Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  About thirty minutes later I became aware that I was going to have to find the toilet. This was my greatest fear. I crossed my legs and tried to ignore it. I cursed Harry and his beer, as well as his ability to pee anywhere there was standing room. I waited another fifteen minutes before realising with a sense of defeat it was a twelve-hour journey. I pulled my shoes back on.

  I followed the signs to the end of the carriage and braced myself. There was a luggage hold by the unisex bathroom. Men were standing around a window smoking. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door. My throat contracted, gagging in protest at the thought of stepping into the cubicle.

  The floor was under an inch of dun-coloured water that sloshed to the rhythm of the train. I stood looking at it for a full minute. It was filled with globs of toilet paper. They formed small, brown islands in the slop.

  I pinched my nose and stepped in. I retched as my feet, first the right then the left, touched the water. The smell was monstrous. It was a combination of human faeces, ammonia and rubbish bin water. The lid of the loo was open. Below it I could see the tracks rushing by.

  I pulled off squares of paper and placed them on the toilet seat. One floated off the edge to be consumed by the bilious bowely soup on the ground. I could feel bile rising in my throat. I had to be quick. I didn’t know how long it would be before the moisture would start to seep through my shoes.

  I fiddled with my zip. It caught and puckered. I swore quietly. The train shunted causing a small wave in the ground water. It sloshed and splashed up my right leg. I gave a wail. I winced and quickly lowered my pants. There was no flush. I timidly closed the lid and hurried to wash my hands.

  There was no tap, just a silver button, which I punched furiously. A spout squirted a jet of water into a small basin. It was like a bidet for your face. But there wasn’t even the pretence of soap. I doused a wad of toilet paper and scrubbed at my leg. Then I pulled the bottle of hand sanitiser from my pocket and rubbed it into my hands. I tried to open the door without touching the handle, using an elbow and then my knee to turn it. Once outside in the safety of the train I squirted hand sanitiser on my leg then more on my hands. There was a line of curious Indians staring at me as they waited for the toilet.

  I strolled up the train corridor to my bunk and came to a halt.

  The businessman had returned to my bed. I stared at him but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I looked for the kind, younger fellow who had helped me earlier but he was lying back with an eye mask over his face. I scurried to Harry’s bed.

  ‘Harry,’ I said, poking him. He put his book down. ‘Harry he’s back, look.’ I pointed at the man.

  ‘Ask him to leave,’ he whispered.

  ‘He won’t listen.’

  I could feel the snivelling child inside me, pounding at my chest, desperate to get out. I was so tired, and I still felt overfull with beer and curry and kind of sick. My dinner was congealing in my stomach the way only heavy Indian food can. I would have gladly tossed seven or eight of my fellow passengers out of the moving train for a single piece of lettuce.

  ‘Okay,’ Harry pulled off his blanket and sat up. ‘Come sit on my bunk.’

  I defensively snatched my backpack from my mattress and put it next to Harry’s on the end of his bed then stepped out of my shoes and kicked them off. Harry watched me peel off my socks using only the very tips of my fingers, before replacing them with a fresh pair and slathering my hands with sanitiser. I disposed of my soiled socks in a rubbish bin halfway down the aisle then scurried back to Harry’s bunk, keen to distance myself from them.

  ‘What on earth made you decide to come to India by yourself?’ He shook his head.

  I frowned at him.

  ‘It’s just, you don’t seem prepared. And you seem like the type of person who is never unprepared. So …’

  ‘I needed to do something different. You’re right, though. It was stupid, really.’

  ‘Being impulsive once in a while is good,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you travel with tie pins?’ I arched an eyebrow. I remembered noticing the sharp gold spear holding his tie in place the morning he had gone to work.

  ‘I said be impulsive, not sloppy.’

  ‘And I thought you were here on business?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m taking in the sights along the way.’ He put his book down and pulled off his windcheater. He had muscular arms. One had a small tattoo of an infinity sign on it.

  ‘What’s that? A souvenir from your youth?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Got it after a night of drinking absinthe. Now it acts as a constant reminder not to drink absinthe. It’s a public health tatt. Have you got one?’ He searched my skin for evidence.

  I shook my head.

  ‘What would you get if you got one?’

  I considered. ‘Maybe a little yin yang symbol.’

  ‘How very young traveller of you.’

  ‘It would be a symbol of me and my sister.’

  I told him how it had made me think of us the first time I’d seen the symbol. How we were the same but different. Equal. There was a little bit of her in me and a little bit of me in her. And together we made a whole.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Harry. ‘You should get one.’

  I leaned against my backpack. The rocking of the train was soothing. Harry’s head lolled back against the wall. Soon a soft snore started coming from his mouth, which was hanging open. He had perfect teeth, I noticed, and a small cleft in his chin.

  I tried to make myself comfortable but I was wide awake. I doodled yin-yangs in my travel diary and made a note to google the symptoms of hepatitis. I checked again to make sure Harry was asleep and pulled out my copy of the Kama Sutra.

  The book is known as a sex manual. But this was only a small portion of its lessons. It is a guide to all of life’s pleasures. As I read the train seemed to speed up. Its rocking increased. Harry’s right leg toppled from the ladder rung he had rested it on and fell across my knee.

  I licked my finger and turned the page. It opened to a section of illustrations. Round bellied couples copulated furiously in a triptych of pornography. The women had full breasts and pointed tongues. The men’s penises curved with the flexibility of a garden hose. The book showed the positions above, from the side, and from behind. On one page a woman performed fellatio. On the next, a man was twisted so they embraced in the 69 position.

  The Kama Sutra provided instructions on kissing, on the embrace, on making the marks with the nails and holding the lingam in the mouth. On the right amount of pressure when pressing lips together. On the correct way to cup a breast. But also on finding a wife, the arrangement of furniture in the house, amusements and friends.

  It had a prescriptive list of ‘women who are not to be enjoyed’ (a leper, a lunatic or the wife of the king), and offered guidance for making oneself attractive to the opposite sex. (The oil of the hogweed, if applied to be body, makes a person look lovely, as does the bone of a peacock or hyena, if it is covered in gold, and tied to the wrist.)

  I looked at Harry, still sleeping. I was overcome by the urge to put marks in his skin with my nails. To leave little finger nail sized crescents, as I gripped his bare shoulders…

  Stop it. I told myself. You’re just tired.

  I rolled onto my side, but sleep wouldn’t come. I couldn’t stop thinking about the billions upon billions of bacteria flourishing on the floor of the train bathroom.

  I’ve probably contracted fatal familial insomnia, I thought grimly, as I punched my backpack into a more supportive shape.

  I opened my eyes to discover I had slept. Fuzzy sunlight was seeping into the carriage through cracks around the curtains. The conductor blew through and ripped them open, like a harried mother waking his children for the school day.

  ‘Morning! Morning!’ He banged on the walls announcing that we were approaching Varanasi. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

  ‘You’re awake,’ Harry said. He was watching me. I looked away, afraid
my face would reveal my embarrassment at what we’d just been doing in my dream. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve taken up your whole bed. Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘Yeah. I got a few zzzs in. Look.’

  The train had slowed to a shuffle. Outside, monkeys were running alongside the adjacent track. The sun was just starting to come up. I remembered the samosas in my pack. They were slightly flattened but intact.

  ‘You want one?’ I offered them to Harry.

  ‘Yeah.’ He dug his hand into the bag. I inched the brown paper down so I could eat mine without touching it with my hands. We chewed them in silence.

  ‘They’re actually really good cold,’ I said, still avoiding eye contact. Overnight a coarse shadow of hair had spread over his chin. He looked dishevelled and handsome.

  ‘They hit the spot perfectly,’ he said.

  Outside on the platform it was chilly despite the sunlight. Harry heaved his pack up onto his back. ‘Well, I’m heading straight to the Ganges before I go back to the train station. Do you want to come?’

  I shook my head, not fully taking in what he had said. ‘I need a shower. I’ve got a room at a place called the Varanasi Villa.’

  ‘So I guess this is it?’

  I was stunned. ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got to get back to Sydney.’

  ‘But aren’t you – what are your plans?’ I was taken aback.

  ‘I’m going to take a look at the river. Then I have to catch a one o’clock train down south.’

  I hadn’t realised he would be leaving immediately. He was my companion, and now he was going to disappear. Who knew when I might see him again? I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to it.

  ‘But where are you going?’

  Harry hooked his thumbs under his straps and looked at his feet. I felt sheepish.

  ‘I’m going to work out of our Bangalore office for two days before flying home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He put an arm awkwardly around my shoulder. ‘It was good meeting you, Vy.’

  ‘Yeah, you too.’ I couldn’t believe this was our good bye. I wave of panic hit me. I didn’t want him to leave.

  ‘Hey, let’s swap email addresses,’ he said after a moment.

  I read him my various contact details. He gave me his and said to call him if I got into trouble. ‘So I should be hearing from you in about five minutes.’

  I laughed at the joke, but it sounded stilted. I was still stunned he was leaving.

  ‘Here are my Sydney details too.’ He handed me a business card. ‘In case you ever need a lawyer.’

  The awkward silence descended again as we lingered, looking at our feet, unsure whether to hug or not. He held his arms out. My cheeks felt hot from the memory of sitting next to him reading the Kama Sutra. And the dreams that had followed. He pulled me close. The firmness of his arm and chest muscles surprised me. I realised this was the closest I’d been to another man since Michael and I had split. I held him tight, broke away.

  ‘Maybe we’ll catch up in Sydney or Melbourne some time,’ Harry grinned, and took a step backwards.

  ‘Sure. Wait –’ I called. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ I felt around in my bag.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He stalled, a look of mock-wariness on his face.

  ‘Here.’ I held out my tube of toothpaste. He laughed. ‘It’s just a little something to say thankyou. For everything.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly.’ He held up his hands.

  ‘Please.’ I thrust it forward. ‘I want you to have it. If it wasn’t for you I’d probably be sheltering in a slum with a septic leg.’

  He chuckled and took the Colgate.

  ‘An insecure man might see this as a comment on his personal hygiene.’

  ‘I knew there’d be no risk of that, with your ego,’ I smiled.

  ‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘it was nice travelling with you, Violet.’

  ‘You too, Harry Potter.’ I gave him a little wave. ‘It was magical.’

  Harry laughed and turned away. I watched him walk away until he was engulfed by the Varanasi crowds. He stopped for one moment and looked back at me. I smiled. He winked.

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Harry’s unexpected departure left a lump in my throat, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I hailed a bicycle rickshaw to my hotel and tried to focus on Chris. I would check in and then send him an email. The sooner he knew I was here the better. The man at reception was young and smiley. I practised some of the Hindi Ranjeev had taught me over breakfast at the Grand Palace.

  ‘Namaste, maim buka eka kamara hai.’ (Good morning, I have a room booked.)

  ‘Jarura dhan’yav ada.’ (Of course, thank you.) The clerk applauded, jingling a set of keys happily.

  I showered and then sat on my bed feeling listless, thinking that I should have gone to the river with Harry. Now it was too late. Unless I met up with Chris I had nobody to explore Varanasi with. Downstairs I asked the receptionist for directions to an internet cafe and raced off when he told me there was one around the corner. I logged on. I would send Chris another email. I clicked on my inbox and was surprised to see there was one waiting for me. Nervously, I opened it.

  Violet!

  I feel so bad!! I missed you again. I’m partying in Kathmandu with some mates. I don’t suppose Nepal was on your itinerary?

  CC.

  I couldn’t believe it. I read it a second time to be sure. He’d moved on again. A chasm of disappointment opened up in my chest. I’d left Harry to go to the Ganges by himself because I was so anxious to track down Chris. And now he was gone and I was alone. I sucked air in through my teeth and tried to calm down. But my disappointment soon turned to rage.

  Who did he think he was, leading me on this wild goose chase?

  I wrote back saying that no Kathmandu wasn’t on my itinerary. I had to bite back my anger and remind myself he didn’t know I was following him. He responded immediately:

  Vy! Please come. It’d be so great to see you. How often are you on the sub-continent, huh?! You should come. Here’s my number in case you decide to. It will be a blast. x

  I walked away without writing back. I felt like an idiot. I stormed out onto the street. Flies buzzed around my face. I swatted at them angrily.

  Children pulled at my shirt. They followed me holding out gnarled Macca’s cups, calling for change. They were bolder in Varanasi. There were more pilgrims and therefore more beggars. Horns rang out through the street.

  I spread sanitiser over my hands. What am I going to do?

  I thumbed the keys on my phone and considered calling Harry. Then I shook off that thought.

  I decided to focus on a single task – lunch. I found a place that looked clean enough and ordered a simple daal with rice. When it arrived I ate it so quickly I nearly choked on a bay leaf. Tears slid down my nose into the bowl.

  I wanted to go to my room but it was too early to give up on the day. Instead I walked down to the Ganges. Perhaps I could dunk myself in and wash away my misery, I thought.

  Harry had told me that Hindus believed a wash in the sacred water would cleanse their soul and wipe clean their karmic slate. The Ganges is thought to be the pathway between earth and heaven, he said. It is named for the God Ganga who travelled to earth via the river. Hindus say this roadway is a two-way street which can be used to return to heaven. Varanasi, as a result, has a thriving death industry. The city is crowded with hospices that accept the sick and old from all over the country who wish to come to the city to die and be burned on its stone pyres.

  The closer I got to the river, the more hectic the crowds became. Traffic merged with people, jeeps bumped up against motorcycles piled high with families arranged human-pyramid style. I reached the Ghats, the giant stone steps that led down to the water. The silver river was spread out before me.

  The view was partially hidden by a haze rising from the stone flats where th
e bodies were burned. It added to sense of history, the palpable ancientness of the site, where the waterfront real estate was intricate stone structures and round Shiva temples, instead of shiny high-rises. The skyline was a harmonic mix of Mughal, Hindu and Islamic architecture: stone florets instead of satellite dishes.

  A beggar bent over on all fours approached tourists. A man selling candles told me he had spina bifida. Twisted and distorted, he moved like a crab. A scraggly beard hid his youth. His eyes were bright behind the thicket of hair. That awareness of my own privilege returned; I didn’t have any money to give him. Travel guides warned against carrying large sums of cash and I’d spent my last rupees on lunch. He looked at me with pleading eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, wishing I had a watch or a ring, something I could give to him to quench my guilt and banish his pleading look.

  Young girls sold plastic containers for collecting the holy river water. They carried them all over their bodies like white bunches of bananas. Dozens of children ran around free of their parents. They played with my hair, fascinated by its pale colour. When they learned I was Australian they called out ‘G’day mate! G’day mate’. I asked them if they knew anything else about Australia. Did they like kangaroos? Or did they prefer koalas?

  ‘I know!’ A little boy in a ragged jumper piped up. He knew about another native animal: ‘Ricky Ponting!’

  I laughed. ‘Yes, Ricky Ponting.’

  I walked down the stairs to the river’s edge. I was ready to take a leap of faith and emerge, reborn. Somehow different. I slid out of my shoes to dip in a toe.

  But the water’s fringe was littered with trash: smashed clay cups and the artificial brightness of modern litter. Chip packets (pink masala flavour) floated on in the holy water. Pieces of Styrofoam, aluminium, cardboard, glass and leaves clogged up the banks. Further out, the body of a dead dog floated downstream. I put my shoes back on.

  It doesn’t take long to feel lonely. The thousands of people around me only made the feeling stronger. I tried to snap myself out of it. You’re travelling, I told myself. You’re having an adventure.