The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  ‘For now, thank you. Leave the menu, I’ll order food later.’

  He backed away, not taking his eyes off Sham, probably wondering, as Holly was, how the man could take such a belt on the nose and then casually accept a drink.

  ‘Cheers.’ Sham raised his glass and sipped. Putting it back on the table, he said, ‘Just Sham. That’s what everyone calls me. It’s my last name.’

  ‘Cheers, Sham.’ Holly toasted him.

  ‘I’m a policeman,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Oh!’ It was all she could think of saying.

  ‘I saw you with that boy at the airport.’

  ‘I wasn’t with him. I met him quite by chance. He asked me to have a drink with him and I turned him down. Tonight, though . . . I don’t know . . . I got the impression tonight was deliberate, that he was waiting for me. He’s becoming a pain in the . . . backside.’ She’d read somewhere that Mauritian Indians were incredibly polite. Arse didn’t seem appropriate.

  Sham smiled slightly.

  ‘Couldn’t you have him arrested for assaulting a police officer?’

  ‘I could.’ His expression told her he wouldn’t.

  ‘But you won’t? Why not? Because he’s a Dulac?’

  Sham’s smile was grim. ‘His name won’t protect him for much longer.’

  ‘You’re following him, aren’t you? And making damn sure he knows it. May I ask why?’

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Fair enough. Let me ask you this then. Am I right not to trust him?’

  ‘Most definitely. Better to keep well out of his way.’

  ‘I would if I could.’

  Sham put the bloodied handkerchief away in his pocket and changed the subject. ‘What are you doing in Mauritius?’

  Holly told him about the tourist article.

  He nodded when she finished speaking. ‘How much longer will you be staying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Holly admitted. ‘A couple of days, I think.’

  ‘How did you meet Guy Dulac?’

  ‘Is this part of your inquiry?’

  ‘It might be. Depends.’

  ‘A friend of mine who is currently on Rodrigues knows his father. We were invited to lunch at the estate last Sunday. That’s when I met him.’

  Sham was still nodding. ‘Ah!’ He appeared satisfied. ‘This friend of yours, is he from Mauritius?’

  ‘No, he’s Australian.’

  ‘How is it that he knows Raoul Dulac?’

  She remembered Connor’s words, ‘lying isn’t exactly your best thing’, and decided to tell the truth. ‘His name is Connor Maguire. He’s a businessman from Australia who has had some dealings with Raoul Dulac. I don’t think they are still involved with each other. He certainly doesn’t seem to like the man.’

  ‘Good taste, this friend of yours.’ Sham smiled at her. ‘Not many of us warm to the Dulacs.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Holly asked, concerned. Smiling had obviously hurt him.

  Sham felt his nose gingerly. ‘I’ve had better evenings.’

  She felt genuinely sorry for him – he seemed sincere. ‘Are you going to try and find Guy Dulac again tonight?’

  ‘He’ll go straight home.’

  Holly raised her eyebrows. ‘You know him pretty well then?’

  ‘He’s rattled,’ Sham elaborated. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve shaken him up a bit. The boy’s like a wounded animal, heads straight for the protection of his den.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘Anyway, I think I’ve had enough for one day.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. That was quite a knock.’

  Sham lowered his eyes. Holly would have been startled to see the sudden look of anger that flared in them.

  Guy Dulac’s attack had not surprised the detective in the least. A dossier he had meticulously compiled on the boy gave testimony to the fact that Guy was given to sudden and violent acts, over which he appeared to have no control. What angered Sham most was Dulac’s arrogance. Tonight was a perfect case in point. His violence had been the spontaneous reaction of someone completely out of control. Who but the mentally deranged could afford the luxury of believing themselves beyond the reach of consequence? Sham did not presume Guy Dulac to be insane, which left him with one of two options. The boy was either evil – and in Sham’s experience, true evil was no more or no less than a complete lack of conscience – or, more likely, he was a self-indulgent weakling who believed himself untouchable. Either way, combined with the boy’s unpredictable temper, Sham considered Guy Dulac to be extremely dangerous. Particularly so since his surprisingly influential family appeared perfectly prepared to cover for him.

  Dulac’s alibi about where he was the night Corrine Vitry died had, so far, held up well. No-one had seen the two of them together. Sham was reasonably certain that she had been dumped in the sea from a boat. Had she gone into the water from land, Corrine would have been found earlier. Fishermen, any one of literally hundreds of pleasure craft, helicopter pilots on joy flights, windsurfers, the waters in the lagoons around Mauritius were too shallow to conceal something as large as a body. So Sham concentrated on that one premise. But no-one had seen the girl on board Raoul’s boat and Sham had yet to find a single witness who might have noticed the craft leave Grand Baie or return to its mooring. Guy Dulac seemed to be getting away with murder. What worried Sham now was that having done it once, the boy might be tempted to do it again. And this young woman could very well be his target.

  He looked up at Holly, instinctively liking her. ‘Beware of Guy Dulac,’ Sham said, reaching for his glass. He finished the wine in one swallow and stood up. ‘The boy is not to be trusted.’ He went to say more and stopped, giving Holly a brief and painful smile instead. ‘Good night. And thank you for the drink. It’s against my religion but tonight . . .’ a shrug and a glance skyward, ‘I am sure I shall be forgiven.’ With a quick formal bow, he left.

  Holly wondered what it was that Sham had been about to say. His warnings were appreciated but unnecessary. After tonight’s little show, she wouldn’t trust Guy Dulac with an onion. Hopefully, she’d seen the last of him.

  Alone again, Holly picked up the menu. The waiter noticed her action and rushed to the table, order pad in hand. She selected a light meal of grilled fish with caesar salad and sat, sipping wine, gazing out over the darkened water. Her thoughts slipped, quite naturally, to Connor Maguire. The word Scylla kept pace. How were they connected? Even more interesting, why were they connected? What was Connor really up to?

  Her waiter reappeared. Instead of food, he placed a telephone on the table. The object of Holly’s thoughts was at the other end.

  ‘Just touching base,’ he said.

  ‘The deal is no contact, Maguire. What do you call this?’

  ‘Imagine I’m not here.’

  ‘That’s a big ask.’

  ‘Come on, Jones. You can do it.’

  ‘Okay.’ Holly was smiling. ‘I’m sitting here all on my lonesome not having a conversation with someone who is not on the other end of a telephone which I’m not really holding. That makes me kind of curious about why everyone in the place is staring at me. Will that do?’

  ‘Good girl. Know why I called?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Just wanted to hear your voice. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m very okay.’ She was too. Scylla, drugs, Guy Dulac, the treasure, had all slipped silently into second place. Her universe became contracted to the instrument she held against her ear. Nothing else mattered.

  ‘How was the flight?’

  ‘Good.’ This was ridiculous! A telephone call hadn’t been so significant since God knows when. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Tch! When will you learn?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m scratching around for something to say.’

  He laughed. ‘Do you feel as silly as I do?’

  ‘Probably. It’s been a while since a conversation going nowhere held my attention. You have the strangest effe
ct on me, Maguire.’ Holly’s head was down because she was trying to hide what she knew must be the dopiest of grins.

  ‘What did you do this afternoon?’

  ‘Wrote up the treasure piece. It’s good. Quinn will love it.’ She cleared her throat, then added, ‘She said modestly.’

  ‘So when are you going home?’

  ‘When are you?’

  ‘Oh no you don’t, Jones. That’s my trick.’

  ‘Saturday week.’

  ‘Why so long?’

  ‘I’ve left it too late to get this Saturday’s flight. Besides, I need a bit more information for the tourist story. I’m also thinking of having a look at Réunion. I might go there on Monday.’

  ‘One thing you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Raoul Dulac put to sea this afternoon. Justin Parker was with him. They should be back in Mauritius late tomorrow. Keep away from them, Holly.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Holly, I . . . I guess I’d better go.’ He hesitated. ‘Take care.’

  ‘You too.’

  They said goodbye.

  Still clutching the receiver, Holly felt dissatisfied, empty somehow. She had deliberately kept quiet about Guy Dulac because she didn’t want to worry Connor. But there had been words she wanted to hear and things she’d like to have said. The newness of their relationship inhibited both of them, had them behaving like adolescents. Why couldn’t she have said that she missed him, that she was scared for him and that she loved him? Holly had to conclude that she didn’t really know him well enough to state her true feelings. It was weird. She wondered if Connor felt the same way.

  The taxi was going to cost a thousand rupees for the day, about sixty Australian dollars. Money well spent, Holly thought. The driver turned out to be a chatty Indian. His name, he informed her, was Mr Herro. She asked if he’d mind her taping some of their conversation. An Indian taxidriver’s view of Mauritius would do nicely. He appeared reluctant.

  ‘Why would you want to do such a thing?’

  ‘I’m a journalist, writing an article about Mauritius for an Australian magazine.’

  ‘Australia!’ He seemed daunted by the very name.

  ‘It will bring tourists here.’

  ‘Ah! Tourists. More work for me.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Mr Herro frowned. ‘But you should ask your questions of someone more clever. I am a humble taxidriver. I am not knowing many things.’

  ‘Were you born here, Mr Herro?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And was your father born here?’

  ‘Yes. And his father and grandfather.’

  ‘That makes you perfectly qualified. I promise you, my questions will not be difficult. All I want to do is find out about the Indian population.’

  He became cautiously amenable. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. Do you, as an Indian-Mauritian, consider yourself as belonging to India or Mauritius? Or do you perhaps feel that you are a part of Africa?’

  Mr Herro responded with no hesitation. ‘First, a part of Africa, then Mauritian.’

  ‘How about India?’ Holly switched on the tape, making sure he knew.

  He eyed it with suspicion before saying slowly, ‘I have never been to India.’

  ‘But you are Indian. Don’t you feel connected at all?’

  He answered with a question of his own. ‘You are Australian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From where did your ancestors come?’

  ‘Britain.’

  ‘Do you feel British?’

  Holly laughed. ‘Point taken. Another question?’

  Mr Herro shrugged.

  ‘Are you Hindu, Tamil or Muslim?’

  ‘Hindu. Most Indians here are.’ He glanced at her. ‘Ask another please.’

  ‘I have seen red and yellow flags in some gardens. What is their significance?’

  ‘It is our belief that if we build a shrine to the gods, our house will be protected. We always put two flags behind the shrine.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Tradition.’ He looked troubled. ‘Is that good enough?’

  ‘Perfectly fine. Are you happy to continue?’

  He was still hesitant, but at least he agreed.

  The road they followed was the same one she’d travelled when she went to Mahébourg with Connor. Holly took the opportunity to concentrate on her interview. Mr Herro soon relaxed, finding the questions involved more of a personal opinion, rather than any in-depth factual response on Mauritius itself. He talked of his ambitions, of his wife and children and extended family. As he warmed to the theme, he told Holly about some of the religious festivals celebrated by all Hindu people. They sounded colourful and different. Holly was sorry that most took place during the summer months so she would miss seeing them.

  ‘Thaipoosam Cavadee,’ Mr Herro explained, ‘is to call on Subramanya, the son of Lord Shiva. We fast for ten days, then carry cow’s milk on a wooden arch to our temple. It must not curdle on the journey. The arch is decorated with fresh flowers.’

  ‘What is the purpose of this ceremony?’

  ‘To ask forgiveness and seek spiritual cleansing. At that time we pierce our skin with many skewers.’

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’

  The driver wagged his head. Holly was uncertain whether she’d been given a yes or a no.

  ‘I will take you to Grand Bassin,’ he offered helpfully. ‘It is a holy lake. Each year we must wash in its waters. We wear white clothing and make offerings to . . . do you know the word guru?’

  Holly nodded. ‘Spiritual leaders.’

  Mr Herro beamed at her. ‘Just so. They are custodians of the lake. It is a very important celebration for us.’

  ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘Maha Shivaratri. In honour of Lord Shiva.’

  ‘Why is the lake holy?’

  The answer was delivered with such seriousness that she realised Mr Herro would not dream of questioning the tale. ‘When Lord Shiva went to India and created the world, he allowed some water from the Ganges to rest there. For this reason you might see people paying homage, even though today is not a holy day.’

  ‘What will they be doing?’

  ‘Lighting candles and sending them across the water on leaves.’

  Holly found herself fascinated. Talk about diversity! Within the Indian population alone there were three major and distinctly different religious groups, each divided further by caste, home language and from where in India their ancestors had originated. The Chinese claimed family or clan differences. Despite a long association with Britain, nearly all white Mauritians were of French origin. And if that wasn’t enough, the word Creole covered anyone of mixed blood, but even that group was split into two distinct categories – those who looked African and those who did not.

  ‘You should be here to see the firewalking ceremony,’ Mr Herro was saying. ‘It is called Teemeedee. Visitors are very welcome.’

  ‘When does this happen?’

  ‘Near to your Christmas. It is very famous in Mauritius. Many tourists come.’

  ‘I’ve read about the firewalkers in India. They don’t appear to suffer any burns.’

  Again, the driver wagged his head. ‘This is true. I myself have seen it many times. They feel no pain, even when they lie on the coals. True believers are protected by their faith.’

  He went on to talk about some of the other Hindu traditions. Holly had to stop him often to check on the spelling of a word or to explain about one of the gods. Mr Herro happily obliged.

  They were approaching the highland town of Curepipe. Its name, in English, translated as ‘pipe cleaner’. Holly asked why.

  ‘I am not knowing,’ Mr Herro responded. ‘But French soldiers stopped here on their way between Port Louis and Grand Port. Perhaps it is here they rested and smoked tobacco.’

  It was feasible. Many men carried
pipes in those days. The first thing soldiers might well do at the end of a day’s march would be to clean and refill them.

  ‘Have you been to the Trou aux Cerfs crater?’ Mr Herro asked.

  ‘No. I’d like to see it, though.’ Holly was delighted with Mr Herro. A driver, an interview and a tourist guide all in one. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Not far.’ He turned into a narrow street.

  There were no signs, nothing that even mentioned a crater. They climbed a steep hill and came out onto a road that ringed the hundred metre deep, long extinct volcano. As craters went, this one was nothing special. Not particularly large, its inverted cone shape was so classic it might have been moulded from fibreglass. Densely wooded down the steep slope with a small, green, slime covered lake at the bottom, the caldera was about three hundred metres wide. What interested Holly more than the crater, which she dutifully photographed, was the view. It was a beautifully clear day and the panorama extended over most of Mauritius.

  To the south-west, Mr Herro pointed out a blurred, dark shape far out on the horizon. ‘That is Réunion,’ he explained. ‘The mountains there are higher than ours.’

  Holly was totally impressed. Réunion was two hundred kilometres away.

  From Curepipe they continued south on the main road towards Plaisance and Mahébourg before, a short while later, turning right to Souillac. Holly was now in new territory. Mr Herro made his promised detour to Grand Bassin, the sacred Hindu lake. It turned out to be another old crater, this time filled with crystal-clear water. Surrounded by forest, the landscape had an almost picture book alpine appearance. Then it was down to the coast at Souillac, where Mr Herro made a point of showing Holly La Roche qui Pleure – the Rock That Cries – its shape supposedly that of a man in tears. Further on they came to Le Morne, where he related the story of a band of starving slaves who, on the run from their masters, managed to climb the six hundred-metre lump of black basalt to hide. Reaching the top, they were horrified to see a line of soldiers climbing towards them. Rather than face capture, the men jumped to their death. The irony was, the soldiers were coming to tell them that slavery had just been abolished and they were free to come down from the mountain.