and a Kingfisher beer each. The beer came in half litre bottles, and it wasn’t long before I was looking around for a loo.
The bartender pointed me to a corrugated iron outhouse.
‘In there?’ I asked, hoping he’d laugh at his joke before leading me indoors to a white marble washroom where mineral water flowed from a fountain. He nodded. I pushed open the door and saw: nothing. It was pitch black.
I had to cling to the wall because I couldn’t see ten centimetres in front of me. I expected there’d be a toilet against the far wall. But as I stepped in my foot gave way and I slipped. The mud floor vanished. I clung to the wooden crossbeam on the corrugated wall. I had nearly fallen into a giant hole.
Oh no. A pit. I wondered how far we were from a bathroom with plumbing. We’d ridden about fifteen minutes through the fields to this little spec of light and my situation was becoming urgent.
‘Dammit,’ I whispered and started unbuttoning my shorts.
I opened the door again to see better and get my bearings. It was a square metre patch of dirt, enclosed by corrugated iron and had a small hole dug out in the middle. I was about the shut the rickety door when I noticed an important oversight. I inched the door open further and poked my head out.
‘Um. Excuse me.’ I called to the man who had shown me to the hole hut. ‘Um,’ I lowered my voice. ‘Toilet paper?’
He looked at me blankly. Please God, I whispered. Don’t make me mime it.
‘Paper, for the toilet. Toilet paper,’ I said again.
Then it dawned on him. ‘Ah, yes. Yes, paper.’ He said loudly. Four men nursing Kingfishers at a nearby table looked up from their card game.
‘Yes-yes-yes,’ said the barman, running out the back to darkness. He returned with an armful of toilet paper. Five rolls in total; a quantity that could have no practical purpose beyond embarrassing me. He nodded and repeated the word ‘paper’ over and over again as he passed them to me. The men at the nearby table smiled and charged their bottles of beer.
‘You didn’t fall in then?’ he said when I returned.
‘Disappointed?’
I finished my beer but Harry left his three-quarters full.
‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ I said. I felt merry.
‘I know another place.’
‘How come you know your way around so well?’
‘It’s not my first time in Goa.’
We whipped through the field to another lone shack. Two men were playing a game like rudimentary air hockey. The puck was wooden and there was no air. An old man showed me how to flick it while Harry watched. I drank another Kingfisher but Harry stopped after he’d only downed a quarter of his.
‘You’re not going to finish it?’
‘I’m driving. Even though the only other traffic is wild chickens, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for robbing one of its life.’
‘I think I need some air.’
‘How about the beach?’
We rode towards the coast until our wheels churned-up sand. My head was swimming.
‘Hold on!’ Harry commanded after I let go of his waist and almost lost balance. He parked the bike on the edge of the road and ran into the sand. The water’s black waves were tipped with silver moonlight, but the effect was ruined by hordes of large commercial ships.
‘I know a better spot.’ Harry led me around a cliff into a miniature cove.
‘It’s like our own secret paradise,’ I said, following as he climbed onto a shelf of rock. We sat with our legs dangling off the edge.
Harry shuffled close to me.
‘You cold?’ He put an arm around my shoulder. I instantly tensed. Feeling it, he pulled away. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, not wanting to explain.
He turned his whole body so that he was facing me. ‘You’re not married, are you?’
‘No,’ I automatically looked at my bare fingers like I always did when someone asked something like that.
‘Engaged?’
‘No.’
‘Riddled with syphilis?’
‘No, just –’
‘Then what is it?’
I was annoyed he was pressing me. Why did I need to explain why I didn’t want his arm around me?