Pushing the beer bottles aside, the lady got up to resume her act. As she left, she said, ‘Please forgive me if I disturbed your dinner.’
Marco Polo pawned his middle-class heart with the infamous Susan Munro of Park Street that day.
The two of them met again at the restaurant.
Marco Polo tried to make his way into Susan Munro’s heart. ‘Really?’ he said to her in surprise one day. ‘You never formally learnt to sing? You mean nature has created a musical voice like this of its own accord?’
‘Where would I learn? Going to music school costs money,’ she replied.
Gradually he learnt the whole story. First in the restaurant, then in her room, he heard how her fate had run parallel to his. With both parents dead, she had been brought up by the SPCI, who had made every effort to equip her to cope. And as an adult she had tried to be independent—first selling cakes at a Swiss confectionery near New Market. But her passion was music, her fascination was with fame—she was even prepared to sing for free in restaurants.
She had got into this one with great difficulty. It was very hard at first, standing in the shop all day selling cakes then going straight to the restaurant, where she got dressed—there was no time to go back home. Yet it was the sort of place that didn’t believe in luxuries like ladies’ toilets. Asking a waiter to keep guard, she had to use the common toilet, the smell almost making her throw up.
‘Don’t they pay you anything?’ asked Marco Polo.
‘Dinner, and ten rupees a month.’
‘Just ten rupees? Disgraceful! Breed of leeches,’ he said indignantly.
‘And that, too, who knows for how long?’ she said glumly.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘There’s another girl who used to sing here—Lisa. She’s broken her leg and is lying in bed, which is why they’ve let me sing. As soon as the doctor removes her plaster my singing days will be over.’
Marco Polo felt bad for Susan. The thought that she had no parents either attracted him greatly towards her. She wasn’t particularly pretty, she may have had youth on her side, but surely just the fragile cord of youth would not have been enough for her to tether a seafaring ship like Marco. But he gave himself up and allowed himself to be anchored. Of his own accord, he brought Susan to the hotel as his bride.
It was because of her that he eventually had to leave Calcutta. Everyone knew her, which meant that she’d never make it big in the city. Someone who had hawked her music on Park Street could never aspire to the heights of Chowringhee.
Marco Polo got himself a hotel manager’s job in Rangoon. They would have no worries now—nobody there knew of Susan’s past. The hotel owners in Calcutta said to him, ‘What’s the hurry? You will be the manager here someday.’
Marco Polo laughed. ‘Calcutta may be my wife’s home, but it isn’t mine. Rangoon and Calcutta are all the same to me.’
They didn’t have a bad time in Rangoon. For a while, at least. Susan’s dream and Marco Polo’s work kept them both busy. He made quite a job of the hotel, so that foreign guests were mesmerized by it—they couldn’t believe there was a hotel like that in Burma.
But one day the skies of Rangoon filled with bomber planes—the Japanese were coming. Burma would have to be evacuated. No one had known something like that would happen. No one had expected it—not even Marco Polo. They returned to Calcutta. But circumstances had changed. Those who had once pleaded with Marco Polo to stay on now turned away, some even wrinkling their noses because of his Italian connection. They might even have sent him to jail for being an Italian, if it hadn’t been for the Greek passport in his pocket. The priests had displayed that one bit of foresight—they had changed his name but not his nationality.
Though Marco Polo’s stock had dipped, the demand for Susan’s services had risen. Thousands of English and American soldiers filled the city. They wanted to eat at restaurants and listen to music as they ate.
Marco Polo objected. ‘If you keep singing this way you’ll never make it big. You have to aspire to greater heights. One day people all over the world will want to listen to you, your records will be played everywhere.’
‘But until then?’ said Susan. ‘Should we starve until then? Those who wouldn’t pay ten rupees once are now begging me with five hundred. Lisa’s run away. Without a musical show the soldiers will go wild.’
Marco Polo had to agree. A husband who couldn’t feed his wife couldn’t afford to enforce his wishes.
He started looking around for a job. And Susan sang.
‘I’ve bought a watch,’ she said one day.
‘Where did you get the money?’
‘There’s plenty of money,’ she said. ‘Some American soldiers were so pleased with my singing they pooled in to buy me the watch.’
Marco Polo nodded.
Another day he said, ‘You return home so late these days. I get worried.’
‘Earlier the licence was till ten, but there’s no time limit now. I have to sing till one in the morning.’
‘Don’t you find it tough, Susan? Do you like singing like this?’ Marco Polo asked.
‘But they pay. They pay so much, you know,’ a tired Susan replied.
‘I’ve got a job for you,’ she said one day. ‘Will you take it? It’s the manager’s post at the army canteen at Liluah. On hearing it’s for my husband they were very keen. Major Shannon will come tomorrow to talk to you about it.’
Marco Polo’s wild, primordial Greek blood seemed to boil. ‘A job thanks to your singing? Out of pity?’
‘Why such aversion to pity? It’s pity that brought you up,’ Susan shot back immediately.
He didn’t react, preferring to leave home before it was time for Major Shannon to arrive. The major waited for him with a bottle of beer and then left in disgust.
A few days later Susan said, ‘The management is pleading with me to sing at lunchtime also—they’ll pay three hundred more.’
He didn’t reply. Later he asked, ‘Is this what your passion for music was all about, Susan?’
‘What do those who sing dream of?’ she asked in reply. Without waiting for an answer, she continued, ‘They want popularity—and I’ve got it. I’m popular.’
Marco Polo went to Patna in search of a job. He found one, but didn’t find satisfaction. From Patna he went to Karachi—and finally got a job with a big hotel there. He wrote to Susan from Karachi.
She wrote back, ‘I have no idea how time flies. I’m singing all the time—people love music so much.’
Marco Polo wrote, ‘It’s a nice place, you’re bound to like it here. The city’s much more organized than Calcutta, too, and there’s no risk of Japanese bombs.’
‘I’m in love with Calcutta,’ she wrote back. ‘Those who wouldn’t pay ten rupees once are now paying thousands. Another restaurant’s promising even more.’
‘I miss you,’ he wrote.
‘Take a few days off and come over,’ she replied. ‘At worst they won’t pay you when you’re away.’
His letter from Karachi said, ‘This is a new job. I can’t take leave whenever I want to. The hotel’s packed, but there are very few responsible people. Why don’t you come—even musicians need rest.’
Her letter from Calcutta said, ‘Received your letter. I’m off on a six-week tour to sing at American bases on special invitation. Sorry.’
Marco Polo tried to take a few days off, but couldn’t. When he did succeed eventually, an entire year had passed.
He was amazed when he came to Calcutta. His wife’s home was unrecognizable. At a time when even tyres were hard to come by, Susan had bought a car.
‘You never told me,’ he said.
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. Got it very cheap—Major Shannon arranged it for me.’
Marco Polo could not have dreamt of what he was seeing. Money...a cheap career...were these more important to Susan? Didn’t she spare a thought for her art, her passion? But what was the use of showering advice on her? The
tigress had tasted blood. Military officers’ cars were parked practically round the clock at her house.
He took her aside and asked, ‘Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?’
‘Of course I have, every day. I’ve put on some weight, that’s all,’ she replied.
‘Your eyes?’
‘They look a little tired. Even the Madonna’s eyes would have looked this way if she worked as hard as I do.’
‘I have to know your future plans, Susan,’ he said seriously.
‘They’re very bright,’ said Susan. ‘I’m quitting the restaurant job, it’s a dead loss. Instead, I’ll sing here, at this Theatre Road house, with a few snacks thrown in. Major Shannon has promised to get me a bar licence. I won’t let every Tom, Dick and Harry in—only select guests will be entertained. And if you take on the responsibility for the arrangements, I can concentrate on my music.’
‘What? With a degree from the Swiss College of Caterers you want me to become a call girl’s manager? God help me!’ His entire body revolted in disgust.
That night Marco Polo realized that it was all over.
Standing on the terrace of the Theatre Road house, he asked the Almighty, ‘Why did this have to happen? What have I done to deserve such punishment?’
At the breakfast table the next morning, he said to Susan, ‘Enough—it’s time we separated.’
‘Divorce!’ Susan didn’t agree at first. ‘It’s because I’m married that all these undesirable elements don’t dare to bother me. Even the American military police don’t prevent officers from coming to my flat. You won’t give up till you ruin my respectable profession, will you?’
‘We’re already separated. What’s required is only a legal acknowledgement,’ he said.
‘Which means you’ll accuse me of adultery in court? You’ll say I’m attracted to other men?’
Though he’d been married in an Indian church, Marco Polo had had neither the time nor the opportunity to learn the country’s laws. And his leave was running out. He intended to do something somehow and get out of this sinful city forever.
He sought legal advice. Getting a divorce wasn’t that simple. He’d have to spend not only effort but also time and money. The plaintiff for the divorce would have to be present in court, and witnesses would have to be produced.
‘How long will it take?’ he asked.
‘Nobody can say—it might take up to two years,’ the attorney replied.
It was eventually decided that, to make things easier, it would be Susan who would file for divorce. She would accuse her husband of philandering, which would not only leave her reputation intact, but would also give Marco Polo what he wanted. From his distant workplace he would be unable to take part in the case, and a decree would be issued quite easily.
Before leaving he talked it over with Susan. She wasn’t keen at all, since the stamp of marriage was an advantage in her profession. Taking her hands in his, he said, ‘If I’ve ever loved you do me this favour in return.’
‘But what kind of debauchery will I accuse you of?’ she asked. ‘Whose name will I link with yours?’
He was at his wits’ end. Was there any woman who would agree to be a co-respondent in a divorce case?
Eventually she said, ‘I could ask Lisa. She doesn’t have a reputation to lose, and besides, I’ve done her some favours.’
A few days later she said, ‘I spoke to Lisa. She says she wants to take a look at the person I’m accusing her of having a secret affair with.’
Early one morning, he appeared with Susan at Lisa’s house. Having been up all night, she had barely gone to bed, and woke up when they arrived.
Seeing them, she burst into peals of laughter. ‘My god, it’s the dutiful wife and the adulterous husband!’
Marco Polo explained it all to Lisa. ‘You don’t have to explain,’ she said. ‘I’ve passed one test already—my own divorce proceedings came up in the same court.’
‘Susan will say in court that it was she who introduced me to you,’ he told her.
Lisa laughed in her high-pitched voice. ‘That’s not a lie. It is she who introduced you to me.’
He continued, ‘On a few specific occasions, say, four or five nights—Susan, put down the dates in your notebook—I was spotted here...’
He felt too embarrassed to continue.
‘Spending the night, right?’ Lisa flopped onto her bed, laughing.
‘And I’m going to write a few letters to you, after consulting the lawyer. Please excuse the language—just send them in their envelopes to Susan, they’ll serve as proof. And if you could write a couple to me, nothing like it—we’d be home and dry,’ Marco Polo forced the words out.
‘Anything else?’ asked Lisa, lighting a cigarette.
‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we could be spotted together in a restaurant a couple of times,’ he said with a grimace.
Lisa’s laughter now became grotesque. Rolling on the bed in mirth, she tried to stifle her guffaws in the pillows. Coughing, she said, ‘Acting, all of it. Very interesting.’
He stared at the floor without replying.
‘Fine,’ said Lisa, ‘we can spend some time together this evening.’
‘Many thanks,’ he said. ‘Both my wife and I will forever be indebted to you.’
Lisa sat up and thought about something. Then, in theatrical style, said, ‘O grateful prince among men, would you deign to wait outside this unworthy woman’s chamber for a minute? Your wife, the paragon of virtue, will follow you in a moment.’
He stood outside the room for some time. Ten minutes passed instead of one, after which Susan emerged.
Back home, she said, ‘How much will you be able to spend?’
‘You know about my finances,’ he said.
‘Lisa wants money. Why should she go to all this trouble, she wants to know,’ said Susan.
Marco Polo was silent for a while. Then, very hesitantly, he asked, ‘Could you help...?’
She was furious. ‘You know my views. With you in Karachi and me here, we’re separated anyway. If you want to enjoy the luxury of a divorce in spite of that, it’s you who’ll have to spend the money.’
‘How much does she want?’
‘Two thousand.’
He had never imagined he’d be in such a situation. Sitting in a restaurant in the afternoon, he wrote a few fake letters to Lisa. His stomach turned at the thought of what one had to do for the sake of the law. In the evening he went to Lisa’s place and knocked on the door.
‘Ah, you’re here, darling,’ said Lisa. ‘Just a minute, I’m almost ready.’
For that one long minute, he stood outside the barred door in that dirty lane in Wellesley and cursed himself.
The door opened and Lisa emerged. Marco Polo couldn’t recognize her with all that garish make-up on. She must have used an entire tin of powder—and rouge on top of that. And the cheap perfume made him sick. It really looked like she was going on a group date.
Out on the road, he hailed a taxi. ‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked. ‘Chung Wah?’
‘No, somewhere well known,’ she replied.
‘How about the Grand or Great Eastern?’ he asked.
She shook her head—today her heart craved Shahjahan. The dining hall was probably packed with soldiers, but even so they might be able to squeeze into a table somewhere.
Shahjahan Hotel. Lisa had visited the place once many years ago. It hadn’t seemed real—it looked more like dreamland. They had charged seven or eight rupees for dinner all right, but the ambience was magical. Lisa had stolen a menu card, which she used to read in her bed at night: Pamplemous au Shahjahan, Consommé Ajoblanco, Beckti Allemby, Baron d’vos Roti, Gateau Citron, Cafe Noir and much more!
The blue lights of Shahjahan Hotel transformed night to day. Marco Polo felt funny being a guest—when actors became the audience and watched a play, they probably felt the same way. Lisa wanted a drink, and Marco Polo ordered a Bronx cocktail—gin, Fr
ench vermouth, Italian vermouth and orange juice. Five-and-a-half rupees a drink.
After the cocktail it was straight to whiskey. As she drank, Lisa said, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you like a friend, but I need the money—I’m not as well-off as Susan is. And besides, when she has the money, why shouldn’t she give it? You can be sure I’ll do exactly as you want me to.’
She looked at him and smiled sadly. It was her smile that seemed to give her age away—she was much younger than the dark circles under her eyes suggested.
‘I haven’t yet recovered from the time I broke my leg,’ she continued. ‘It hurts at times—I can’t stand too long at the mike and sing. Do you know what a customer screamed out the other day?’
‘What?’ he had to ask though he was not in the least interested.
‘Lame old dame! These Bengali customers—the dustbin of hell.’
She poured a little more whisky down her throat and said, ‘I’ve decided to carry my birth certificate inside my bodice from now on—if anyone says anything I’ll fling it in his face.’
Marco Polo did not reply. After some time he said, ‘Perhaps you don’t know that I’m not taking a single rupee from Susan for this case.’
‘Silly old fool, you’re still behaving like an idiot. You haven’t learned at all,’ she said, clutching her glass.
That very night he gave her one thousand rupees and said, ‘Whatever little I have left I have to give the attorney. When I get back I’ll send you some more.’
The attorney was paid and Susan’s plea for a divorce from Marco Polo on grounds of adultery was also made in court.
On the day of signing the petition, the attorney said, ‘I must warn you about something. In the petition you have to say that there’s no conspiracy between the two parties for getting a divorce—what we call collusion. If the court suspects something’s been prearranged, that will be dangerous. No one must know that you’ve paid the expenses for the suit on behalf of Susan. From today it’s only Susan who’s our client—we haven’t seen you, we don’t know you. Don’t write to us even by mistake.’
Byron paused again in his storytelling. I had quite forgotten I was sitting in a dingy lane off Eliot Road—it was more like watching a film at Metro cinema.
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