The Moon's Complexion

by Irene Black

  “What was the number?”

  “Oh, sorry, Sir. I am not good at remembering numbers.”

  “Did he speak to his friend?”

  “No, Sir. He was listening for several moments then he was telling that his friend is not there.”

  * * * *

  Next morning, Ashok dressed early and slipped away to reception to pick up the photographs. He’d lain awake for what seemed like hours, wondering about the phone call. Was the man described by the desk clerk really Hannah’s stalker? Or was he some innocent chap trying to get through to a friend? There was no proof, after all, that the phone call made at the desk was the one to Ashok’s room. He thought about the desk clerk. Was the fellow really an imbecile? So sorry, no good at remembering. Or had someone got at him? The more Ashok turned things over in his mind, the more confused he became. Hard evidence. That’s what he lacked. He needed hard evidence to convince him that there really was a stalker.

  “Namaskar. Are the photos ready?”

  The night clerk had gone. Once again, the regular receptionist was manning his post. He smiled. “Your friend was picking them up not half hour ago.”

  “Miss Groot? I didn’t know she was up yet.”

  The man frowned. “Not she, Sir. He. Your friend you were asking after when you first arrived, I think. Small, very slim, sunglasses.”

  Ashok stared at the man. What the hell is going on here? He walked slowly back to the room, wrestling to come to terms with his discovery. Is this it? Hard evidence at last? So Hannah must be right. It’s not her confounded imagination. But hang on—what about the taxi incident? It seems that the line between imagination and reality has become very blurred. Is that so surprising under the circumstances? I’m confused, too. However, we have proof now that the man does exist. Somehow, we’ve got to keep clear heads. At the same time, we can’t afford to ignore anything. He remembered the snake and shivered. Planted after all? And the rock?

  In view of this latest development, he decided not to tell Hannah about the article in the Hindu. Maybe he would tell her at a later date. For now, it was his secret.

  * * * *

  Hannah still lay in bed, trying to drown the disturbing memories of the previous day in the early morning symphony of parakeets and pariah dogs, servants and sweeper women, and the rustling of a slight breeze in the bougainvilleas.

  “No photos?” she said in a resigned voice, registering Ashok’s fraught expression.

  Briefly, Ashok relayed the news.

  “Well,” Hannah said flatly, “if you needed any proof...”

  “I didn’t,” Ashok lied. “I’ve never doubted your story. But you have to be prepared to consider all alternatives. That’s what I was doing only.”

  “Why would he want my photos anyway?”

  “Same reason we wanted them, no doubt. Perhaps he thinks he might be on one.”

  “But how does he manage to keep tabs on me?”

  “Yes, I’m asking myself the same question. Money talks. That’s part of your answer, anyway, but I don’t think that’s all of it. How he knows exactly where you’re going? At the very least, he needs some knowledge of the country and the languages.”

  “Well, if money talks, I’m not short of cash. Let’s do some investigating when we get back to the Chamundi. Someone there may have tipped him off.”

  Hannah and Ashok were unable to deter Willi from her resolve to travel with them.

  “I want to see Bangalore,” she said. “Three or four days then I will be on my way. I intend to spend Christmas in Kerala before I return to the Netherlands.”

  They caught the lunchtime Express back to Bangalore. Hannah insisted that they traveled second class, non-a.c., remembering that this was how the stalker had traveled to Chennai. The hot, crowded compartment, with passengers tumbling out of every niche, was certainly more entertaining than the air-conditioned calm of second a.c., but the crowds made observation difficult. People, baggage, and vendors cluttering the corridors prevented Ashok from straying farther a-field to scour the rest of the train. For this, Hannah gave silent thanks, remembering the previous journey

  By the time they reached the Chamundi, it was nine o’clock.

  They stopped off at reception for Hannah to collect her key and to inform them that Willi would be sharing her room for a night or two.

  “One moment, Madam—message for you.” The receptionist handed Hannah a note that had been hastily scrawled on a Chamundi Hotel memo sheet.

  Urgent message for Hannah Petersen, she read. Phone Duncan as soon as possible. Do not leave a message.

  “It’s Duncan. Wonder what he wants? Hope it’s not another hiccup with Fair Game.”

  “Well, surely it can’t be that urgent,” Ashok said.

  “It is. Some people are giving us grief with the US publication.”

  “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

  “No, it can’t. I’ll phone him now. From my room.” She looked at her watch.

  “Won’t be long,” she said. “Wait for me in the bar.”

  She returned ten minutes later, frowning.

  Ashok said, “Well?”

  She continued to frown in silence while she collected her thoughts.

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure at the moment. Duncan knows something—about the stalker. Wouldn’t say over the phone. He sounded worried—didn’t like leaving a message with reception. He doesn’t want to risk doing it again. Wants to email me tomorrow if I can get hold of an email address by then. Is that possible?”

  Ashok thought for a moment.

  “Yes. I have a friend at BTU. I’m sure they’ve got email up there. Give me Duncan’s email address. I’ll go there now and set it up. There’s always someone around in the lab—at this time of night, also. I’ll tell Duncan to mail the information to Salman’s address, and we’ll check it out first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks. By the way—BTU?”

  “Biotechnology University. We Indians have even more of a passion than you for abbreviating names. Right—I’m on my way. Meanwhile, you two go up to the room and lock the door. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  * * * *

  At the Biotechnology University, Ashok managed to locate his friend Salman, an assistant professor in the Biochemistry Department, who was still busy at the bench.

  Salman abandoned his Petrie dish and wiped his hands. “Bash! I was wondering when you would show up. I heard you were in town.”

  Ashok smiled at hearing his teenage nickname. He embraced his old school chum warmly. Salman looked older than his thirty-two years. His hair was thinning, and already he was showing the telltale paunch of middle-class affluence and undisciplined eating.

  “Hallo, Slam. Still dabbling in alchemy, I see.”

  Salman roared with laughter. “Bash and Slam, dazzling duo of under-eighteen cricket team! Those were the days, no?”

  “Those were the days. You still playing?”

  “But of course! Each Sunday afternoon, I am coaching youngsters. It’s keeping me fit.”

  “Fit! What’s this, then?” Ashok patted his friend’s ample belly.

  “For that you must blame my wife’s wonderful cooking.”

  Ashok hid his surprise. Three years ago, Salman had still been openly bitter about the marriage that his parents had foisted on him at the age of twenty-four. Two children had arrived in quick succession, and he had considered his family to be a millstone around his academic neck. Ashok proceeded cautiously.

  “They are all well at home?”

  “Yes, they are well. Both boys top of class in their school. Shaziah is a good mother, Bash. And excellent wife.”

  Ashok raised his eyebrows.

  “Ah, you are wondering, I see. Three years ago, I was telling differently, no?”

  “Very differently. I’m glad to see things seem to have sorted themselves out.”

  “A matter of time only. Getting to know each other. Getting used to each other’s ways
. Now all is well.”

  Time? Five years of misery before the healing hand of familiarity had blotted out the anguish of his lost youth? Ashok hadn’t forgotten, even if Salman had, and he had promised himself that he would never make Salman’s mistake. He would never be drawn into a marriage to anyone who did not measure up to the ideal he had conjured up in daydreams. Ashok had been lucky. Salman had had no siblings for his parents to consider. He had been the sole focus of their attention, and his life, including his marriage, had been mapped out from an early age.

  “Now at last is your turn,” Salman said. “Time to leave field open for younger fellows, eh?” He nudged Ashok. “Still one for the ladies, Bash?”

  “What do you mean? I was never a ladies’ man.”

  “Oh no? You think you got your nickname for the way you wielded cricket bat only?”

  “Yes, what else?”

  “Bash—bashful. Joke. Remember how you eyed up girls from Ladies College?”

  “I only looked at them, Slam. Same as everyone else.”

  “Ah yes, but only you it was caught the eye of the pretty ones. We could all see you had great future in that department.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. My life’s been very unexciting in that respect.” Ashok remembered his student days at Oxford and chuckled inwardly. But it was time to change the subject.

  “Salman, I have a favor to ask you.”

  “You want me to find you a wife?”

  “I want to borrow your email address.”

  “Oh, that is all? That’s easy.”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for a friend. She’s having some trouble and needs to contact UK.”

  Salman looked amused but, with typical discretion, knew to refrain from comment.

  There had been no problem in sending off an email to Duncan. Ashok had simply written

  Anxiously awaiting your information.

  Please reply to this address,

  Hannah

  Chapter 9

  Duncan had waited in the garden room for Hannah to return the call he had made to the Chamundi. It was a full hour before she did so. She sounded tired. No wonder. It must have been midnight there. What had she been doing until then? She’d mentioned that she would ask some Indian friend to set up an email address. He felt uneasy. Who’d she palled up with? Had she been taken in, as he had by Felicity?

  Ah yes. Felicity. Reluctantly, he went back to the house to check on her. She looked pale and tiny, curled up in the corner of the big bed, hugging the duvet close to her body. For a while, he stood staring down at her with a mixture of pain and pity. After all she’d done to him, she still had the power to evoke some sort of emotion in him. Funny. He’d believed her when she said she cared for him. It was the only thing she’d said that day that he did believe. And what did he feel? Horrified, humiliated. And very frightened for Hannah. Above all, he had to get Hannah out of this mess, which was partly of his making. For once in his life, he felt like praying. Please don’t let anything happen to Hannah. She means the world to me.

  When he had satisfied himself that Felicity really was sleeping, he returned to the garden room, where, after hours of agonizing self-analysis, he finally fell asleep at his desk. When he awoke in the night, he checked his email and found that Hannah had made contact. He mailed her back.

  * * * *

  When Ashok returned home from the Biotechnology University, Srinivasa and Girija were still up, despite the late hour.

  “You had enjoyable visit to Chennai with your friend?” Srinivasa inquired casually.

  “Friends,” Ashok corrected, in a vain attempt to dilute his father’s interest in Hannah. “There were three of us. We were joined by a Dutch girl.”

  “Ah—always one for ladies. Talking of which...”

  Ashok knew what was coming.

  “Yes, Bapa. The girl in Mysore. I know.”

  “We can’t keep that family hanging around, Ashok. We must tell them something.”

  Ashok looked at his feet and said nothing.

  Girija, who had been standing in the doorway, now stepped forward. She placed her hand gently on Ashok’s arm.

  “You are troubled, my son. I know.” She turned to her husband. “Perhaps Ashok would like to visit once more before he will make up his mind.”

  Ashok shook his head slowly. “I have made up my mind, Amma. I cannot marry her. I cannot marry anyone.”

  “Because of your English temptress?” his mother said.

  Ashok shrugged.

  “My son, how long have you known her? Three days? A week?”

  “Longer than I have known the one in Mysore.”

  “That is different matter entirely. You know nothing about this English woman.”

  Ashok wanted to shout out, Yes, I do, I know everything I need to know about her, but he bit his lip and kept silent.

  “At least,” his father said, “let us go and see the girl again one time. Perhaps you need longer.”

  “It’s no good, Bapa. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Do this one thing for us only, Ashok,” Srinivasa said. “If after that you decide against, we will not be putting pressure. Tomorrow I have business with Mr. Jagannath in Mysore. Come with me.”

  Ashok knew he could not escape.

  “All right. But tomorrow, no. I will come next day.”

  “I will wait there for you.”

  * * * *

  By the time Ashok arrived at the Chamundi at eight the following morning, Willi had gone.

  “Off to explore Bangalore,” Hannah announced. “She was up at the crack of dawn and out before breakfast. She said she wanted to breathe in the air of the city before it became unbreathable. Personally, I think she was just being discreet. She said she’d be back tonight.”

  “Good.” Ashok chuckled and raised his eyebrows. “Discreet, eh? I didn’t think she had it in her. Anyway, listen. Something’s been nagging away at me.”

  “Again?”

  “Listen. Ever since I saw those pearls you were sent. Only I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then suddenly, in the night, it came to me.”

  “You’ve got a theory?”

  “Yes. But you’re not going to like it.”

  “So try me.”

  “It’s quite simple, really. You criticized my Latin. Fair enough. I always preferred Greek.”

  “This is too obscure for me.”

  He took a pen and a sheet of paper from the dressing table.

  “Look. This is Greek for pearl.”

  On the paper he wrote margaritari.

  “Mar-ga-rit-ari,” Hannah read out. “Yes? So?”

  “She never told you that Maighréad comes from the Greek? Margaritari.”

  A puzzled frown. “Pearl? Are you saying that her name means pearl?”

  Ashok raised an eyebrow in assent.

  “And you’re suggesting a connection between Maighréad and the stalker?”

  “It’s a thought, isn’t it? Also remember R.I.P. in the pearl box? At the time, I thought you were overreacting, but now I think maybe you have been right.”

  “R.I.P. Rest in peace,” Hannah muttered. She sat for a moment, deep in thought. Then she shook her head slowly. “Doesn’t fit, somehow. Why, after taking so much care not to show himself, would he suddenly leave a clue?”

  “Well, I’m thinking partly it was because he wants you to know and partly because he wants to leave his mark. Warped compulsion. He’s enjoying the chance to be much more up front here than he was in UK. He believes no one will bother to trace him here.”

  “But why does he suddenly want me to work out who he is?”

  Ashok frowned. “I can’t answer that. Maybe he doesn’t think you’ll work it out. He’s getting the satisfaction of leaving his calling card and at the same time tormenting you. Or maybe he’s building up to something. Removing wrappings, layer by layer, so to speak.”

  “Okay,” Hannah said. “Maybe you have hit on something. But who? The only one w
ho’d have a grudge, as far as I know, is Maighréad’s husband, that despicable Mark Salers. But he was put away for fifteen years with a recommendation for no early release, and he’s not served five yet. Anyway, Duncan checked him out.”

  “Well, he’s my number one suspect, also. Better ask your Duncan chap to look into it again.”

  “Did you manage to set up the email?”

  “Come. I’ll show you.”

  They took an autorickshaw northwards, leaving the city behind them. Wherever she cast her eye, Hannah found something that fascinated her on the noisy, riotous journey. Here was a street vendor pulling a barrowload of bananas along the road and another with a pyramid of tomatoes. There, on the dusty pavement, a man sat under a tree, repairing bicycles.

  “Now I can see where the city got its nickname,” Hannah called over the din of the two-stroke engine.

  “Yes—Garden City is still very apt out here. Most of the buildings that you can see through the trees are science institutes, university departments, you know, that kind of thing.”

  Hannah read the names as they passed by: Raman Research Institute, Forestry Research Laboratory, Indian Institute of Science.

  “They all seem to have vast grounds.”

  “So does the Biotechnology University, as you will see.”

  “And these gray stone walls, they seem to go on forever. It’s granite, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The paving slabs are made of the same material—though many, as you see, are in need of repair. Ah…” Ashok pointed. “BTU grounds.”

  The driver circled around and pulled in at the imposing entrance gate to the complex.

  “We’ll walk rest of the way.”

  Ashok led Hannah through the gate, and they made their way up the straight, tarmac roadway beyond.

  “Some people who live on campus rarely venture beyond the gate,” Ashok said.

  “Don’t blame them. It’s like an arboretum.”

  “It is South Indian University of Biotechnological Advancement. We also sometimes call it SIBA. If you were a scientist, you would have heard of it.”