Maya

by C. W. Huntington

  “Penny!” I called out and waved. Margaret had succeeded in bringing the discussion around to her research on Girnir, but at the sound of my voice all three of them stopped talking and looked in the direction of the bar. The men were obviously interested, Margaret much less so as she watched Penelope cross over to where we stood.

  “Stanley,” she said, “How wonderful to see you again!” She took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I hoped you might be here tonight.”

  I introduced her to the others. “This is Penelope Ainsworth. Penny, this is Professor Davis, the guest of honor.”

  “Evening,” he said, taking her hand.

  “And Professor McIntyre.”

  He bowed slightly, making it clear with a shrug and the same little grin he had shown me earlier that he was incapacitated by his pipe and drink.

  “And this is my friend, Dr. Margaret Billings. From Columbia. She’s on the verge of overturning everything we thought we knew about Gupta administrative policy.” Margaret gave her a polite smile and a perfunctory handshake. “Penny and I met in Agra,” I said, “a few months back, when I was there studying Hindi.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Margaret said. “Are you a fellow?”

  “No, I’m not. My research is funded through a private endowment at Oxford.”

  “That’s where you’re coming from, then?” Despite her effort to appear blasé, Margaret could not help being impressed by the mere sound of certain charmed names.

  Penny nodded and took a swallow of scotch, then set the glass down on a nearby table and pulled a package of Dunhills out of her purse. She extracted a cigarette from the pack and lit it up.

  Margaret’s eyes flared in the glow of the burning tobacco. “Would you mind a whole lot giving up one of those?” She gestured toward Penelope’s cigarette. For an instant I thought she was going to reach over and pluck it out of her fingers. “I just finished my last pack two days ago and I’m already thinking about leaving India if I can’t find an alternative to these things.” Margaret displayed the Indian cigarette she had been smoking and brandished it disdainfully under our noses; then with a ruthless flourish she crushed it out in a nearby ashtray and stood waiting for relief. Penny produced another Dunhill and lit it for her. One or two drags and Margaret was ready to pick up the interrogation where she had left off. It was evident, though, that Penelope had more or less won her over.

  “Are you faculty, or . . .” Margaret hesitated tactfully.

  “A graduate student,” Penny completed the question. “I’m writing on early Buddhist relief sculpture. I’ve been doing some work near Agra. That’s where Stanley and I met.” She smiled and touched my hand again. “But I’ve shifted now to Bhopal. Photographing Buddhist monuments in the area.”

  “And what brings you to Delhi?” Once again the mention of Buddhism seemed to have provided Professor McIntyre with an opportunity to join the conversation.

  “Partly a social visit, partly research. I’m collecting some information at the archives of the National Museum.”

  “What’s the social part?” Margaret asked, as though she were only trying to make conversation and didn’t really care.

  “I’m staying with some friends of my parents . . .” She broke off and reconsidered. “They’re old family friends, really, with the embassy. I knew them years ago when we lived here. I was just a girl.”

  “Your parents are involved with the embassy?” Davis asked.

  “My father was in the Foreign Office. He retired last spring from his last post in Rome. He and my mother have settled in London.”

  Margaret pried into Penny’s father’s foreign-service background a while, then lost interest and steered the conversation back to Girnir. At that point I politely excused myself from the group, inviting Penny to join me for another drink, which I at least wanted badly. She had already polished off the scotch and was ready for a refill. Margaret never stopped talking, but she watched us out of the corner of her eye as we walked over to the bar.

  In view of this unexpected reunion I decided to switch to something more festive, and following the art historian’s example, I leaned on Balaram to pour me a half liter or so of bourbon over ice. Thus fortified we retired to the couch and immediately fell into conversation. We talked of her work at the archives, then of my own faltering research. I avoided the details of my escalating conversion to Buddhism, though I did touch on some of the intellectual high points. She listened attentively to everything I said. I could tell from her response that Mick had told her something about Judith, but I was not in the mood to find out what. Talk of academia eventually moved into discussion of the food she was being treated to at the British embassy: real cheese, fresh salads, and warm, whole-wheat bread from the commissary kitchen.

  She told me an amusing story about her host, a cultural liaison at the embassy. He helped put together concerts, plays, and lectures, working to facilitate an exchange of artists and scholars between England and India. Over the years he had entertained quite a number of celebrities in his home. It was part of his job to see that they were comfortable during their visit and, occasionally, to do whatever else might be necessary to insure that all went smoothly. A pianist from the London Conservatory had insisted on going out to dinner the night before his concert—alone—to Moti Mahal in Daryaganj. He may actually have gone there, but this was probably not the real motive for the trip. He had apparently sought out a postprandial rendezvous with a prostitute somewhere in the back alleys around Turkman Gate. While he was humping away, somebody stole his pants along with everything in the pockets—passport, money, and a Patek Philippe watch. He insisted that this was the work of the woman’s pimp, a cab driver who took him there, but he could only describe the man as “an obese chap with a long gray beard. Rather like Father Christmas with a turban.” Under pressure from the authorities to come up with a more specific description, he finally managed to produce one other tidbit: the cab had two foam dice and a plastic playboy rabbit hanging from the mirror up front. If the police were to put out an all-points bulletin for a man fitting this description, they would end up interrogating half the taxi drivers in Delhi.

  According to the story Penny had heard, the unfortunate pianist was picked up by a motor rickshaw driver who found him wandering along Asaf Ali Road yelling like a madman. The driver deposited his passenger at the embassy gate in Chanakyapuri, wrapped up in an old sari he had snatched from the whore before storming out in search of the police. Penny’s host was now charged with the task of running through half a dozen offices all over the city in order to make sure the musician had a new set of papers processed in time to get him out of India for his next performance in Bangkok.

  I reassured myself that this is what the cultural liaison at the embassy is paid for, though I could not begin to imagine how much money would suffice to make it all worthwhile.

  While Penny was narrating this story we got up and refilled our glasses yet again. By the time our conversation wound its way around to Agra, I was definitely beginning to loosen up.

  “Do you ever go back to Agra?” I asked.

  “Now and again.”

  “Still the same charming city I hold so affectionately in my heart?”

  “The same. She’s waiting for you to return.”

  Unbidden, an image of Judith’s face rose up in my mind.

  “You know what they say: If you have once known the beauty of Agra in the monsoon season, you will never be happy again until you go back.” She moved one finger lightly around the rim of her glass. “Sort of like Paris, only different.”

  “Is that what they say?”

  “It is.” She looked me square in the eyes.

  “Who says that?”

  “I think I read it somewhere over at the Ministry of Tourism and Civil Aviation. I was on a lunch break.”

  “And what news is there from Mickey? Is he still holed up in his room at the college?”

  “Still there. He told me
before I left that if I saw you, I was to send greetings from the city of the Taj. He says he hasn’t been able to find anyone else who appreciates the place nearly as much as you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Oh yes. He entrusted me with something else, too. A cryptic message. He said to tell you . . .” She paused, trying to remember. “To tell you that falling on the Buddha had opened his wisdom eye. Those were his exact words. He said that you would understand, but that you wouldn’t believe it. He said this is his final incarnation.”

  “Is that all? Why wouldn’t I believe that?”

  She brushed a stray hair away from one ear. “Don’t ask me. I’m just the messenger.”

  “So what’s he doing to pass the time before attaining full and complete enlightenment?”

  “Singing bhajans, like always. And painting. Right now he’s working on a positively beautiful little court scene. His teacher is letting him use real gold leaf on some of the women’s jewelry.”

  “He’s good, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “He’s very good.”

  Both of us paused for a drink. Penny searched for another cigarette. “Have the two of you taken any more trips to the museum?”

  “The museum.” She considered for moment. “You mean the museum at Mathura?”

  I arched my brows, ever so slightly. “You know, for research?”

  “Right.” Her eyes narrowed. “I go back every week or so and let Mr. Bhattacharya whack off while I talk about my research. It’s gotten to be an obsession. Oh Stanley,” she said, laying a hand on her chest and looking around the room as if to see whether anyone was listening, “When I see that little man bouncing up and down behind his desk I . . . I just lose control.” She made as if to swoon and spilled half her drink on the couch. It occurred to me that we were both plastered.

  “So what’s his secret?” I asked.

  “Well,” she wiped the couch ineffectually with her left hand, the one holding the cigarette, and raised the glass to her lips with the other. I remember watching the ashes fall and worrying briefly that she might set the place on fire. “You have to be there.”

  “Oh come on,” I complained, “that’s no answer. I want to know how he keeps you coming back for more.” I took a long swallow from my own glass.

  “Stanley,” she said, laying her fingers gently on my knee, “if I told you that, I would be absolutely under your power. I can’t afford to have another Mr. Bhattacharya around.”

  “So you refuse to tell me anything about . . . about his technique?”

  “Don’t be silly. Why should I? I’d be running a terrible risk. How would I ever get my thesis written if you decided to keep me in a constant state of sexual arousal?”

  All right, I thought, she’s joking. It’s a game. But we were drunk enough at this point that it didn’t matter. People had begun to leave the party and we barely noticed. While we were talking, her sari had drifted down from the shoulder, exposing a small bump where one nipple pressed up against the material.

  “Penny, I have a suggestion.” I tipped back my drink and emptied the glass, nearly losing my balance in the process. She reached out instinctively to steady me. “Look.” I showed her my glass.

  “It’s empty,” she replied.

  “Yes, it’s empty. And I intend to fill it. Yours is empty as well.” I nodded toward her glass and she raised it as if to seek confirmation. “I understand your position, which is, uh, delicate. Of course you don’t want to tell me in so many words exactly what Mr. Bhattacharya does to keep you coming back for more. But look at things from my point of view.”

  “What exactly is your point of view, Stanley?”

  I hesitated. “Well, wouldn’t you be curious? I mean, if you were me?”

  “I see.” A tenuous silence. “So what do you propose?”

  “For starters, refill these glasses.” We hoisted ourselves aloft and navigated a route back through the group to Balaram, who was ready for us this time with the usual treatment. “Now, follow me,” I said, and guided her back across the room and out the door into a hallway, pausing on the way past the couch to retrieve her purse.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Patience, patience. Watch your drink, there.” I took her hand and steadied it. At the end of the hall we stood in front of a shiny brass plaque that had been engraved Akaljeet Singh, Director. I ushered her through and closed the door behind us. Then I took her gently by the arm and escorted her across the dimly lit room to a huge wooden desk. I lowered her into Mr. Singh’s big, custom-made executive swivel chair. I walked around in front of the desk, pulled up a chair of my own and sat down facing her across a pen and pencil set, manila folders, a stack of ledgers, and a sea of papers that washed between no less than five massive paper weights. I reached over and turned on a small desk lamp, then pushed it off to one side, near a replica to the Taj Mahal that had been made into an ashtray.

  “Now,” I said, “show me.”

  “You’re joking,” she said, rising slightly from her seat.

  “Would I joke about something this important?”

  She relaxed into the cushion and sat quietly for a moment. “You really want to see?”

  “Oh yes. Yes. I want to see.”

  She picked up her purse, which had dropped to the floor beside the chair, fished out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled. “Tell me about your research.”

  “Come on, Penny, I told you everything already, what else . . .?”

  “Tell me again,” she cut me off. “I’m interested. Really.” Her right hand, the one without the cigarette, had dropped out of sight beneath the desk. Her eyes held mine. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

  I started talking about Vedanta. I talked about the difference between Ramanuja’s theistic dualism and Shankara’s abstract monism, between the path of faith and the path of wisdom. I delved into the fine points of Shankara’s commentary on the Brahmasutras, compared and contrasted what he said there with the position he took on similar problems in other commentaries. While I talked, Penny hung on every word. She nodded her head now and again at appropriate intervals, said “hmmm” and “yes, I see.” She leaned back between the arms of the chair, her left elbow resting on the soft material, the cigarette just a few inches from her lips. As I talked she encouraged me to go into specifics, without ever saying more than a word or two of her own. The whole time her right hand remained in her lap, just out of sight below the edge of the desk. I could see the muscles in her forearm contracting, relaxing, then contracting again. I hadn’t been talking very long before I heard the rustle of silk below the desk, nothing more than a subtle whisper, but enough to interrupt my learned discourse. I hesitated for a second, my gaze dropped, and I saw the muscles in her arm loosen up.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, pulling my eyes back up into her own. “If you would prefer, we can postpone this discussion to another time.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I answered hastily.

  “Then why did you stop talking?” She continued to look directly into my eyes, and I saw a slight sheen of perspiration at the top of her forehead. A tiny drop rolled down her neck and onto her chest. The sari had fallen even lower. She inhaled again and let the smoke ease slowly from her nostrils. “Please go on, Mr. Harrington.” Her voice quivered just a bit, in a slightly lower tone than before.

  “What do you want me to talk about? I …”

  She took a last drag on the cigarette, reached over the desk with her left hand, and mashed the butt out on the steps of the Taj. “Why don’t you tell me something about Buddhism?”

  I started in all over again, only this time I began by dredging up anything I could think of from the texts I had studied during the past several months. I worked my way numerically through a long list of basic doctrines, starting with the three jewels and continuing through the four noble truths, the four bonds, the four perverted views. When I ran out of fours I carried on with the fives and sixes. S
he had begun to rock slowly back and forth in the big chair. The springs creaked, her silk sari shivered in the light from the lamp. She no longer spoke, but her breathing had become heavier, deeper. Her lids were half closed now, but still she held my eyes, never swerving, never once allowing me to look away.

  By the time I got to the eighteen kinds of emptiness her breathing had become a muffled groan of pleasure, and she gave up all pretense. Her hips pumped gently up and down on the cushion, her eyes closed, and she slid back and surrendered to an orgasm that pulsed through her body in waves.

  That did it for me. I pushed back my chair and dropped to the floor on my hands and knees. I crawled between her legs and began to chew on one knee, working my way up the inside of her left thigh. She stuck both hands in my hair and began to massage my scalp, pulling my head against her. By now she was squirming in the chair. “Jesus,” she moaned. “Please. Oh Jesus Christ, Stanley.”

  I have no idea how long we had been going at it like this—two minutes? ten?—when I heard a voice in the hall just outside the door.

  I peered up. “Penny! Listen!”

  It was Margaret. Thank god the volume of that woman’s speech is at least thirty decibels louder than any normal human being. Otherwise I would never have heard them coming. The few seconds this gave us made the difference between a total catastrophe and an extremely compromising situation. As the knob turned Penny pulled her hands out of my hair and sat up straight in the chair. She was still in the process of rearranging her sari when the door swung open and in walked Mr. Singh with Frank Davis and Margaret. They were so involved in whatever it was they were discussing that they didn’t even notice us at first. I backed out from under the desk and looked up directly into Margaret’s face. She jumped backward, collided with Frank Davis, and knocked his glasses askew. A spooky, disjointed panic flashed through my inebriated brain as I thought I saw his nose come off along with the plastic frames.

  “Stanley! My God, you scared me to death!”