Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  I hoped that when I returned home, some of this new toughness would stay with me. Like armour. And things there would be a little bit easier. I walked back to my hotel feeling uncleansed and as confused as ever.

  On the way I couldn’t stop myself from checking my email account. There was an email from Michael. Surprised, I clicked on it.

  Hi Violet,

  I know it’s been a while but I just thought I’d drop you a line and see how things are going with you. Work is good at the moment. I’m still living with Lydia and Kyle but they’re looking at getting their own place soon. Kyle told me he’s going to propose on their first night …

  It went on in this vein for several paragraphs. I pictured him sitting at his desk with a draft of what he wanted to say to me written out on a notepad. At that moment I was ready to rush home into his arms. My eyes clouded with tears. Michael could be selfish, but he wasn’t mean or malicious. There was a loneliness to his words. A sad acceptance. After what I had done, he still extended affection and courtesy. I felt like a spoilt fool.

  I wiped my eyes and started to write back.

  Dear Michael,

  I’m so sorry for…

  I deleted it and started again.

  I’m so happy to hear you’re doing well …

  It felt wrong to be addressing him so formally. I decided I’d have to think more about my response. I forwarded Michael’s email to Cass with a line saying What do you think I should do?!!

  Then I logged out.

  I slept.

  I woke early. I had forgotten to close my curtains and the room was full of light. The sky was visible; shards of blue shone through holes in the cloud. I decided to return to the river. I took money in case I saw the man with spina bifida again, and the tinnie bracelets I’d bought for clubbing in Hong Kong to give to the girls who sold water bottles.

  Down at the riverfront morning chores were underway. Women washing clothes slapped garments against the stone and scrubbed, then ground them into the earth with rocks. They immersed pants and shirts and tunics into the water. The place they had chosen was clear of tin cans and floating garbage. They were dressed in saffron orange and teal. They chatted as they worked under the rising sun. A beautiful young woman in a sage coloured sari saw me gawking and waved. She had a collection of detergents lined up next to her basket. I waved back shyly, embarrassed to be caught staring.

  Further down, people were bathing. Their bodies shone with water.

  I bought a tea and sat on the steps to sketch the scene into my travel diary, until a familiar sight caught my eye. It was a Nike T-shirt like one Michael owned. Its wearer also had on a pair of Converse sneakers, which were items Michael didn’t own, but they spoke of home all the same. The man had an expensive looking camera around his neck and was peering into the river through the viewfinder.

  I jumped up and hurried to where he stood.

  ‘Are you getting any good pictures?’ I asked.

  He jumped, startled. ‘Hey there,’ he said in a Texan drawl. He lowered his camera.

  ‘Sorry if I broke your concentration.’

  ‘The water’s coming out kinda murky. I fiddled with the aperture, but to be honest I don’t really know what I’m doing.’ He smiled an all-American smile.

  His name was Bradley Carter and he had dirty blond hair that curled up under his ears, high Hollywood cheek bones, and wide-set blue eyes. He was conspicuously handsome.

  ‘Brad, is it?’

  ‘Bradley.’

  ‘I’m Violet,’ I shook his hand. ‘Are you having a nice morning?’

  ‘It’s something, isn’t it?’ He nodded at the river.

  ‘It really is,’ I said.

  He took a swig from a bottle of Limca – a local lemon squash drink – and asked me if I was travelling alone. I said I was.

  ‘Me too. I’ve been having trouble meeting other travellers.’

  ‘We should hang out,’ I blurted. I wanted someone to talk to.

  ‘Cool.’ He looked into his Limca bottle, peering one-eyed, as if he was really expecting to find something.

  ‘Cool,’ I said.

  We paid a man fifty rupees to row us down the river in his boat. He slowed to give us a better view of the platforms blackened with ash where bodies were burned.

  They made me think of the funeral for Chris’s father, Gregory, who died of a heart attack when we were fifteen. It had been standing-room only in the church by the time I arrived. Flowers in cellophane carpeted the courtyard. I stood at the back, a marble tabernacle pressing into my spine. The Campbell boys were in the front pew, shoulder to shoulder, looking as indestructible as a military fortification. They were fit and uniformly tall. They maintained a manfully silent sadness until the time came to carry their father’s coffin out of the church. This final effort squeezed a tear or two from each son, and a torrent from Chris, the youngest. He was unable to wipe them away so they run off his jaw line and darkened his collar.

  Once they had slid the casket into the back of the hearse and cushioned it with flowers, they stayed to speak with guests. I watched Chris, wary of forcing myself on him while he was so sad. I waited half an hour while he received sympathetic words and hugs. He kissed an old lady on the cheek and started making for his brother, who was dangling car keys. I had to jog to catch him.

  ‘Chris,’ I called, my voice came out louder than I had meant it too. A few people turned to look. I shrank into my coat.

  ‘This is for you.’ I held out a card I had written.

  He looked at the purple envelope as if he had never seen such a thing before. He didn’t open it, but I had memorised every word:

  Dear Chris,

  I was so sorry to hear that you lost someone you had loved. I hope you know there are plenty of people in your life who love you and will be here for you during this difficult time and after. Love Violet Mason.

  ‘Thanks.’ He looked up at me with empty eyes. ‘It was really good of you to come.’

  ‘Sure – I mean of course,’ I said. I wanted to hug him, but I wasn’t sure I was allowed. Instead I patted his shoulder.

  Chris had been where I was now, only a few days ago. I wondered if the pyres had made him think of his Dad. My anger towards him softened. He doesn’t know you’re following him, I reminded myself.

  ‘Walking tour start now,’ the boat guide said, as he eased us into a bank of floating cardboard, plastic and sodden reeds. The boat jerked as it crashed against the earth, then again as we stepped out.

  The walking tour was lead by an eloquent young woman in a lilac sari, who took us up into a narrow network of lanes. Like every other inch of India, this path to the temples and shops had not escaped habitation. We could see straight into homes. Bradley poked his camera lens into the living spaces to capture the sprawl of mattresses, the kerosene cookers, the deities bright with offerings, and the old transistor radios propped up on colonial-style chairs. I wanted to ask if the image was worth the intrusion but I bit my tongue.

  As we climbed tight stairways that wound between the buildings we were followed by small children.

  ‘I thought India would be like Europe, you know,’ Bradley said, puffing as we climbed. ‘Heaps of hostels. Lots of partying. Man, Europe was off the hook.’

  He told me about being drunk for five days straight in Dublin, gobbling magic mushrooms in Amsterdam and nearly drowning in beer in Belgium. He went to Corfu, Prague, Ibiza, and stayed in places with names like ‘The Pink Palace’. They sounded like Mediterranean Playboy mansions, only instead of bunnies they were stocked with other travellers. Open minded people gorging themselves on experiences.

  ‘Want to get a drink?’ Bradley asked once the tour had finished. I was unsure but I could hear Cass’s voice in my head urging me on.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I know a place.’ He took off southward.

  We passed a street corner where men were playing horns to lure cobras from baskets. The snake’s hoods made them look doubly menacin
g.

  ‘Man those things freak me out,’ Bradley said.

  ‘Yeah.’ I shivered as their beady eyes glinted. Their scales changed colour in the sun. Evidence of malevolent sorcery, I thought.

  ‘Reckon they’re real snakes?’ he asked, squinting.

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ One poked its forked tongue out.

  The man playing the pipe called to Bradley. He wore a white turban and had a long, twisted beard. The tune coaxed a cobra up out its basket. It was small and black, and swayed to the flat notes. Bradley watched.

  ‘You like it?’ The piper tootled some more.

  ‘Crazy.’ Bradley tapped his foot and clicked his fingers.

  We stood and watched for a few minutes until Bradley grew bored and took my arm to lead me away. The snake charmer stopped playing and gestured for Bradley to put some money into his coin basket.

  ‘I haven’t got any.’ Bradley held up his hands. He turned again to walk away but the man stopped him with a shout. ‘Hey hey!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Bradley called.

  The man piped some notes. The snake oozed out of its basket turned in Bradley’s direction.

  ‘Holy shit, man,’ he said, backing away.

  The piper played on. The snake slithered towards Bradley’s bare ankles.

  ‘Man, I don’t have any,’ he said again. His pockets, which bulged with guidebooks, sunscreen and mosquito repellent, seemed to suggest otherwise.

  He pulled these items out.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ I said, feeling my pockets for notes. I produced a two hundred and one hundred rupee note and passed them to the charmer.

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ he said and played something that called off the snake. It retreated to its basket.

  Bradley wiped his brow.

  ‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Thanks. That was messed up. You alright?’ Bradley wound his arm around me.

  The effect the smell of his skin had on me was primal. It awoke the feelings I had had sitting next to Harry’s sleeping body the night before. I untangled myself from his arm and quickened my pace.

  ‘Where’s this bar?’ I asked.

  We ducked into a tourist bar and ordered beers. Bradley’s gaze slid up and down my legs as he drank. When he spoke, he touched my arm in that unmistakably deliberate way. I was flattered that someone so perfectly handsome would be interested in me. Though, I was aware there were no other women in the bar.

  ‘It’s full-on, huh?’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘India.’ He tilted his bottle back to get the last of the beer out.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘I’ve got some pot in my room. To take the edge off. Interested?’

  I hesitated. What would he expect if I went back to his room with him? On the other hand, I was just saying yes to company. Nothing more. And I was glad of his company.

  ‘Sure,’ I shrugged.

  He led me to his hotel, conveniently located just around the corner from the bar he had chosen. The floor was littered with his discarded clothes.

  We sat on the balcony. He took a pack of cigarette papers from his pocket and pulled some tobacco from a pouch. Then he produced a small snap lock bag of buds that he sprinkled on the russet-coloured tobacco bed like green hundreds and thousands. He rolled it and handed it to me. He took a Zippo from the same pocket and lit the tip. I inhaled. Within a moment the jagged, shouting, manic edge of the city softened. The sun began to sink and the sky turned the colour of marmalade. I coughed.

  ‘Good, huh?’

  I made a non-committal noise. Smoking dope was something else I was new to. I was embarrassed to admit it, but where would I have had the chance to try pot before? With Michael, at a tight arse Tuesday cinema session? With my lab buddies? Sterilising jam jars with my mother?

  Bradley told me more stories from Europe. He talked about how he thought the Sistine Chapel looked fake and that he was amazed the Pope had his own guards.

  ‘As if he’s like, the President, or something,’ he said in wonder.

  Then he told me about trying to sleep amid the bump and grind of a dorm room shared with couples.

  ‘I can’t believe they would do that with so many other people in the room,’ I said.

  Flickering in my mind were images of my regimental lovemaking with Michael. The headboard would knock and the springs would squeak. Michael would pant faster and louder until he reached a crescendo in a braying, whinny of pleasure. It was not a spectator’s sport.

  ‘Well …’ Bradley threaded his fingers together and put his hands behind his head. ‘When the urge grabs you, it can be hard to say no.’

  The idea he might try to get me into bed entered my mind.

  ‘Shall we get some food?’ I switched subjects.

  ‘Okay, just give me a second.’ He took another deep drag on his joint then handed it back. ‘Stick that in your mouth for a start,’ he said. ‘What would you like?’ He pressed my leg.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Tandoori? Or … rice … naan?’ His voice was slow and far away.

  I felt the same, like I was floating in a vat of molasses. I took another drag. The tense muscles in my shoulders and back melted. I slid down in my wicker chair and closed my eyes.

  ‘Just … any dinner,’ I managed. ‘Dinner. Din-ner. Dinnnner.’ The word sounded strange.

  ‘Okay.’ There was that hand on my knee again. ‘You’re really whacked, aren’t you?’

  I enjoyed the way Bradley would touch my leg to emphasise a point. It was waking me up. Rousing me and arousing me.

  He hauled himself off his chair and went inside to call for the food. I watched his calves as he moved. They were so lean I could see the ligaments and tendons working as he walked. His arms were ropey. He had big hands, a strong neck and shiny hair.

  Despite everything that was wrong with my relationship with Michael, we had still made love regularly and rigorously. It was an unadventurous but near-daily routine. Like the ablutions the people of Varanasi performed in the shallows of the Ganges each morning. Or an old man who still does push-ups because he knows they’re good for him. I realised my body had been missing it. I hugged my knees to my chest, thinking about the acrobatic acts I’d seen in the Kama Sutra.

  Bradley returned to the balcony. ‘Dinner is on its way,’ he said, and lay his hand on the inner-curve of my thigh.

  His touch sought permission. I froze. Nobody had hit on me since I was twenty-two on my fourth date with Michael. And it had just been a kiss in a dark cinema.

  He pulled me to him and put his mouth on mine. A minute later I felt his hands work their way underneath my shirt.

  I wondered what he would think of my bony hips and scrawny thighs, if he’d care about my little breasts. He took my hand and led me inside to the bedroom. He cleared some clothes off the mattress and lay me down. Instead of kissing me and gnawed on my neck. He grinned at me, affecting wickedness, then pulled off his shirt.

  Through the floss of the cannabis I felt nervous. He climbed on top of me and leaned forward to kiss behind my ear. I raised my hand, unsure what to do with it. I knew I had better to something so I let it rest on his back. He stopped, his face screwed up in concern.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

  I realised I was holding my breath. ‘No,’ I said, exhaling. ‘Keep going. It’s nice.’ I rubbed his back encouragingly.

  There to the roar of Varanasi’s peak hour traffic and the holiest river in the world rushing by, I lost my post-Michael virginity.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Not again. There was no sign of him.

  Prayer flags played in the wind. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of red, blue and yellow cotton squares flapped on lines connected to the golden turrets. The air was clear. The wood smoke that rose from chimneys was whisked away by mountain winds. I had nothing to do but wait. I had arrived at the Swayambhunath Stupa. It was a Buddhist temple in the Kathmandu Valley, also known as the Monkey Temple, and it was where Chris Campbell had told me to
meet him.

  I had left Varanasi while Bradley was still asleep.

  As part of his seduction he had talked a lot about love, sex and gender politics. ‘Love is hard,’ he concluded. ‘I’ve never met anyone I thought I could commit to.’ This he said pointedly. ‘But if I did meet someone, I like to think I’d move heaven and earth to be with her. That shit’s rare, you know.’

  I had nodded and wished he was someone else.

  Hours after we’d had sex I was still awake and restless. Bradley was spread out like a starfish on the bed, naked.

  I searched for my pants among the wreck of the room. Bradley was a pig. His backpack lay open with its guts of shirts and pants spilled everywhere, like the victim of a grisly murder. He had flung his wallet onto the pile and it had landed open. Colourful Indian bills showed him to be a liar – he’d claimed he only had credit when the Madras beef arrived twenty minutes after our tryst. His phone lay next to it. I spotted my pants straddled over the back of a chair and pulled them on. As I did so, Bradley’s phone hummed with the arrival of a message. The lit screen showed a picture of a girl as the screensaver.

  I picked it up. I knew instantly that this smiling freckled face was his girlfriend, revealing another lie. I couldn’t help myself. I clicked open his photo gallery. She was all over it. There were a few shots of India followed by image after image of her face. She had pretty green eyes and dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She looked like someone I would have been friends with. I threw his phone back onto the pile, angry at my part in the betrayal.

  I slipped into my shoes and headed for the door. I was about to pull it behind me when I spied Bradley’s mosquito repellent and hand sanitiser on the desk. I snatched them up, figuring it was karmic retribution for him cheating on his girlfriend and lying to me. Then I went to the bathroom. Bingo. A near-full tube of Colgate. I took that too.

  It was about 6 am when I got back to my hotel. The clerk waggled his finger at me, smiling from behind his desk. But the porter glared with disapproval.