Muriel didn’t join in. She stared out the window. They drove through the Oberoi gates, past emerald lawns, their sprinklers rainbows in the sunlight, past palm trees. Muriel muttered something under her breath.
Madge paid. Even her rupee notes were crisp, unlike the oily rags most people had scrumpled up in their purses. A handsome doorman in a braided uniform bowed as they entered.
“How different from our own dear Jimmy,” whispered Madge.
Muriel, however, seemed distracted. She wandered across the lobby, looking around as if she had made arrangements to meet someone. The lobby was a vast, marble place and pleasantly cool. Evelyn could feel the powder drying on her face. Behind them a group of package tourists arrived—big men in shorts, maybe Germans. A hostess greeted them: a graceful girl in a sky-blue sari. She bowed and placed her hands together. Another young beauty put garlands around their necks and painted a blob of crimson on their foreheads. Muriel stood there, scanning their faces.
“This way to the shoe shop,” said Madge, leading Evelyn toward the arcade. A function board displayed names: Welcome to Glaxo International, Krishna Room 4th Floor … Jayanti Wedding Party, Skyline Room … Evelyn marveled at the sophistication of the place—why, they could be in Houston or somewhere. It seemed a world away from their ramshackle hotel and its scruffy little bazaar. She felt a wave of loyalty toward The Marigold.
Just then a man she recognized appeared. He was hurrying across the lobby, talking on a mobile phone.
“Hallo, Sonny!” called Madge.
He finished his conversation, came over and vigorously shook their hands. “Mrs. Rheinhart, Mrs. Greenslade! Ah, and Mrs. Donnelly!”
Now Evelyn remembered: Sonny ran the retirement company. He was restless; his eyes flickered around as he talked like the maître d’ of a restaurant, checking that the customers were being served.
“Everything is okay, ladies?”
“Well, nobody’s died yet,” drawled Madge. “But I wish you’d get us some more men. I mean we might be sad old bags, but—honestly, Norman and Graham! We’re not that desperate.”
“What can I do, madam?” Sonny raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “You are the powerful sex, you shall outlive us all. We are just the poor males of the species.”
“Don’t talk such tosh,” said Madge. “This is bloody India.”
“Yes, but behind every Indian man there is his mother.” Sonny’s voice throbbed with emotion. “He is the mere puppet, she is pulling the strings.”
“Rubbish,” said Madge. “Oh well, I’ll just have to find myself a nice rich maharaja.” She looked at Evelyn’s startled face. “Oh I loved my husband to bits, sweetie, but he’s gone now. I don’t want to die alone.”
“You’ve got us,” said Evelyn.
There was a silence. Madge gave her a small smile.
“You are not happy in your retirement home?” asked Sonny.
“I prefer to think of it as a hotel,” said Madge. “The word ‘hotel’ still has possibilities.”
Evelyn was aware of music playing. It emanated from a lady harpist, stationed beside a potted palm. The loudspeaker asked a Mr. Willoughby to come to Reception.
Sonny took his leave. After he had gone, Evelyn said: “You seem to know him quite well.”
“He and Arnold, they did business together in London,” replied Madge. “That’s how I heard about this place. Sonny owns a lot of property here—that hideous place opposite our hotel, call centers, high-tech stuff. He knows everybody.”
“That true?” Muriel asked, her voice sharp.
“Most of them are his relations. But that’s India for you.”
Muriel turned away and hurried after Sonny. Evelyn watched her waylay him and ask him something. He shook his head, or maybe it was one of those waggles. She still hadn’t got the hang of them yet.
“Come on,” said Madge. “Let’s hit those shops.”
Sonny hurried outside to where a driver waited beside a white Mercedes. Muriel went up to the reception desk. She stood there, a stocky figure in her floral dress, talking to the clerk. Her behavior was really rather odd.
“What’s Muriel doing?” asked Evelyn.
Madge followed her gaze. “Maybe she wants an upgrade,” she laughed.
By the time they returned, the afternoon shadows had lengthened. After the chaos of the streets, The Marigold felt like home; for the first time Evelyn felt it might be possible to make a life for herself here, with her new friends.
Maybe it was something to do with the light. In India this time of day was very beautiful; for some reason they called it cow hour. It reminded her of the long, golden afternoon of her childhood, an afternoon that never seemed to end, when birdsong echoed and her mother was calling her to come in to bed, a call she pretended not to hear. Maybe it had to do with the freedom she felt, bare-legged, wearing her new sandals.
In the hotel somebody was playing the piano. Whoever it was played hesitantly, sometimes missing the note.
“Who is Sylvia? What is she—”
Evelyn herself used to sing it.
“That all our swains commend her …”
On the veranda stooped Eithne Pomeroy, in her yellow dress. She was putting out a saucer of milk for the cat she had befriended. Graham Turner, the ageing bachelor, had come to a standstill in front of the aviary. Evelyn looked at his back view—the thinning hair, the sloping shoulders. He often stood for long periods, lost in thought.
“Is she kind, as she is fair?
“For beauty lives with kindness …”
Evelyn hummed the tune. Actually, she had never believed this bit. Cecilia Shaw, at school, had the looks of an angel but she had made Evelyn’s life a misery with her bullying. Suddenly, Evelyn was seized with fury. No feelings since then—not for her husband or her children—were as fierce as that tumult of half a century ago, caused by someone who might now be dead.
“Come on,” said Madge, “drinkipoos.”
She led Evelyn to the veranda and ordered gin and tonics, like a husband. This was the best moment of the day. Evelyn had never been a drinker, but hotel life had liberated her. This wasn’t home; nor was it the stuffy prison of Leaside. The word “hotel” still has possibilities.
“Then to Sylvia, let us sing …”
The piano was out of tune, of course. Whoever was playing must have learned it as a child. Evelyn had learned it too. She had squirmed on the piano stool, longing to escape into the green light of the garden.
Under the table Evelyn pushed the sandal off her foot; it was already rubbing. Once she had stayed out all day, running wild, crashing through the undergrowth. Now she was exhausted by a taxi ride. Once she ran through the grass, her shadow following her as the sun sank. Now she was in a country where the shadow cast by the sweeper was so polluting that a higher-caste Hindu had to disinfect it. Mr. Cowasjee had told her that. How could such kind people be so terribly cruel? It was as bad as Cecilia, holding her nose when Evelyn walked past. Yet the sweeper, the lowest of the low, seemed unperturbed. To him, perhaps, this life was as insubstantial as his own shadow.
Evelyn watched the mali. He walked slowly across the lawn, stooping to pick up Norman’s cigarette butts. Cecilia, the bully, was the only girl at school who smoked. It seemed thrillingly wicked. She developed, too, before anyone else. Evelyn and her friends, inspecting their flat chests, used to chant: “I must, I must, I must increase my bust.” Would they ever become women? Would anyone, ever, want to hold them in their arms?
With an effort, the mali straightened up. His back was as stiff as her own. What had happened to Cecilia? She had probably had scores of lovers; Catholic girls were known to be fast. Evelyn had only had one: her husband.
The drinks arrived. Madge signed the chit and sat down. Evelyn was flattered that the glamorous Madge had singled her out. It was just like school, all over again, but freed from the pain.
“Why did you come here?” asked Evelyn.
“Because I w
as bored out of my mind,” replied Madge. “Ever been to Stanmore?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“Well, then.” Madge lit a cigarette. “I wanted to have one last go at it.”
“Indians seem to have a lot of goes,” said Evelyn.
“I don’t think one should give up. Someone told Clark Gable that he was bad in bed. He said: ‘That’s why I have to keep practicing.’ ”
Startled, Evelyn laughed. She smelled dinner cooking. “I liked what you said about hotels,” she said. “I don’t fancy the word retirement either.”
Madge fished out a slice of lime from her drink with her fingernail. Sucking it, she gazed at the residents sitting at their tables. “Actually, sweetie, it’s more like a waiting room. Just don’t look at the departure board.”
There was a silence. Deep in the hotel, the piano-playing stopped. Evelyn wished Madge hadn’t said that.
She thought: We’ve only got each other now. We mustn’t say upsetting things, doesn’t Madge realize that? She tried to think of something else. She pointed to the mali, on the far side of the lawn. He was dropping the cigarette butts into the hem of his dhoti and tucking it around his waist.
“They do the most menial jobs, don’t they? I mean, look at the gardener. Yet they’re not like the British; they don’t seem to mind. It must be their religion.”
“What do you mean?” asked Madge.
“Picking up Norman’s butts.”
Madge laughed. “He smokes them, silly. I’ve seen him round the back.”
Evelyn paused. “Oh.” She thought: How can I work everything out, all on my own? She remembered how Hugh used to explain things in the newspaper. How he lent her his glasses. How he whipped the parking ticket out of her hand.
Just then the mali turned. They followed his gaze. An auto-rickshaw was driving through the gates. It puttered up to the front door, emitting clouds of exhaust smoke. Douglas and Jean Ainslie extricated themselves from its backseat.
Something was wrong. They hurried up to Mr. Cowasjee, who was handing out dinner menus.
“There’s been a little accident,” said Douglas. He supported his wife up the steps. “Jean’s been bitten by a monkey.”
There was a general stir. “We were at the Bull Temple,” said Jean.
“She was feeding it a banana,” said Douglas.
“It’s here.” Jean looked pale. She showed the manager her hand. “I think I should see the nurse.”
“Tetanus shot,” said Douglas.
“Come with me, madam. I will telephone for the doctor.” Mr. Cowasjee snapped his fingers. “Jimmy, ring doctor-sahib. Jaldi, jaldi!”
“But surely your wife—” began Douglas.
“My wife cannot administer an injection.”
“But—”
“Dr. Rama is a tip-top doctor, sir,” said Mr. Cowasjee. “He’ll be here in a trice.”
They went indoors.
Muriel got to her feet and hurried over. “See?” she said. “See what happened?”
“What?” asked Evelyn.
Muriel’s eyes glittered. “See?” She pointed to Madge. “She wanted something to happen to her, to Mrs. Ainslie, and it did.”
How strangely Muriel was behaving! Evelyn wondered if she was quite right in the head. But then she herself sometimes felt the sense of things slipping from her grasp.
And at dinner she forgot all about it. They were tucking into their soup (cream of tomato) when suddenly the conversation, never that lively, faded away.
A man was crossing the dining room. He was tall, with an abundant head of black hair that shone in the strip light. He wore a blue shirt and carried a leather case. Evelyn recognized him from the photograph. Dr. Rama was even more dazzling, however, in real life; more dazzling, even, than Omar Sharif in his prime. Accompanied by the manager he strode past the tables, smiling at the diners, and disappeared down the corridor in the direction of the Ainslies’ room.
There was a hush, then a fluttering sound, like hens settling down.
“Blimey,” said Madge. “He can give me an internal examination any day.”
Somebody clapped their hands together. Evelyn thought it was applause. But it was just Norman, squashing a mosquito. “Got the bugger!” he said, wiping his hand on his trousers.
It had been a day packed with incident—a pedicure, new red sandals, a monkey bite, a handsome doctor. There had been many more images, however, that crowded Evelyn’s head—a man washing his ox beside the petrol pump; a boy, balancing a tray of tea glasses, weaving through the traffic … more than this, much more. The street outside teemed with life; she didn’t really have to go anywhere at all. What a change it made from her village back home, with its shuttered weekenders’ cottages. Nowadays English streets were empty; people stayed at home, gazing at their computer screens, she supposed, blowing up the Houses of Parliament on video games.
It was late, but Evelyn couldn’t sleep. The sight of Dr. Rama had stirred feelings she had long ago thought extinguished. She had only known one man’s body. She remembered Hugh’s smell, the peppery scent of his sweat; she remembered the fleshiness of him, his naked body in bed—well, to be accurate, he usually kept his pajama tops on. She had never really speculated about other men; there hadn’t been time, what with children and the sailing each weekend, let alone that enormous garden. She remembered Douglas’s words on the plane: you only have the one life.
Evelyn sat up. She pushed back the mosquito net and switched on the light. Unlike herself, this room had known many lives. How many people had passed through it? There was little sign of their brief occupation—a cigarette burn on the dressing table, that was all. A waiting room. For Indians it must be different; from what she understood, life for them must be a series of waiting rooms. And then what?
She slid her feet into her slippers. Outside, a dog barked. It was answered by more dogs in the wasteland beyond the wall, where people lived in conditions of staggering squalor. A kerosene lamp shone in the servants’ quarters where the staff shed their uniforms and, just for a few hours, lived their unfathomable lives.
Evelyn padded along the corridor to the lounge. It was dimly illuminated by the light from the lobby. She sat down at the piano and lifted the lid. She hadn’t played for years; her joints were stiff. Tentatively she moved her fingers over the keys, trying to remember the Moonlight Sonata. She wasn’t going to play it, of course; it would wake people up. But surely, hidden deep within her fingers, there remained some memory?
It had gone. Evelyn closed the lid. She got up, unbolted the veranda door and stepped out into the night. The evening warmth welcomed her; it was as warm as her blood. How cold England had been, for old bones! Scent drifted from the tiny, unknown blossoms that made a hedge around the lawn. Somewhere a cat meowed. Several of the ladies in the hotel—Eithne, Stella, Hermione Somebody—or was it Harriet? Evelyn couldn’t ask now—some of the ladies fed the strays with food they saved from dinner. There was an undercurrent of rivalry about this. They each had a different name for a bald old tom that they considered theirs alone. No fool, he responded to all of them.
It was then that Evelyn became aware of a light. It was flickering in her old room, now inhabited by Muriel. She walked up the path and peered through Muriel’s window.
The room was transformed. For a moment Evelyn couldn’t recognize it. Candles were stuck along the dressing table; smoke wreathed up from incense sticks. Dimly, Evelyn could discern a sort of shrine.
Muriel, in her nightie, was sitting on the bed. The window was open.
She swung around. “Who’s that?”
“I’ve been mugged, see,” said Muriel. “And burgled.”
“I heard,” said Evelyn. “It must have been terrible.”
“It’s my nerves. I keep thinking they’re coming back. They stole my home from me and my peace of mind, they took it all away. My whole life I’d lived in that place and they stole it for a telly. I keep having these nightmares. I wake up, me heart go
ing like the clappers. I keep seeing their faces, like they’re here.”
“It’s all right, dear,” said Evelyn. “They’re not.”
“Keep seeing ’em everywhere. See, they found out where I lived.”
“You’re safe here, really. You’re on the other side of the world.”
“Two black boys,” said Muriel. “They killed my Leonard.”
“Who?”
Muriel pointed to a framed photograph on the dressing table. It was draped with a garland of marigolds. Evelyn got up and peered at it, in the candlelight. It was a photograph of a cat.
“The Huns killed my Leonard and those niggers killed my cat. It was the same person, see; he was in his body. I always knew it but Mrs. Cowasjee, she told me it was true. I could’ve saved him if I’d seen the signs.” Muriel’s voice rose; she was highly agitated. “They evacuated me, see.”
“What, the police?”
Muriel gripped Evelyn’s arm. “They made me go and live in the country and that’s why he was killed.”
“I thought you lived in London?”
“It’s all my fault. That’s why I had to marry Paddy.”
“Paddy?” Evelyn couldn’t grasp this conversation, but it was probably her own fault. “Is that why you came here?” she asked. “Because they evacuated you?”
“What’s that?”
“After the burglary?”
Muriel stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
Evelyn took a breath. She spoke clearly. “Is that why you’ve come to India?”
Muriel stared at her as if she were retarded. Evelyn realized that there were several shrines. There was a Hindu god, the one with all the arms, a photograph of Princess Diana and even a small plaster Virgin Mary. Muriel certainly believed in hedging her bets.
“Don’t tell anybody, promise!” hissed Muriel.
“I promise,” said Evelyn.
Muriel lowered her voice. “It’s all fate, see. It’s karma. The mugging, the brochure that the doctor sent me, and then what I heard about my son. What the neighbors told me, where he lived.”
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel Page 13
