Indian Nocturne (8 page)

I went into the hotel and took a look around. The Mandovi was built in the late fifties and already has an air of being old. Perhaps it was built when the Portuguese were still in Goa. I
don’t know what it was, but the place seemed to have preserved something of the fascist taste of the period. Perhaps it was the big lobby that looked like a station waiting room, or perhaps
it was the impersonal, depressing post-office or civil-service-style furniture. Behind the desk were two employees; one had a striped tunic, and the other a slightly shabby black jacket and an air
of importance about him. I went to the latter and showed him my passport.

‘I’d like a room.’

He consulted the register and nodded.

‘With terrace and river view,’ I specified.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘Are you the manager?’ I asked as he was filling out my form.

‘No, sir,’ he answered. ‘The manager is away, but I am at your service for anything you may need.’

‘I’m looking for Mr Nightingale,’ I said.

‘Mr Nightingale isn’t here any more,’ he said perfectly naturally. ‘He left some time ago.’

‘Do you know where he went?’ I asked, trying to keep sounding natural myself.

‘Normally he goes to Bangkok,’ he said. ‘Mr Nightingale travels a lot, he’s a businessman.’

‘Oh, I know,’ I said, ‘but I thought he might have come back.’

The man raised his eyes from the form and looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ he said politely.

‘I thought there might be someone in the hotel in a position to give me some more precise information. I’m looking for him for an important piece of business. I’ve come from
Europe specially.’ I saw he was confused and took advantage of it. I took out a twenty-dollar bill and slipped it under the passport. ‘Business deals cost money,’ I said.
‘It’s annoying to come a long way for nothing, if you see what I mean.’

He took the note and gave me back my passport. ‘Mr Nightingale comes here very rarely these days,’ he said. He assumed an apologetic expression. ‘You’ll
appreciate,’ he added, ‘ours is a good hotel, but it can’t compete with the luxury hotels.’ Perhaps it was only at that moment that he realised he was saying too much. And
he also realised that I appreciated his saying too much. It happened in a glance, an instant.

‘I have to clinch an urgent deal with Mr Nightingale,’ I said, though with the clear impression that this tap had now been turned off. And it had. ‘I am not concerned with Mr
Nightingale’s business affairs,’ he said politely but firmly. Then he went on in a professional tone: ‘How many days will you be staying, sir?’

‘Just tonight,’ I said.

As he was giving me the key I asked him what time the restaurant opened. He replied promptly that it opened at eight-thirty and that I could order from the menu or go to the buffet which would
be laid on in the middle of the room. ‘The buffet is Indian food only,’ he explained. I thanked him and took the key. When I was already at the lift I turned back and asked innocuously,
‘I imagine Mr Nightingale ate in the hotel when he was staying here.’ He looked at me without really understanding. ‘Of course,’ he replied proudly. ‘Our restaurant is
one of the finest in the city.’

Wine costs a lot in India, it is almost all imported from Europe. To drink wine, even in a good restaurant, confers a certain prestige. My guidebook said the same thing: to
order wine means to bring in the head waiter. I gambled on the wine.

The head waiter was a plump man with dark rings round his eyes and Brylcreemed hair. His pronunciation of French wines was disastrous, but he did all he could to explain the qualities of each
brand. I had the impression he was improvising a little, but I let it go. I made him wait a good while, studying the list. I knew I was breaking the bank, but this would be the last money I spent
to this end: I took a twenty-dollar bill, laid it inside the list, closed it and handed it to him. ‘It’s a difficult choice,’ I said. ‘Bring me the wine Mr Nightingale would
choose.’

He showed no surprise. He strutted off and came back with a bottle of Rosé de Provence. He uncorked it carefully and poured a little for me to try. I tasted it but didn’t give an
opinion. He didn’t say anything either, impassive. I decided that the moment had come to play my card. I drank another sip and said: ‘Mr Nightingale buys only the best, I’ve
heard, what do you think?’

He looked at the bottle with inexpressive eyes. ‘I don’t know, sir, it depends on your tastes,’ he replied calmly.

‘The fact is that my tastes are very demanding too,’ I said. ‘I only buy the best.’ I paused to give more emphasis to what I was saying, and at the same time to make it
sound more confidential. I felt as though I were in a film, and I was almost enjoying the game. The sadness would come later, I knew that. ‘Very refined,’ I finally said, stressing
‘refined’, ‘and in substantial quantities, not just a drop at a time.’

He looked at my glass again without expression and went on with the game. ‘I gather that the wine is not to your liking, sir.’

I was sorry that he had upped the stakes. My finances were running low, but at this point it was worth getting to the bottom of the business. And then I was sure that Father Pimentel would be
able to make me a loan. So I accepted his raise and said: ‘Bring me back the list, please, I’ll see if I can choose something better.’

He opened the list on the table and I slipped in another twenty dollars. Then I pointed to a wine at random and said: ‘Do you think Mr Nightingale would like this?’

‘I’m sure he would,’ he replied attentively.

‘I’d be interested to ask him personally,’ I said. ‘What would you advise?’

‘If I were in sir’s position I would look for a good hotel on the coast,’ he said.

‘There are a lot of hotels on the coast, it’s difficult to find just the right one.’

‘There are only two really good ones,’ he answered. ‘You can’t go wrong: Fort Aguada Beach and the Oberoi. They are both magnificently located with charming beaches, and
palm trees that go right down to the sea. I’m sure you will find both to your liking.’

I got up and went to the buffet. There were a dozen trays on a spirit-warmer. I took some food at random, picking here and there. I stopped by the open window, my plate in my hand. The moon was
already nice and high and reflected in the river. Now the melancholy was setting in, as I had foreseen. I realised I wasn’t hungry. I crossed the room and went to the door. As I was going
out, the head waiter made a slight bow. ‘Could you have the wine brought up to my room,’ I said. ‘I’d prefer to drink it on the terrace.’

‘Excuse the banality of the remark, but I have the impression we’ve met before,’ I said. I lifted my glass and touched it against hers on the bar. The girl
laughed and said: ‘I have the same impression myself. You look strangely like the man I shared a taxi with this morning from Panaji.’

I laughed too. ‘Oh well, it’s no good denying it, I’m the very man.’

‘You know that sharing that cab was an excellent idea?’ she added with an air of practicality. ‘The guidebooks say the taxis are very cheap in India, but it’s not true,
they’d take the shirt off your back.’

‘Let me recommend a reliable guidebook some time,’ I said with authority. ‘Our taxi went outside the city, hence the price trebles. I had hired a car, but I had to give it up
because it was too expensive. In any case, the major advantage for me was to be able to make the trip in such pleasant company.’

‘Stop,’ she said, ‘don’t take advantage of the tropical night and this hotel amongst the palms. I’m susceptible to compliments and I would let myself be chatted up
without offering any resistance. It wouldn’t be fair on your part.’ She lifted her glass too and we laughed again.

The description of magnificence given by the head waiter of the Mandovi erred only by default. The Oberoi was more than magnificent. It was a white, crescent-shaped building which exactly
followed the curve of the beach along which it was built, a bay protected by a promontory to the north and cliffs to the south. The main lounge was a huge open space that continued out onto the
terrace, from which it was separated only by the bar where drinks were served on both sides. On the terrace, tables had been laid for dinner, decorated with flowers and lamps. Hidden away somewhere
in the dark a piano was softly playing Western music. Actually, thinking about it, the whole effect was too much in the line of luxury tourism, but at the time this didn’t bother me. The
first diners were taking their places at the tables on the terrace. I told the waiter to reserve us a corner table in a discreet position and a little away from the light. Then I suggested another
aperitif.

‘As long as it’s not alcoholic,’ the girl said and then went on in her playful tone: ‘I think you’re going a bit fast, what makes you assume I’ll accept your
offer of dinner?’

‘To tell the truth I had no intention of offering dinner,’ I confessed candidly. ‘I’ve almost run out of what few reserves I had and each of us will have to pay our own
way. We’ll simply be dining at the same table; we’re alone, we can keep each other company, it seemed logical to me.’

She said nothing and just drank the fruit-juice the waiter had served her. ‘And then it’s not true we don’t know each other,’ I went on, ‘we got to know each other
this morning.’

‘We haven’t even introduced ourselves,’ she objected.

‘It’s an omission that’s easily enough remedied,’ I said. ‘I’m called Roux.’

‘And I’m called Christine,’ she said. And then added: ‘It’s not an Italian name, is it?’

‘What difference does it make?’

‘Actually, none,’ she admitted. And then sighed: ‘Your technique is truly irresistible.’

I confessed that I had no intention of trying any technique or of chatting her up at all, that I had started off with the idea of a lively dinner with a friendly conversation between equals.
Something like that anyway. She looked at me with a mock-imploring look, and still with the same playful tone protested: ‘Oh no, do chat me up, please, sweet talk me, do, say nice things to
me, I’m terribly in need of that sort of thing.’ I asked her where she’d come from. She looked at the sea and said: ‘From Calcutta. I made a brief stop-over in Pondicherry
for a stupid feature on my compatriots who are still living there, but I worked for a month in Calcutta.’

‘What were you doing in Calcutta?’

‘Photographing wretchedness,’ Christine replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Misery,’ she said, ‘degradation, horror, call it what you like.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘It’s my job,’ she said. ‘They pay me for it.’ She made a gesture that perhaps was meant to indicate resignation to her life’s profession, and then she asked
me: ‘Have you ever been to Calcutta?’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t go,’ said Christine, ‘don’t ever make that mistake.’

‘I imagined that a person like yourself would think that one ought to see as much as possible in life.’

‘No,’ she said with conviction, ‘one ought to see as little as possible.’

The waiter signed to us that our table was ready and led us to the terrace. It was a good corner table as I had asked, near the shrubs round the edge, away from the light. I asked Christine if I
could sit on her left, so as to be able to see the other tables. The waiter was attentive and most discreet, as waiters are in hotels like the Oberoi. Did we want Indian cuisine or a barbecue? He
didn’t want to influence us, of course, but the Calangute fishermen had brought baskets of lobsters today, they were all there at the bottom of the terrace ready to be cooked, where you could
see the cook in his white hat and the shimmer of glowing coals in the open air. Taking advantage of his suggestion, I ran an eye along the terrace, the tables, the diners. The light was fairly
uncertain, there were candles on every table, but the people were distinguishable, with a little concentration.

‘I’ve told you what I do,’ said Christine, ‘so what do you do? If you feel like telling me.’

‘Well, let’s suppose I’m writing a book, for example.’

‘What kind of book?’

‘A book.’

‘A novel?’ asked Christine with a sly look.

‘Something like that.’

‘So you’re a novelist,’ she said with a certain logic.

‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘it’s just an experiment, my job is something else, I look for dead mice.’

‘Come again?’

‘I was joking,’ I said. ‘I scour through old archives, I hunt for old chronicles, things time has swallowed up. It’s my job, I call it dead mice.’

Christine looked at me with tolerance, and perhaps with a touch of disappointment. The waiter came promptly and brought us some dishes full of sauces. He asked us if we’d like wine and we
said yes. The lobster arrived steaming, just the shell singed, the meat spread with melted butter. The sauces were very heavily spiced, it only took a drop to set your mouth on fire. But then the
flames died out at once and the palate filled with exquisite, unusual aromas: I recognised juniper, but the other spices I didn’t know. We carefully spread the sauces on our lobster and
raised our glasses. Christine confessed that she already felt a bit drunk, perhaps I did too, but I wasn’t aware of it.

‘Tell me about your novel, come on,’ she said. ‘I’m intrigued, don’t keep me in suspense.’

‘But it’s not a novel,’ I protested, ‘it’s a bit here and a bit there, there’s not even a real story, just fragments of a story. And then I’m not
writing it, I said
let’s suppose
that I’m writing it.’

Clearly we were both terribly hungry. The lobster shell was already empty and the waiter appeared promptly. We ordered some other things, whatever he wanted to bring. Light things, we specified,
and he nodded knowingly.

‘A few years ago I published a book of photographs,’ said Christine. ‘It was a single sequence on a roll, impeccably printed, just the way I like, with the perforations along
the edges of the roll showing, no captions, just photos. It opened with a photograph that I feel is the most successful of my career, I’ll send you a copy sometime if you give me your
address. It was a blow-up of a detail; the photo showed a young negro, just his head and shoulders, a sports singlet with a sales slogan, an athletic body, an expression of great effort on his
face, his arms raised as if in victory; obviously he’s breasting the tape, in the hundred metres for example.’ She looked at me with a slightly mysterious air, waiting for me to
speak.