A few of the older men and women had heard of Saahitaal but none knew precisely where it was. Eleven days journey some said; others thought only five. None were certain what he would find there but all held it to be a sacred place of some sort, a lake by a clearing high on one of the peaks beyond present sight. The old men with whom he had first conversed had offered to find him a guide but he had declined. To his persistent enquiries about any other climbers also looking for the village so that he might be able to get company on his journey they all replied in the same way: no one had asked the way to Saahitaal in a very long time, no one going that way would seek it from the east, no strangers apart from himself had been to Dilghum in at least nine weeks and the last was an Indian man.
*
In Goa, where their plane had landed, the heat was more humid than it had been up north. Sara McMeckan noticed the difference whenever she left her room to swim or stroll around. Her armpits and back felt sodden within seconds and the sea appeared through a thick white haze. So she preferred to stay in their suite with the air conditioning turned up high. Unlike some of the other resorts on this tiny stretch of coastline, the Randhor-Sinbari at Aguada beach ran to every conceivable luxury. Its high bamboo walls were discreetly electrified at the top and the sharp shine of electric cabling disguised artfully with palm fronts and bougainvillea.
Adam had absconded to a local bar almost as soon as they'd disembarked from their journey: making the most of a fabulous ‘doper-tunity’, he'd called it. Running away from me? was what she'd wanted to say.
Desultorily, Sara switched on the television. She didn’t normally watch the box, preferring an eclectic selection of novels and music, but here she had no library, no cd collection to fall back on. Discovery was screening a 30-minute documentary on 'ethical tourism'. She stared at the screen unblinking for a few moments, then scrabbled for the remote control, mouth working in panic, a sense of déjà vu clutching at her stomach as his face appeared before her, large as life. He was saying something about the vast challenges that lay ahead for India, the manifold ways in which tourism, rightly handled, could be the saving of the country. A scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen identified the speaker as 'Cameron Croft'. When had he given that interview? Why hadn’t she known? God! He looked so well there, chatting to the camera in that breezy way he had. She clutched at her stomach.
Collapsing against her pillows, Sara switched off the set, pressing the remote button until it was imprinted upon her thumb. Then she remembered when he'd been interviewed; recollected his purpose and destination.
Unbidden, images of the Himalayas flashed across her mind, the thrilling magnificence of the outer scenery and inner anticipation, the isolation, the disquiet, and finally the terror. With a shudder, she buried her face in chill linen and gave herself over to unquenchable weeping.
Karmel too woke weeping on the sixth night of his climb. Stretching out blinded fingers, he touched smooth canvas and rope. His hand fell to the ground beside him and he turned on his side, curling around the lumpy earth beneath his bag.
He was no good at this. The darkness intimidated him and the isolation was becoming an affliction, but that was not what had brought tears. Rather, some bizarre dream of privation and loss had carried him back to a boyhood usually too terrible to recall and, unable to switch on a radio or dispel the dream in city ways, he was forced to dwell on it. The Manek Foundation for Boys always acted like a dead star on his imagination; the absence of light inside his tent seemed a fitting mantle for thoughts of that era.
Nine years of bowel-gripping sickness caused by infected food, fighting off rape by older boys, by assistants, watching younger boys stripped and molested, finding their poor crushed bodies when they couldn't take it any more – and still deciding to go on, that it might be worth it some day, that one could only get stronger, that God might exist – these years did not show on Karmel's face, nor in his eyes or around his mouth. The wounds on his scalp had healed long ago; abundant hair served to keep the scars from prying eyes and few were allowed close enough to see the other mutilations.
Throwing off his bag and unzipping the flap, Karmel crawled out of the tent and gazed into the darkness around him. His watch made it twenty to four and daylight was just beyond the horizon, even though he could see neither. Working by touch, he began to pack up his things.
By eleven a.m. he had descended several kilometres into another wooded valley. Two days ago the whole mission was beginning to seem utterly ridiculous. The problem was, he had not seemed any closer to reaching Saahitaal than he had been in Dilghum. Passing shepherds who stopped to chat or share their tea with him all said the same thing, 'much easier to reach from the north-west' or 'bear west'. He felt as if he had climbed and descended thirty hills, although it was more like seven.
It took him all of the second day finding his way out of a strange tropical wood that contained sighing bamboo and sharp thorny plants bearing an odd resemblance to hedgehogs.
On the fourth night he had slept in a shepherd village, gratefully sharing the food and companionship offered, for his dehydrated noodles were beginning to choke him.
Unable to accept that the boss had dispatched him, alone, instead of a team of men familiar with the hills, he had been considering fleeing back to Delhi until the previous day when he had finally met a group of travellers returning from a climb.
Affable and young, all of them had seemed filled with the joy of the climate and had not been looking forward to rejoining their various colleges on their return to the plains. Their enthusiasm for the sights and sounds of the hills had gradually put him in a more positive frame of mind and he had continued walking with renewed vigour.
He recalled now the conversation he'd had with their leader who not only had heard of Saahitaal but had also, or so he claimed, been very close to it on a previous climb.
'But why are you approaching it in this direction?' The young man had wanted to know. 'The river Saahi is much easier to follow as a guide and you could have gone to Malundi, in the Northwest, and reached it in less than two days. Someone gave you very bad directions.'
'Too late for regrets now', Karmel had murmured, wishing he had been given more time to prepare whilst in Delhi; but the young enthusiast seemed not to hear him and continued gossiping.
'It's funny that you should be asking about Saahitaal, yaar, it's not a very popular destination because so few people go that far west. It's not considered to be as beautiful during the climb although the place itself is quite special. Now, this is strange, you could say a coincidence, but a month ago when I passed by Malundi, I was told that some other climber, a woman, they described, had also been asking directions. Another of your people maybe? What is it you belong to? Department of Horticulture? Soil and irrigation?' He paused to let Karmel answer but receiving only a shrug continued unperturbed, 'No! No! She was foreign I remember! Phirung. Not that it matters to people round here. We're all like foreigners to them!'
Before the group left him on their return journey, Karmel scribbled a note to Hàrélal asking him to check a point in the foreigners' stories by ringing the Immigration Department: when exactly had they entered India? – and to get signed statements from them just in case the whole thing were to blow up in some way. He had a hunch, he wrote, but the boss as not to worry. He had met climbers who confirmed that at least one of the youngsters had been looking for Saahitaal but at a later date than they'd suggested and in a different part of the territory; so perhaps these were a different set of foreigners.
Addressing the letter hastily he enclosed it in the envelope. The young leader promised to post it for him.
Now, as he walked, Karmel began to recognise aspects of the landscape that had been described to him. A feeling of euphoria chased away his fatigue and eased the grasp of his nightmare.
He climbed faster, stopping seldom and passing many splashing streams. The ground became moister and he found himself examining the soil as if it really were his occ
upation and mission to do so. For some hours he had noticed that there were no birds of any description, nor had he seen any animals save sheep or goats and the occasional wild-looking dog; plants too had been getting scarcer as the land turned more rocky and barren. Then, ascending still further, he came upon a ridge from which he looked down into a valley that was once more green with foliage and resounded with the rush of fast moving water, its tiered sides looking, to his unaccustomed eyes, as if they had been meticulously cultivated.
Anticipation mounting, he scrambled downwards, then pressed on along the bank of the stream, stumbling sometimes when there seemed no place to tread and almost falling into the roaring water. All the pains of the journey, all the uncertainty of the search had become a goad to his newly born ambition: he would find the place, soon; he would uncover the whole rotten mess that had sent those two harmless tourists into such paroxysms of fear; he would return successful to his department and to his boss.
He did not speak about promotion because he was not that kind of man: to solve a puzzle was in itself a fulfilment that gave him satisfaction. He did not think about any other kind of reward because he never expected one: he was Hàrélal's ideal assistant.
It was nearly six o'clock. Soon the sun would be sinking somewhere behind all the foliage and he would have to stop for the night.
The sun had long disappeared amidst the Delhi smog; Antonio Sinbari was being briefed by his assistants before an informal dinner meeting with the Director of the Chamber of Commerce at which Mohanta Sen, a leading financier from Dhaka, would also be present. The evening was no cooler than any of the others in July and Sinbari thought longingly of home where his air conditioner purred discreetly; he had his own generator there and the repeated power failures did not touch him.
Sadrettin, alert to changes in his boss’s mood, finished his report abruptly. Sinbari cleared his throat.
'We are behind on three of the projects we started last January. I understand that there has been no break in the investigation at Bhugitala and that Ma Randhor is not releasing the certificate necessary for us to complete the project there. I'm also aware that we are now in need of a new site, prime but unused land. Preferably somewhere cool.'
He spoke sternly, dabbing at his neck. No one responded. Where would they find 'unused' land in a prime location unless they broke government directives? Rimi Charoot, a middle-aged woman with incredible kohl-defined eyes, broke the silence.
'Could we not create a location as you were suggesting last year, Mr Sinbari? If we are aiming for a clientele that isn't Indian then we can afford to be a bit more daring. What happened to that plan of yours to look into the foothills of Garhwal or Himachal or even higher up, near the meadows? Both desperately poor areas, as you put it, and in need of investment. Surely they'd be only too glad to invite us . . .?' She shut her mouth with a snap as Sadrettin caught her eye. His expression was not unpleasant but there was something about his stare that chilled her. Sinbari was looking down at his diary and missed the interchange of glances amongst his staff.
'Rimi, a good idea. Put it in writing for us, will you, with relevant addresses and fax Taylor; tell him to join us next week. I expect Nelson Cornell to arrive any day now. He will brief you on legal aspects. Right, that is all for the moment.'
Sadrettin too issued quick instructions and motioned the rest of the group towards the door as Sinbari began to pour himself a Scotch. He had time for a quick drink before the meeting and he knew he could not afford to be late, but there was still one person he wished to speak to. He asked Sadrettin to make the connection for him and when Hàrélal came on the line he switched off the speaker, pressed record on his machine and lifted the receiver.
'Hàrélal, dear friend, any luck with that little case I sent you?' Sinbari listened for a few minutes as the man on the other end of the wires shuffled paper. His eyes crinkled and sparked with some hidden pleasure. He took a gulp of Scotch. There had obviously been no development except this fool being sent into the hills. He'd probably never find the place anyway, if the directions those two had given were as bad as he thought they were.
So far so good. Now to apply the pressure a little.
'I was speaking to the Home Minister on Monday. Yes, you know him too, Acting Chief Superintendent, very good. Anyhow, he assured me that crime in India is taken as seriously as it is in every civilised country. You are aware, are you not that I may well have to mention something to him if this little debacle isn't handled properly?' When he replaced the receiver he raised his eyes towards the younger man who coughed but didn't smile.
'They've sent one of their best men, apparently; quite a Poirot, his boss was keen to assure us. He must be thinking what a wonderful excuse for a getaway … body in the hills, chances of foreign exposure . . .. So, our drama unfolds.' He spoke, mimicking Hàrélal's twangy drawl. Then, searching his assistant’s inscrutable face, in his own brusque accent: 'These people! Now what's on your mind?'
'You may well be late, sir.'
He raised his eyebrows. Extraordinary how the young man never got straight to the point. Perhaps that was why he’d employed him. As a youth he’d heard enough pious drivel to last a life time. It wouldn’t do to have a vocal moraliser on his staff. But a secretly honourable assistant – especially one who owed him loyalty… that could be amusing!
As Sinbari left the office, Sadrettin set all the chairs to rights and tidied away the technology. He wondered if he should have spoken up, aired his doubts. For rather than worrying that his boss would be late, he was actually wondering what the detective up in the Himalayas might find and whether Antonio Sinbari would win whatever malicious game he was playing with the Acting Chief of Delhi's Police.
4
Made restless by the absence of his trusty agent Kailash Karmel, and the escalating cost of the clandestine surveillance operation he was mounting to protect his daughter's honour, Hàrélal tossed the dossier of information on the girl's whereabouts onto a settee in the drawing-room of his residence and called for tea. A gnarled little maid brought him a tray with four sugarless rice patties in a bowl; the tea had an acrid peppery tang and he sipped it without enjoyment.
The day's major newspapers yielded even less satisfaction: kidnappings and candlelit orchestras for his brethren, the rich, followed by train-crashes, Hindi film flops and price-rises for the poor: Hàrélal had called himself a communist when he was a young man, way back before daddy had died and mummy had bought him his first position in the police bureaucracy. Delhi news was all reassuringly familiar. When his eyes landed on an article detailing the rape and mutilation of two village men by some junior officers with the DPF, he decided that it was time to bin the papers.
For reasons that he could not fathom, he thought again of his deputy, sitting somewhere in the Himalayan mountains of Garhwal, and wondered why he had sent him away. Was he allowing himself to be influenced by the man's unpopularity with his fellow officers? And why was it that Karmel was so ostracised by his peers? Could it be that his unorthodox intelligence and his complicated compassion for the poor of the city were resented by the other detectives? Or was their animal hostility more to do with Karmel's lack of wealth, his unknown but clearly backward caste origins, however masked and disguised by learning, good looks and the friendship of a man like himself? Detectives like Surinder Bokada openly accused Kailash of being an impostor, of having no claim other than the boss's liking, and maybe some quota-shota bullshit to the coveted post of senior investigative officer. Now, having dispatched Kailash to the mountains, Hàrélal had become prey to a kind of fawning speculation from the lower ranks that at once pleased and sickened him.
Bokada and his colleagues viewed Karmel's absence as a banishment and some were whispering that it should be made permanent. The rumour that Hàrélal was soon to be relieved of his title 'Acting' and confirmed as 'Chief Superintendent' of the Delhi Police-force added venom to Karmel's detractors. Everyone was eager to assist the new Chief.
Hàrélal shrank when he fathomed the depths of the hatred that Kailash's colleagues evinced towards him; he felt grateful that he himself was held in high esteem; but he dismissed any thoughts of demoting Kailash and concentrated on making a list of things for him to handle when he got back: interview suspects Sushila and Sorhan in the Judge corruption case; finish report on the Dahimat bus-bomb for Ministersaheb; brief constables about new fingerprint database. Sending Kailash away had been a tactical blunder brought about by the subtle bullying of Antonio Sinbari and his anxiety about the possibility of being made Chief: he had wanted the affair with the tourists handled smoothly and without gossip; now he wished that he had taken the tycoon less seriously and kept Kailash by his side, handing over the investigation to the local cops. He needed Kailash's advice more than he needed the name and history of some unidentified corpse up in the hills. The cynic inside him kept repeating that dozens of bodies turned up all over rural India and got buried or burnt without a second glance. Why was Sinbari's case worth such dedicated attention?
Hàrélal could hear his wife chanting religious songs from another room. He began to feel very discontented. Discontentment led him towards anger.
Kailash should have refused the assignment! In justice, he had tried to, but only feebly, showing little understanding of his boss's character. He should not have underestimated his own contribution to the work of the department. Such modesty was never productive; it always caused further trouble: where was the young man now? And why hadn't he been in touch?
Unaware of the anxieties churning in Hàrélal's breast, Karmel reached his lake early on the morning of his seventh day. Having followed a narrow path by the river until it was too dark to walk even with a flashlight, he had climbed upwards until he found land that was not too damp to sleep on, and proceeded to have his most restless night yet: on the verge of a destination that had seemed so straightforward back in the official heat of departmental headquarters and had cost him so much effort, he could not switch off his mind and pondered the story he had been told – or was it spun? – by the two young foreigners.
Truth Lake Page 3
