Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

I decided I would stay on the wall for another fifteen minutes, if I hadn’t found him I would do a lap of the perimeter of the tomb, then I would return to my spot to wait.

  Half an hour later I had carried out my plan and was back among the children on the stone wall. They were wrapping up their goods. It was nearly four o’clock and the ticket office was shutting. The flow of buses had stopped and dust-caked tour groups were shuffling back to their air conditioned chariots. The salesmen were throwing their reams of beads over the shoulders and heading home. After a while, the only people left were stray hawkers chatting and smoking, and a few drivers leaning against their rickshaws. They snapped to attention as I walked towards them.

  ‘Do any of you know where the Grand Palace is?’ I asked wearily.

  ‘Grand Palace, yes, Miss, Grand Palace, not far.’ One of the men hopped into his driving position.

  ‘Great,’ I said, crouching down into his tin-foil carriage.

  As we sped off I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I’d found myself alone in a strange country with a dead phone and I’d panicked. But now I was safe, speeding towards my hotel. Clean clothes. Running water. An internet connection. A line home. And a friendly face. Harry.

  I uncapped my hand sanitiser and massaged my fingers with it, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders with the therapeutic movement. Outside, lights were blinking to life as the sky darkened. The drive was taking longer than I expected. I stuck my head out to search for something familiar. We were cruising down a side street. Then we turned down another and slowed as we approached a lane. It was unfamiliar. The rickshaw growled as we came to a stop.

  ‘Grand Palace, miss,’ the driver called.

  I felt unsure. I didn’t recognise any of the buildings, street signs or shops. But then I spied a huge Vodafone billboard. That’s right, I’d noticed a Vodafone sign as we approached the hotel the day before. We must have come from a different direction.

  ‘Thanks.’ I paid the driver and climbed out. As he took off I walked towards the red sign. The street was quiet. I pulled my jacket from my daypack to guard against the growing cold.

  I turned left and headed for a large red building. But when I arrived I saw it wasn’t the Grand Palace. It seemed to be offices for a bank. The doors were shut and the windows covered by rollers. I went back to the Vodaphone sign and turned right instead. This took me to a row of street stalls that had also been closed up for the night. It was as quiet as I had ever seen the city. Eerily so. I looked for someone to ask if there was a Grand Palace Hotel nearby. For the first time since landing in Delhi I couldn’t see a single rickshaw. I felt my pulse begin to rise again. I didn’t know which way to turn. I was exhausted and sweaty and grimy, and bloated from korma.

  There was a clang. I jumped. A bony dog was sticking his nose into a pile of rubbish. Behind him I saw faces come into focus. Men were cooking something over coals. They watched me but didn’t speak. I hugged myself. The air was cool.

  I uncapped my bottle again and rubbed hand sanitiser through my fingers. It was becoming a nervous tick. I did it when I was bored. I did it when I was nervous, and I did it when I was anxious. Which was every five minutes.

  I walked back the way the driver had brought me, hoping to find the main road. Delhi is about 1,500 square kilometres and I could have been in any one of them. I tried to remember landmarks but everything was a catastrophe of slums, leaning buildings, open roofs and dark doorways. I could hear the fizzing, frying sound of neon. I looked up. I was in front of a doorway that revealed steep, cracked stairs that disappeared into darkness. Watery red paan stained the walls, looking like blood spatters. The neon sign read ‘Grand Palace’, but it wasn’t my Grand Palace. I bit my lip.

  I kept walking. I thought that perhaps I could have a driver take me to an internet cafe where I would be able to look up the address for the correct Grand Palace. Men on the side of the street watched me but didn’t say anything. I put my head down and dug my hands deep into my pockets. In the left one I felt a scrap of paper. It was the receipt from our breakfast bill at the Grand Palace. It listed the price for our coffees, toast and roti bread. At the bottom, neatly typed, was the address. I nearly cried with relief. I broke into a jog.

  The next street was dedicated to car repair joints. Parts lay everywhere. Men squatted by the side of the road, picking over motorcycle entrails trying to find sellable parts.

  ‘Is there a main road around here? Somewhere I can hail a rickshaw?’

  ‘Rickshaw?’

  ‘Yes.’ A man nodded and stood to walk slowly into his shack. He made a call.

  ‘Rickshaw coming,’ he said.

  Seconds later one came tearing around the corner. I took my breakfast receipt from my pocket and handed it to him.

  ‘Grand Palace Hotel, please,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he replied.

  I watched the streets as we drove, desperate for a glimmer of familiarity. We turned into a street lined with bamboo scaffolding and I saw the luggage stall where I’d bought my new backpack. My old suitcase was on display beneath a 50 rupees sign.

  ‘Yes, near here,’ I cheered. In this part of town the stores were still trading. A warm glow emanated from familiar shopfronts. The man who occupied the Grand Palace stoop jumped up quickly when he saw me arrive.

  ‘Miss, sir, he is looking for you,’ he said excitedly.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yes, miss. He very worried.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He go back.’

  Harry had left his phone number with Ranjeev, who seemed to never be off duty. The manager called him and confirmed happily over the phone that I had returned intact.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, nodding and baring his gums in a grin. ‘Yes, she okay.’

  ‘He’ll be here soon, he very relieved,’ Ranjeev told me. ‘Please, some dinner, tea.’

  Ranjeev guided me to the basement restaurant and brought me a pot of tea and a menu. The restaurant was empty but Indian Idol was playing on a small television, and the basement felt cosy and secure. Suddenly I felt silly for panicking. India was unfamiliar, but it wasn’t threatening. I ordered pekora and watched India’s future pop stars sing their hearts out.

  ‘There you are!’ Harry burst into the dining room.

  I jumped to my feet, sloshing tea onto the table in the process. I wanted to throw my arms around him. Instead I just nodded, and stuck my hands in my back pockets.

  ‘I found my way back,’ I said.

  Harry also looked like he didn’t know what to do. We stood looking at each other for a moment.

  ‘I thought you’d left – but then you weren’t here so I went back. I knew you’d be alright,’ he added, slightly breathless.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean, no kidnapper would put up with you.’

  I laughed. ‘Here,’ I pushed my plate of pekora towards him. ‘They’re still hot.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Waking up in Delhi is entirely different to waking up anywhere else in the world. There are the sounds, the cacophony that probably woke you in the first place: the wail of car horns in numerous tones. Toots. Honks. Blares. Arugalas. The shout of voices. Angry! Happy! Hungry! They yell in unfamiliar tongues. They speak Hindi and Urdu and Punjabi and Sindhi and Tamil and Konkani. Five times a day this chaotic symphony is heightened by the call to prayer for the city’s Muslims. The chants are broadcast through megaphones mounted on pikes and echoed by a choir of voices, all facing towards Mecca.

  You shuffle to the window and part the curtains. The alley your window faces is too narrow to admit much light, and the path of the sun’s rays is blocked by a network of wires, clothes on lines, and outdoor advertising. Some of it is corporate: ‘Skittles. Taste the Rainbow.’ Some of it is not: ‘Ranjit Sing’s Dentistry and Shoe Repair.’ You taste pollution in the air.

  Then there are the smells. Diesel. Sewage. Fruit. Something burning. Deep in the hotel someone is cooking breakfast �
� the smell of saffron and ghee and curry powder announces it. Even the bed smells of allspice.

  I looked at the digital clock next to me. 8:01 am. The exact time that the door would lock behind Michael as he started his journey to the office. Of course, it was now the middle of the day in Melbourne. He would probably be at his desk chewing the end of a pen as he concentrated on a row of numbers. Or perhaps he had gone into the kitchen in search of a snack. He would take a stack of Iced Vo-Vos from the tin near the coffee-maker, and arrange them in a neat pile on a saucer before carrying them to his desk, where he would eat them in systematic bites.

  That had been the one thing that had always worked between me and Michael: a mutual love of order and neatness. Instead of being irritated by my constant need to tidy, he appreciated it. He watched me with open adoration as I Windexed the television, and he bought me cups of instant coffee to give me energy as I attacked our cutlery with a toothbrush and a bottle of silver polish.

  I stretched out in the double bed, still unused to waking alone. My thoughts turned to Chris. I guessed he would be in Varanasi by now. Probably just waking up. I pictured him sitting down to a breakfast of dasa or going for a morning jog in cotton pants and rubber-soled canvas shoes with nothing but sunlight covering his chest. I lay in bed for a moment, thinking about Chris and Michael. Then, enticed by the breakfast smells, I pulled on my cargo pants and padded downstairs.

  The basement dining-room at the Grand Palace was doing its best to be regal. The wood tabletops were laminated to look as though they were inlaid with sparkling, tessellated tiles. The room’s many pillars were decorated with colourful Indian scenes. Every wall was painted gold, and the carpet was a royal shade of purple.

  Harry was sitting alone with a cup of coffee. His hair was wet, and his eyes were trained on a copy of the Hindustan Times, a local English language newspaper. I looked at my baggy surfer Tee and decided to go back to my room and clean myself up. But as I turned he called my name. I crossed my arms over my chest.

  ‘Morning,’ he said as I approached the table. He had shaved. With a bare face he looked younger than I had thought he was. He had a nice mouth and two dimples that framed his lips like miniature parentheses, as if his smile was a secret aside.

  ‘Morning,’ I smiled and sat down. He returned his attention to the newspaper. I reached for the menu. The breakfast options were divided into two groups. Continental – which was some form of toast, or local – which was some form of curry.

  I ordered an aloo gobi matar and hoped it wouldn’t be too heavy.

  ‘I fantasise about a leafy pile of dark green rocket.’ I told Harry. ‘At night I lie awake dreaming about biting into a dense and watery head of iceberg lettuce. I want to lay my whole head on a bed of dewy salad.’

  ‘Wild,’ he said. ‘I hear Playboy’s salad centrefolds are always their biggest sellers. What did you have planned for today?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll sort out a train to Varanasi. I’m keen to keep moving,’ I said. I had decided overnight – in between salad fantasies – to go to Varanasi and then email Chris to say I was there.

  ‘There’s a bus tonight to Agra,’ said Harry.

  ‘I’m not going to Agra I’m going to Varanasi.’

  ‘You have to go to Agra.’

  ‘What’s the penalty if I don’t? Jail time? Community service?’

  ‘It’s the Taj Mahal,’ he said. ‘You can’t come to India and not see the Taj.’

  I hadn’t come here to fight hordes of tourists for a glimpse of palaces and shrines. I had come here to find Chris.

  ‘Agra’s on the way to Varanasi anyway,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I lied.

  Harry finished his coffee and folded his newspaper. ‘I have to go downtown for work,’ he said. ‘One of our clients has an office here and my bosses want me to give them some face-time.’

  I realised then that he was wearing an ironed shirt. A tie sat on the table next to his coffee, coiled up like a snake.

  ‘You should go to the Baha’i Lotus temple,’ he told me. ‘It’s supposed to be very beautiful and,’ he paused for emphasis, ‘calming. I should be done by six. Shall we meet later for dinner? While I’m in the office I’ll research travel options.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Ranjeev accompanied the waiter who bought me a coffee and said he could arrange for a driver to take me to the Lotus temple.

  Delhi’s Lotus Temple is exactly what it sounds like – it’s a Baha’i house of worship designed to look exactly like a lotus flower. The effect is remarkable. The building is made from milky white marble, its pointed petals giving the impression of a younger, more feminine cousin to Sydney’s Opera House.

  I removed my shoes and approached reverently. I ran my hand over a marble wall. It was flawless and cool. A feeling of peacefulness rippled through me.

  All around me people were praying and meditating. Cass had tried to get me to meditate, and had once succeeded in recruiting me to a yoga class on the promise of coffee afterwards.

  ‘It’s soothing and it will strengthen your core. Exercise and therapy all in one!’ she’d said.

  My open-mindedness had taken a hit when the instructor arrived sporting hemp fisherman pants and a mop of dreadlocks as thick as octopus legs.

  ‘I don’t trust anyone who commits to a hairstyle that doesn’t allow washing,’ I whispered to my sister.

  ‘Shh!’ she hissed, and bent forward into downward dog.

  My mind quickly wandered during the class. I spent the time writing mental shopping lists and preparing for Monday morning at work.

  Now I decided the Lotus Temple would be as good a place as any to have another attempt at meditation. I sat and watched pilgrims come and go. I tried to capture the points of the temple’s petals in my travel diary, when that didn’t work, I wrote instead.

  Day 10. Am pleased to not be lost or in hospital (anymore). Missed Chris again but am surprised by Delhi. The city is loud and confronting, but full of friendly people and ancient buildings. Burns on leg seem to be healing. No signs of sepsis. Harry has been very helpful. With luck will see Chris in Varanasi.

  I hope this stress doesn’t give me an ulcer.

  I tried to still my thoughts. I breathed. The air was clearer here but my mind was racing. What was I doing? Why was I wasting my time in Delhi? I should be working, saving, planning, cleaning, studying, trying to find Chris.

  I had always planned to be engaged by twenty-seven. That would leave two years to get married, before my husband and I set about the task of becoming pregnant by the time I turned thirty. None of my imaginings of myself at twenty-seven had involved sitting in a field in India grinding anti-malaria pills between my molars.

  That’s why I had to find Chris.

  I sat and watched pilgrims until the sun went down, then I took a rickshaw back to our hotel.

  Harry was downstairs with a pile of legal documents.

  ‘We can get a bus to Agra first thing,’ he said. ‘Then there’s a sleeper train that will take you to Varanasi.’

  ‘A sleeper train?’

  ‘They’re great. You get your own bed and can order breakfast.’ He was still wearing his work clothes but he had loosened his tie.

  I kind of liked the idea. I pictured romantic images from the film Murder on the Orient Express: wood-panelled compartments upholstered in leather, dinner brought in on trays with white linen napkins. I hoped it would be just like the film, only without the murdering part.

  Then I realised this was India, and the opposite would probably be true: absolutely no romance and a high chance of death.

  Chapter Twelve

  We sat in a revolving restaurant forming a plan. It creaked and wobbled as it rotated to show us brick walls, stone walls and a car park. Agra was disappointingly dusty and provincial. I had surrendered to Harry’s plans. It had been two days since I’d heard from Chris and I had no idea where he was. He hadn’t mentioned Agra, but it was on the way to Varana
si and he was just as likely to be here as anywhere else.

  ‘Is there anything worth seeing other than the Taj?’ I asked Harry.

  ‘There’s the Akbar’s tomb.’

  ‘Another tomb?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘How’s your food?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not sure I would call it food.’

  ‘I warned you,’ I said. ‘Actually, you warned yourself. You were the one with the rule against ordering non-Indian food.’

  Harry jabbed it with his fork. ‘I just couldn’t handle another curry.’

  I smiled sympathetically. Even though Western menu items were rarely what they claimed to be, there was usually some attempt at imitation. We’d checked into the hotel after 6 am and decided to have an early breakfast so we could beat the crowds to the Taj. Harry had ordered cornflakes but had been delivered a bowl of sloppy, cadmium yellow puree. The chef had added cupfuls of corn kernels. Harry glowered at it.

  ‘I just want something that’s not a curry,’ he hollered at the meal.

  He ate it, but as he chewed I could see he was losing his patience. Afterwards he went to Pizza Hut and loaded up on slices of margarita.

  ‘Feel better?’ I said when he met me in the lobby. ‘You look a bit sweaty.’

  His eyes bulged in panic. He covered his mouth and raced into the bathroom.

  ‘Indians don’t know how to make pizza,’ he said when he emerged ten minutes later.

  We were collected by a minibus that took us behind the gates of the Taj compound. It felt like a world apart from Agra. The tranquil garden was sliced in two by a long, silvery reflecting pool. I snapped a shot of the Taj on my phone and sent it to Cass. The marble glowed. The detail looked like fine lace. Large black onyx letters were laid into the archway. I sat cross-legged beneath it, pulled out my travel diary and started to draw.

  Harry sat next to me and angled his camera up. ‘The Taj was built by a Mughal emperor as a shrine to his wife,’ Harry told me. ‘Her body is entombed inside.’

  ‘I thought it was a palace?’

  ‘We can see her grave if you want.’