(1993) Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend

by Robert James Waller

  "Fly on, Michael. If this is your moment, take it. Stop talking to me and get to India."

  The departmental secretary was a first-rate person who knew the systems and ways to get around them. Michael always gave her a bottle of wine at Christmas and sent her flowers at the end of the academic year. She agreed to fill out his final grade sheets and forge his signature on them. She didn't even ask why. He asked her not to say anything, and she said, "Don't worry, you and I understand each other. Wherever you're going in such a hurry and whatever you're going to do when you get there, I'd like to be a fly on the wall." She finished her words with a strange little knowing smile.

  Jimmy Braden had come back on Monday night. On Tuesday Michael announced to his classes they were shutting down that day. Since he wouldn't be giving a final examination, he told them everyone got one-half a grade higher than what the scores in his grade book currently showed. To hell with it, once in a while you're entitled to be flaky. Hats flew in the air, and a young woman's voice came from far back in the classroom: "We love you, Professor Tillman. Merry Christmas." He gave one of the MBA students who lived upstairs in his building a hundred bucks to make sure Malachi and Casserole were well cared for.

  Travel light. Real light. He'd booked a flight to New York, but no reservations beyond, and he might get hung up anywhere on his way to India. New York, Moscow or London, Cairo or Athens. Anywhere. It might take him a week or more to get to India. Jimmy Braden could sit in Cedar Bend and pray and mope all he wanted. Jimmy had already told his story to at least five other people, so he was getting lots of sympathy.

  But Michael was going to India to find Jellie, and he was going now. There was a reason she pulled out, and he had a pretty strong feeling it had something to do with him. Maybe not, but that's how he guessed it. People get lost in India. That's why a lot of them go there. He had to find Jellie before she just drifted off and, for whatever reason, retreated to a mountain commune or ashram in the boondocks where he'd never find her.

  Old L. L. Bean knapsack. Three shirts, only one of them clean. Wear the clean one, blue denim. Jeans, one pair on the body and another pair in the bag, and some khakis. Wear bush jacket en route. Navy blue cotton sweater. Shoes? Wear the old field boots, take sandals, too. He could buy clothes in India if he needed them; the khurtas and some pajamalike bottoms underneath worked just fine for him. Other essentials, including a good map of the India subcontinent he'd purchased on his last visit, showing railroad and domestic air routes. Small flashlight, old cotton hat with the wide brim.

  Damn, no malaria pills. Take the risk. No, have physician call the drugstore, pick them up on the way to the airport, even though he should have started taking them a week ago. Working hard, throwing clothes around the bedroom, folding shirts, rolling up the jeans and khakis with underwear and socks inside the roll, Malachi and Casserole watching. Jam the old pair of sandals in the top, cinch it up. The knapsack bulged. He hefted it-not too bad. Anything else? Small canteen. It can be a long time between drinkable water supplies in India.

  The taxi came at eight a. M. on Thursday morning, sixty hours after Jimmy had sat at Michael's kitchen table, bawling his guts out. It was bizarre all right. Jimmy Braden was lurching around Bingley Hall telling people, in so many words, about how poorly Jellie had treated him, running off that way. And Michael was on his way to find her, but Jimmy didn't know that. A stop at the pharmacist's, another at the bank. Three thousand in American Express Cheques, $100 units. Five hundred in cash.

  At the local airport, waiting for the commuter jet to Chicago, Michael remembered a detail he hadn't taken care of and called the departmental secretary. After he cleaned up the detail, she said, "Michael, a cable for you just came in, hand-delivered."

  He thought for a moment. This was dicey if it was from Jellie, which he had a feeling it might be. "Betty, read it to me, and I'm swearing you to secrecy ever after concerning the contents. Deal?"

  "If I told everything I knew about what happens around here, Bingley Hall would implode in the world's largest cloud of dust. Besides, I have some vague sense of what's going on. I've seen your face change in the last few months. I saw you on your motorcycle out near Heron Lake early one morning not long ago, and I also saw who was riding behind you. But I've never said anything, and I won't. Now, I put that together with the weeping going on in Jimmy Braden's office-all over the building, for that matter-and it doesn't require a mathematical genius like you to make it add up."

  "Betty, Betty, Betty . . . you may end up being one of the great loves of my life. Read me the cable."

  "Okay, I'm opening the envelope. It says thirteen hundred hours. Let's see, that's ..."

  "That's one in the afternoon, Betty. What's the date?"

  "It's today's date. How can that be?"

  "Time difference. It was sent about one-thirty a. M. this morning, our time. What's it say?"

  "It says, 'M, Please try to understand. There are feelings so strong within me I need space and time to work them out. I'll be in touch sometime, I promise I will. J.' "

  The hell with space and time, that's what Michael Tillman thought. Sometimes you let circumstances go their own direction, in the way Jimmy was doing, but sometimes you have to get in the middle of situations and manage them. He had a feeling Jellie was pretty confused, and he wasn't going to let her just wander off in a fog. If he screwed up her life by going to India to look for her, she'd have to live with it, and so would he. But he wasn't about to sit on his duff in Cedar Bend and hope for better days.

  "Betty, where did the cable come from, what city?"

  "Madras. Did I pronounce it right?"

  "No, but that's okay. Everybody in the States gets it wrong. Betty, run the cable through your shredder, please."

  "I will. Don't worry. And, Michael? ..."

  "Yes?"

  "I'll be back here cheering for you. Go find her."

  "Thanks, Betty. Do you prefer necklaces or bracelets?"

  "You know that's not necessary. But I'd like a bracelet sometime from some exotic place, if you insist."

  "Done. Good-bye, and thanks again. My plane is boarding."

  " 'Bye, Michael. Good luck."

  At O'Hare he called Air India and had British Airways check to see if anything had opened up. Nothing. "What if I go down to the gate and see if there's a no-show?" he asked the woman running the British Airways counter.

  "You can try." She looked at his ticket. "Your flight for New York leaves before ours departs for London. If you wait for us, you'll miss your New York flight."

  "I'll chance it. I'm feeling lucky, somehow."

  She shrugged and typed his name into the computer as a standby. "We're in the new United terminal, at the far end. Good luck."

  He bought cigarettes and coffee, then went to the United terminal. An hour and fifteen minutes until British Airways 42 would leave for London. The passengers were lined up, long line winding back and along the terminal wall. Baggage ... he never could understand why people carry so much. Huge suitcases tied with ropes. Christmas presents, bedrolls, tired kids with winter colds and runny noses tugging on their parents' hands, crying.

  The line moved slowly. Twenty-five minutes before departure. Then twenty. Only two people left to check in. "Michael Tillman, Mr. Michael Tillman, please come to the British Airways podium."

  He was there in four seconds.

  "Mr. Tillman, we have a seat for you on the London flight departing in approximately fifteen minutes. However, we are not able to confirm a seat for you on flight 34 to Madras. Do you still want to go with us tonight?"

  "Yes. I'll pay for the ticket with my Amex card."

  Six hours later he was looking at Ireland down below in first light, and he thought of Jellie standing along a stone wall somewhere down there, having a Polaroid picture taken, which eventually hung on a wall in Iowa. Except the picture was now in the pocket of his bush jacket. If you're going to be a tracer of lost persons, a photo might be useful. He'd thought o
f that at the last moment and brought the photo with him.

  Heathrow was chaotic, as usual. Michael passed up the transit lounge and went out into the main terminal, where he could look in the eyes of ticket agents. No problem. As the agent told him, people often book more than one flight under different names, and several cancellations had come in during the night.

  "Do you wish to book a return flight from India, Mr. Tillman?"

  He told her to put him down for January 12, a few days before the spring semester started. Indian officials strongly prefer you have a return ticket before a visa is issued. That's a precaution flowing partly from the old hippie days when Western kids went seeking truth and enlightenment and ended up being dope-smoking, social welfare problems for the Indian government.

  Michael pulled out his Amex card, got the ticket, and located the tube into London. He told an official he needed a visa to India and was steered in the right direction. Three hours later he was back at Heathrow, through security, and sitting in the transit lounge. Five hours before his flight to Madras.

  Time always moved pretty fast for Michael in big airports. He liked to watch people come and go, read a little, nap a little. After going into the restroom and washing his face, he bought a copy of the London Times, settled down on a chair, and put his feet on the knapsack. But he couldn't concentrate on the paper and fished the picture of Jellie out of his pocket. He sat there looking at it while the public address system summoned people to planes leaving for distant places. And somewhere out in those great spaces was a woman named Jellie Braden. She was out there, somewhere . . . somewhere.

  Chapter Nine.

  In spite of his smart-lip comment to Jellie one time, Michael Tillman was not jaded. Maybe a little cynical, probably more than he had a right to be, but not jaded. Never had been. That's an advantage coming down from the kind of childhood he spent. You grow up not expecting too much, so when good things happen in your life you're amazed they happened at all. Long-haul travel was that way for Michael. When the pilot came on the intercom and said they were passing over Baghdad, he looked down from his window seat and saw a brown city in the desert forty thousand feet below.

  He'd done that before on his first trip to India, thinking, Baghdad-I never thought I'd be flying over Baghdad. And he reached back like a mule skinner with a whip, pulling the memories forward, seeing himself working on the Shadow in his father's gas station thirty years before. Working on it and looking out at the highway and knowing the Vincent Black Shadow could take him down that road if he learned all there was to know about valves and turning wheels and highways running eastward.

  When the plane was two hours out of Madras, Michael took his shaving kit out of the knapsack and went to one of the tiny restrooms. This kind of travel leaves a film on the body and mind, and he'd developed the custom of shaving and cleaning up before landing. Somehow that also cleaned up the mind a little.

  The cabin was still dark, most people sleeping or trying to, a few reading lamps on. The flight attendants were talking quietly with one another in the midplane kitchen. He stuck his head in and asked for a cup of tea. They fixed him up, and he went back to his seat, steaming cup in hand, in good shape overall but with the special, taut feeling in his stomach he always got when approaching a distant place, particularly India.

  He lifted the window shade and looked out. India coming up below, like a woman sprawled in the sun. Daylight, rugged brown hills, green splotches of jungle. The cabin lights came on, breakfast was announced. He didn't feel like eating much but puttered around with fruit and toast, knowing it might be a while before he ate again.

  The plane came down over the jumbled spread of Madras, port city on the Bay of Bengal. Estimated population over four million. India treats such numbers casually, however, since the cities have a constant flow in and out, mostly in, of a wandering people.

  India is on the move, that's the dominant impression Michael always had. Look anywhere in the countryside or in the cities, and there are people walking, riding bicycles, hanging off roaring buses or leaning out of train windows. Moving . . . Moving. . . India.

  He walked in from the plane past men holding military rifles. Long line at the desk for those with foreign passports. Michael settled himself. You don't hurry India. India has its own style, its own pace, and high-strung Westerners who demand all tasks be carried out with speed and crisp efficiency don't do very well there. Warm and humid, and Michael was glad to be traveling light. The brown face above a dark green uniform looked at his passport, checked the ninety-day visa, and pounded the stamp.

  Customs was no problem since Michael wasn't carrying anything of value except cash and traveler's checks. But he was bringing in more than $1,000 U. S., and a form was required. India loved forms, though Michael had always been skeptical about where these forms eventually found a home. It was hard to believe that a currency official somewhere actually paid attention to the millions of handwritten documents gushing from the pens of travelers: "Hmmm, I see that Michael Tillman from Cedar Bend, USA, brought thirty-five hundred dollars with him on 2 December. We'll need to keep track of him in this country with nearly one billion people and a telephone system that, at best, wobbles along."

  Outside the protection of a large Indian airport, no rules applied. Touts, hundreds of them, pushing whatever could be imagined. Maybe a few rupees could be bilked from the tall white guy with the knapsack. Except he looked a little roadwise, no luggage, looked like a hard traveler. It would be better to move on to someone with a little more fat. Thousands of people were milling around, coming and going, many of them simply hung on for the entertainment value provided by a major airport. The cops kept most of them outside the airport, where they pressed their faces against dusty glass and waited for passengers to exit.

  A tourist desk in the lobby was actually open for business, which was a new twist. India was apparently working harder at getting gringos to come and leave some foreign exchange on their way through. On Michael's earlier visits, he had the clear sense nobody cared whether you came or didn't, whether you died in the customs line or went home.

  The man at the desk spoke understandable English. Michael said he wanted to go to Pondicherry. The man told him it was a three-hour ride by car if the traffic was heavy and would be happy to arrange a car and driver for Michael. He quoted a price of $30 U. S. That sounded steep for India, and Michael said as much.

  "Oooh, but you see, it is a six-hour round trip for the driver, since he must go to Pondicherry and come back empty. So you must pay for both ways."

  Michael knew better. He knew the driver would hang around Pondicherry and maybe get a fare back to Madras. How about the guys outside with their cabs?

  "Oooh, yes, sir, they will say they will take you for quite a lower price. But, sir, they are not quite reliable and may just take your money on the way, leaving you stranded." Michael knew the man was speaking with some accuracy.

  How about buses? Trains? The tourist official rambled on, running his finger up and down grimy, complicated schedules, and Michael started thinking, C'mon, Tillman. For chrissake, what are you doing? You're here in a panic to find Jellie Braden, and you're standing around haggling over a few bucks. For a moment, the spurious masculine pride in cutting the sharp deal, which seemed to lie throbbing in the hormones until called upon, had caused him to lose his way. As it usually did.

  The official arranged a car and driver, telling Michael to wait by the tourist desk. Michael asked the man if he had a guide to Pondicherry, maps, anything at all. The man produced a torn little magazine from under the counter, which he claimed was his only copy (Michael believed him) and started looking through it. A lecture on Pondicherry followed concerning the famous ashram founded there by a mystic-philosopher-poet-patriot named Sri Aurobindo, about hotels and restaurants and the beauty of the seawall.

  Was there a city map in the booklet? Yes, there was one, indeed, sir, a very nice map. Michael laid a five-dollar bill on the counter, keeping mo
st of it covered with his hand, and said he'd very much like to take the Pondicherry guide with him. It was Michael's in less than a second, and his driver in a smudged white outfit came up to the counter, smiling.

  Outside, the sun was a hammer. Other taxi drivers swung open their doors and said they would take Michael to wherever he was going for half of what the fellow in the smudged white uniform was charging. Michael said thanks, but he'd already booked a car. After that they stopped smiling and were not his friends anymore.

  As Michael's car pulled away from the airport, the driver began rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in the universal symbol for legal tender and pointed at his gas gauge, all the while saying, "Petrol." Indian taxi drivers were always running on empty, and he needed an advance. On Michael's last trip, two drivers had run out of gas while he was riding with them.

  Impatient, Michael tapped his foot while the tank was being filled. He noticed a fruit stand nearby and bought three bananas and two oranges, which he stuffed into the side pockets of his knapsack. Back in the car he waited for the driver. A ragged man bent down and looked in the window, displaying the grisly stump of an arm severed just above the elbow. Michael gave him five rupees. The man touched his forehead and backed away.

  Finally they were rolling through the noise and smoke and dust that was India and would always be India. Michael's nose was still adjusting to the thick odors-smoke from factories and open cooking fires, leaded gas, excrement from humans and animals, all of it mixed together and forming the dense and penetrating smell defining India. He never completely lost that smell. Michael noticed when he watched a travelogue on India back in Cedar Bend, his brain immediately pulled up those old India smells from wherever the memories of smells are stored. No other country had drilled its odors into him in the way India had.

  The women. He'd temporarily forgotten how beautiful were the Indian women, even the poorest ones. It was easy to fall in transient love every few seconds in India. A superb gene pool, male and female alike, maybe the best gene pool in the world when it came to physical appearance. Orange saris and green saris, red ones and blue ones, and gold upon their bodies, bracelets on their arms and combs in their hair. The women were lithe and walked just above the earth, so it seemed. Some with gold or silver chains running from nose to ear.