Indian Nocturne (4 page)

‘Is it a pilgrimage?’ he asked.

I said no. Or rather, yes, but not in the religious sense of the word. If anything, it was a private journey, how could I put it, I was only looking for clues.

‘You’re a Catholic, I suppose,’ said my companion.

‘All Europeans are Catholics, in a way,’ I said. ‘Or Christians anyway, which is practically the same thing.’

The man repeated the adverb I’d used as if he were savouring it. His English was very elegant, with little pauses and the conjunctions slightly drawled and hesitant, the way people speak
in certain universities I realised. ‘Practically . . . Actually,’ he said, ‘what strange words. I heard them so many times in England, you Europeans often use these words.’
He paused a moment longer than usual, but I was aware that he hadn’t finished what he was saying. ‘I never managed to establish whether out of pessimism or optimism,’ he went on.
‘What do you think?’

I asked him if he could explain himself better.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s difficult to explain more clearly. Yes, sometimes I ask myself if it’s a word which indicates arrogance, or whether on the contrary it merely
signifies cynicism. And a great deal of fear as well, perhaps. You follow me?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It isn’t that simple. But perhaps the word “practically” means practically nothing.’

My companion laughed. It was the first time he had laughed. ‘You are very clever,’ he said, ‘you got the better of me and at the same time you proved me right,
practically.’

I laughed too, and then said at once: ‘However, in my case it is practically fear.’

We fell silent for a while, then my companion asked if he could smoke. He rummaged in a bag he had near the bed and the room filled with the aroma of one of those small, scented Indian
cigarettes made from a single leaf of tobacco.

‘I read the gospels once,’ he said. ‘It’s a very strange book.’

‘Only strange?’ I asked.

He hesitated. ‘Full of arrogance too,’ he said. ‘No offence meant you understand.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t quite see what you mean,’ I said.

‘I was referring to Christ,’ he said.

The station clock struck half-past midnight. I felt sleep getting the better of me. From the park beyond the platforms came the cawing of crows. ‘Varanasi is Benares,’ I said.
‘It’s a holy city. Are you going on a pilgrimage too?’

My companion stubbed out his cigarette and coughed lightly. ‘I’m going there to die,’ he said, ‘I have only a few days left to live.’ He arranged his cushion under
his head. ‘But perhaps it would be wise to sleep,’ he went on. ‘We don’t have many hours to rest – my train leaves at five.’

‘Mine leaves just a little later,’ I said.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said, ‘the attendant will come and wake you up in time. I don’t suppose we shall have occasion to see each other again in the form in which we
meet today, these present suitcases of ours. I wish you a pleasant journey.’

‘A pleasant journey to you too,’ I answered.

My guidebook maintained that the best restaurant in Madras was the Mysore Restaurant in the Coromandel, and I was most curious to check it out. In the boutique on the ground
floor I bought a white shirt, Indian style, and a pair of smart trousers. I went up to my room and took a long bath to wash away the grime of the journey. The rooms in the Coromandel are furnished
in imitation colonial style, but in good taste. My room was at the back of the building and looked out over a yellowish clearing surrounded by wild vegetation. It was a huge room, with two large
beds covered with two quite beautiful counterpanes. At the far end, near the window, was a writing table with a central drawer and then three drawers at each side. It was by pure chance that I
chose the bottom drawer on the right to put my papers in.

I ended up going down much later than I would have liked, but in any case the Mysore stayed open till midnight. The restaurant had French windows opening onto the swimming pool and small round
tables in booths of green-lacquered bamboo. The lights on the tables had blue shades and there was a great deal of atmosphere. A musician on a red-upholstered dais entertained the diners with some
very discreet music. The waiter led me through the tables and was most helpful when it came to advising me what to eat. I treated myself to three dishes and drank fresh mango juice. The customers
were almost all Indians, but at the table nearest mine were two Englishmen who had a professional look about them and talked about Dravidian art. They kept up a very pretentious, knowledgeable
conversation, and for the duration of my meal I amused myself by checking in my guidebook to see if the information they were giving each other was correct. Occasionally one of them got a date
wrong, but the other didn’t seem to notice. Conversations you overhear by chance are curious: I would have said they were old university colleagues, and only when they agreed not to take
tomorrow’s flight for Colombo did I realise that they had only met that day. Going out I was tempted to stop in the English Bar in the lobby, but then I reflected that my tiredness had no
need of alcoholic assistance and I went up to my room.

When the telephone rang I was cleaning my teeth. For a moment I thought it might be the Theosophical Society, since they had promised they would confirm by phone, but moving to pick it up I
rejected that hypothesis, given the time. Then it crossed my mind that before dinner I had mentioned in reception that one of the bathroom taps wasn’t working properly. And in fact it was
reception. ‘Excuse me, sir, there’s a lady who wishes to speak to you.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ I answered with my toothbrush between my teeth.

‘There’s a lady who wishes to speak to you,’ the receptionist repeated. I heard the click of a switch and a low, firm female voice said: ‘I am the person who had your
room before you, I’ve absolutely got to speak to you. I’m in the lobby.’

‘If you give me five minutes I’ll meet you in the English Bar,’ I said. ‘It should still be open.’

‘I’d prefer to come up myself,’ she said, without giving me time to reply, ‘it’s a matter of the utmost importance.’

When she knocked I had scarcely finished getting dressed again. I told her the door was unlocked and she opened it, stopping a moment in the doorway to look at me. The light in
the corridor was dim. All I could see was that she was tall and wore a silk scarf round her shoulders. She came in, closing the door after her. I was sitting on an armchair in the full light and I
got up. I didn’t say anything, waiting. And in fact it was she who spoke first. She spoke without advancing into the room, in the same low, firm voice she’d had on the telephone.
‘Please forgive this intrusion. You must think me incredibly rude – unfortunately there are circumstances when one can hardly be otherwise.’

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘India is mysterious by definition, but puzzles are not my forte. Spare me any pointless effort.’

She looked at me with a show of surprise. ‘It’s simply that I left some things that belong to me in the room,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ve come to get them.’

‘I thought you’d be back,’ I said, ‘but frankly I didn’t expect you so soon, or rather, so late.’

The woman watched me with increasing amazement. ‘What do you mean?’ she muttered.

‘That you are a thief,’ I said.

The woman looked toward the window and took the silk scarf from her shoulders. She was beautiful, I thought, unless perhaps it was the light filtered through the lampshade that gave her face a
distant, aristocratic look. She wasn’t so young any more yet her body was very graceful.

‘You are very categoric,’ she said. She passed a hand across her face, as if wanting to brush away her tiredness, or a thought. Her shoulders trembled in a brief shiver. ‘What
does it mean, to steal?’ she asked.

The silence fell between us and I caught the exasperating sound of the dripping tap. ‘I called before dinner,’ I said, ‘and they assured me they’d fix it right away.
It’s a noise I can’t stand; I’m afraid it won’t help me to get to sleep.’

She smiled. She was leaning on the rattan chest of drawers, an arm hanging down her side as though she were very tired. ‘I think you’ll have to get used to it,’ she said.
‘I was here a week and I asked them to fix it dozens of times, then I gave up.’ She paused a moment. ‘Are you French?’

‘No,’ I answered.

She looked at me with a defeated air. ‘I came in a taxi from Madurai,’ she said. ‘I’ve been travelling all day.’ She wiped her forehead with her silk scarf as if it
were a handkerchief. For a moment her face took on what looked like a desperate expression. ‘India is horrible,’ she said, ‘and the roads are hell.’

‘Madurai is a very long way,’ I came back. ‘Why Madurai?’

‘I was going to Trivandrum, then from there I would have gone to Colombo.’

‘But Madras has a flight to Colombo too,’ I objected.

‘I didn’t want to take that one,’ she said. ‘I had my reasons. It won’t be difficult for you to work them out.’ She made a tired gesture. ‘Anyhow,
I’ll have missed it by now.’

She gave me a questioning look and I said: ‘It’s all there where you left it in the bottom drawer on the right.’

The writing table was behind her; it was made of bamboo with brass corners and had a large mirror above in which I could see the reflection of her naked shoulders. She opened the drawer and took
the bundles of documents held together by an elastic band.

‘It’s too stupid,’ she said. ‘One does something like this and then forgets everything in a drawer. I kept it in the hotel safe for a week and then I left it here while I
was packing.’

She looked at me as if waiting for me to agree.

‘Yes, it is pretty stupid,’ I said. ‘The transfer of all that money was an operation of high-class fraud, and then you go and make such a dumb mistake.’

‘Perhaps I was too nervous,’ she said.

‘Or too busy getting revenge,’ I added. ‘Your letter was remarkable, a ferocious vendetta, and he can’t do anything about it, if you make it in time. It’s just a
question of time.’

Her eyes flickered, looking at me in the mirror. Then she turned suddenly, quivering, her neck tense. ‘You read my letter as well!’ she exclaimed with contempt.

‘I even copied part of it out,’ I said.

She looked at me with amazement, or with fear perhaps. ‘Copied it,’ she muttered. ‘Why?’

‘Only the last part,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. And anyway, I don’t even know who it was to. All I understood was that he’s a man who must
have made you suffer a great deal.’

‘He was too rich,’ she said. ‘He thought he could buy everything, people included.’ Then she made a nervous gesture, indicating herself, and I understood.

‘Listen, I think I see more or less how it was. You didn’t exist for years, you were always just an empty name, until one day you decided to give a reality to the name. And that
reality is you. But I know only the name you signed with; it’s a very common name and I have no desire to know anything else.’

‘Right,’ she said, ‘the world is full of Margarets.’

She moved away from the writing table and went to sit on the stool by the dressing table. She put her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. She sat a long time like that, without saying
anything, hiding her face.

‘What do you plan to do?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘I’m very frightened. I must get to that bank in Colombo tomorrow, otherwise all that money’s going to go down the
drain.’

‘Listen a moment,’ I said, ‘it’s late. You can’t go to Trivandrum now, and anyway you wouldn’t get there in time for the plane tomorrow. Tomorrow morning
there’s a plane for Colombo from here; you’re lucky because if you turn up early you’ll get a seat, and according to the register you’ve already left the hotel.’

She looked at me as if she didn’t understand. She looked at me a long time, intensely, weighing me up.

‘As far as I’m concerned you really have gone,’ I added, ‘and there are two comfortable beds in this room.’

She seemed to relax. She crossed her legs and sketched a smile. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I feel sympathetic toward people on the run. And then, I stole something from you too.’

‘I left my case at reception,’ she said.

‘Perhaps it would be wise to leave it there and pick it up tomorrow morning. I can lend you some pyjamas: we are almost the same size.’

She laughed. ‘That only leaves the problem of the tap,’ she said.

I laughed too. ‘But you’re used to it by now, I gather. The problem is all mine.’

‘
Le corps humain pourrait bien n’être qu’une apparence
,’ he said. ‘
Il cache notre réalité, il
s’épaissit sur notre lumière ou sur notre ombre.
’

He raised his hand and made a vague gesture. He was wearing a large white tunic and the sleeve rose and fell on his thin wrist. ‘Oh, but that isn’t theosophy. Victor Hugo,
Les
Travailleurs de la Mer
.’ He smiled and poured me something to drink. He raised his glass full of water as if making a toast.

To what? I thought. And then I lifted my glass too and said: ‘To light and shadow.’

He smiled again. ‘Please do excuse me for this very frugal meal,’ he said, ‘but it was the only way to talk without being too hurried after your brief afternoon visit.
I’m sorry that my prior engagements didn’t allow me to receive you at greater leisure.’

‘It’s a privilege,’ I said. ‘You are very kind, I would never have dared hope so much.’

‘We rarely receive outside visitors in this centre,’ he went on in his vaguely apologetic tone. ‘But from what I gather it seems that you are not simply a curious
outsider.’

I realised that after my rather mysterious note, my telephone calls, the afternoon visit in which I had referred only to a ‘missing person’, I could hardly carry on in this cryptic
and alarmist way. I would have to explain myself clearly, precisely. But what did I have to ask, after all? Only a remote piece of information, a hypothetical clue: a possible link to bring me
closer to Xavier.