The Elephanta Suite

by Paul Theroux

  "Where do you live, Anna?"

  "Staff block, sir. Hostel, sir."

  "You keep saying 'sir.'"

  "Yes, sir," and she giggled, her hand over her mouth.

  Only the path just ahead was lit, but farther down the hill there was the glow that he now knew was the town of Hanuman Nagar and from that distant glow came chattering and shouting.

  "What's that noise?"

  "Temple, sir."

  "Monkey temple?"

  "Hanuman temple, sir."

  Audie was careful not to touch her, though she was walking just in front of him on the steep downward path toward the sound of a coughing vehicle and the glare of sulfurous lights. He saw a three-story squarish building, a smell of rotting clothes lingering near it.

  "Is that it?"

  "It is, sir."

  But he had stopped. He'd lost the momentum he'd had in the darkness on the path above. "In here, sir."

  He took a step toward her. He reached and put his arm around her, and he could tell in his embrace that she was breathing hard. She was tense, she seemed to quail, holding her face away from him yet presenting her hips to him. Her bare belly was soft like a cushion of bread dough in his hand.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, sir. I am all right, sir." He could tell she was willing; he could also tell she was terrified. "Let we go inside, sir?"

  Audie took a deep breath and, expelling it, slackened his grip on her. Aware that he was holding her lightly, he became self-conscious and let go. He felt in his pocket for his wallet that was fat with rupees, and without looking at the denominations—he carried only five-hundred-rupee notes—he took out a thickness of them and pressed them into her hand.

  "This is for you."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Not only did she accept them, she seemed relieved. Her whole body relaxed as she breathed more easily.

  "You're a good girl. I want you to stay that way."

  "Thank you, sir. Bless you, sir."

  She giggled a bit in relief and drew another deep breath as she watched him back away, up the path.

  Beth was in the room when Audie returned. He was so sheepish from his errand he did not notice how Beth held the book to shield her face, did not see her apprehension. He was himself so apprehensive.

  "I wasn't very hungry," he said.

  "I just had a snack."

  "Love ya," he said.

  Waiting in the woods, standing in the lowering darkness, had tired him; walking all that way down the path to the isolated apartment block had wearied him too. He thought, I don't have the energy anymore to walk in darkness. And he was ashamed of himself—of the power he had over the girl to make her obey. She had been afraid. He hated himself for putting her in that position, her obvious horror at the prospect of sex, yet willing to sacrifice herself to him for the money. In the exhaustion brought on by his shame he fell asleep, his mouth open, his harsh breath rising and falling.

  He did not hear Beth slip out of her bed and dress quickly; did not hear her pad to her room, carrying her sandals in her hand; did not hear the door click shut.

  Beth hurried from their suite to the stairwell, moving carefully out the front door, past the porte-cochère, and across the night-damp lawn to the grove of bamboo. Guided by the risen moon, she found the path to the laundry, and behind it the path to Hanuman Nagar.

  "Modom! Chowkidar, modom."

  The night watchman was on his feet, saluting with one hand, his flashlight in the other, showing her the way.

  Everything seemed easier now that it was an exercise of her will and not a stumbling in the darkness. The downward path lit by the fluorescence of the moon seemed much shorter, and ahead the main street of the town was empty. Two or three men hunkered on their heels, warming their hands at a flaring brazier. Some others she passed slept on the sagging rope beds they'd been squatting on earlier in the evening. The monkey temple at the curve in the road was silent, just a few torches burning.

  She had been this way before; it was simpler the second time. She found the alley, stepped over the monsoon drain, smiled at the doorway where the little girl had been and was no more, and at the latched door in the whitewashed wall she tapped lightly.

  A murmur came from inside, a word—but not an English word. She was aware of the twitching of curtains at the window next to the door. Then the sliding of a rusty bolt, the door snatched open, the now familiar smell of food.

  "Oh, thank you," he said.

  6

  They were up early for yoga, seated on their mats on the shelf of the pavilion before anyone else had arrived, even Vikram, the instructor; seated with their legs stiffly folded, an almost-achieved lotus position. Their eyes were closed. They were listening to the slight breeze brushing at the willow boughs, the twitter of birds, distant voices, feeling—as Vikram had urged every morning—the peaceful vibrations.

  Hearing "Namaskar," they opened their eyes and saw that Vikram had already taken his place on the pavilion and was holding his hands clasped. They were surrounded by other people sitting on mats. Without their realizing—for no one had spoken—the rest of the yoga class had gathered on the platform, eyes closed, waiting to begin.

  Audie leaned toward the couple next to him. They did not turn away, but neither did they acknowledge him.

  He was thinking: Everything has a past, especially in India, all the roots, the context, the history, the significance of the slightest thing—every name, every gesture, every morsel of food, every note of music; bend your knee or touch two fingers and it has meaning. But nothing I have ever done or said, no family name, no meal I've eaten, has any past or present, no meaning beyond its ordinariness: it is only what it looks like. Which is better, he wondered, the primary colors of my American life or the subtleties of Monkey Hill? I am what I appear to be, and the Indian never is.

  Distracted, he had not noticed that the class had been bidden to rise and were engaged in stretching, first the arms, hands clasped high above the head, and then an elongated posture, on tiptoe.

  "This asana is good for blood circulation. For back. For bowels. Tadasana. Mountain."

  Even this has a name, he was thinking; every gesture. He smiled at Beth, impressed that, so great was her concentration, she held her posture.

  Beth's mind was traveling backward, tugged by her uprightness and her lengthened arms, clasped hands aloft. His hands had held her tighter than this in an unnecessary grip, even after she'd said, I'm not going anywhere. He was repeating, Thank you, thank you, and soon after he had led her somewhat roughly—perhaps it was just his impatience—to the corner of the room, onto the mat, and was pushing at her clothes and seeming to sob with urgency.

  She had been at a loss—had no idea what was expected of her, was relieved simply to allow him his freedom to lift her clothes, to stroke her body, was even prepared to say, Take me. But in his frenzy any talk was superfluous. After fumbling with her clothes—and it was as though he'd never touched buttons before—he snatched them off her and knelt to embrace her. She was surprised by his furious impatience.

  "And down for crocodile posture," the yoga instructor was saying.

  He had lain upon her just like this, lengthwise, his whole weight pressing her, one knee forcing her legs apart. His jaw was clenched, he was fierce, his breath sucked between his teeth.

  "I am bad, I am wicious," he had said, still sucking his breath. "I love you."

  She twisted under him, feeling the bumping of his hips, and wanted to say, It hurts.

  None of it was printed on her body now. She was pure; she had washed herself clean.

  After his frenzy, almost sobbing to get his breath, he had said, "Sorry, madam," and rolled to the side, leaving her naked and unsatisfied and feeling assaulted—not seriously hurt but chafed and subtly bruised. But when she looked over at him, his hands were over his face, and she felt sorry for him in his shame. He had all at once deflated.

  "Ardha matsyendrasana. Named for holy man. Spinal
twist, don't exert, gently stretch," Vikram said, leading them in a posture of sideways body-twisting. "Good for blood pressure. For estomach. For espine. Compresses intestines and kidneys."

  Stretching, Beth remembered how Satish had recovered. At the door he had said, "What about present, madam? Some few rupees."

  The encounter—briefer than she'd expected, one-sided, more like a humiliating shove or a mild spanking—had left her lucid and a bit rueful. It had not been an act of possession, more one of rejection.

  "Haven't I just given you something?" she said.

  His voice going smoky and dark, he said, "I will see you tomorrow."

  But she was thinking now, I don't want to see you again.

  Beside Beth, on his mat, stretching and bending, breathing in gusts through his nostrils, Audie was preoccupied with a vivid glimpse of holding Anna, the memory of her bare skin on his hand, and how he had let go, given her money, and, seizing her last look, gone away. He thought: I could have had anything—she would have given me whatever I'd asked for. It unsettled him to remember how he had kissed her on the cheek and walked up the dark path to Agni and his suite. But he also thought how virtuous he'd been—faithful to Beth, after so many years of cheating. He could face her now.

  "Now, for rest, savasana," Vikram said. "Corpse pose."

  Audie lay in a zone of sleep and did not waken until the chanting ended, Shantih, shantih, shantih. He squirmed to a kneeling position to roll up his mat, but by then the yoga class had dispersed, all of them, mostly Indians, walking away from the pavilion and across the lawn as the sun, rising above the distant ridge, struck through the trees and dazzled him.

  They breakfasted, choosing the Indian option, filling their plates with beans and curried vegetables and yogurt while the waiters held the lids of the tureens open.

  "Everyone's so polite."

  "I'm going to miss that," Beth said.

  "Who said we're leaving?"

  The staff was more polite than usual this morning, but that seemed the Indian way. Instead of becoming more familiar, friendlier, loosening in conversation and growing chattier, Indians became more formal, more solemn, coming to attention like drilled foot soldiers facing generals: more respectful, straighter, heels together. Or was it just here at Agni?

  "As you wish, madam," one of the waiters said, bowing that morning—but it was only a request for more tea.

  "It is my pleasure," another one said to Audie.

  "They make you feel important," Audie said, yet he also sensed more distance than warmth in the politeness, and no one was smiling. "You going for a treatment?"

  "I think I'll pass."

  But Audie was eager, most of all eager to see what sort of reception he'd get from Anna, who owed him—he felt—unlimited gratitude. For hadn't he let her off the hook? He wanted to experience her grateful hands.

  At the spa lobby, three of the staff, like male nurses in white uniforms, stood at attention as Audie approached. He smiled, thinking that if they had worn shoes instead of sandals, their heels would have clicked.

  "I'm here for my treatment."

  "Have you booked, sir?"

  "I'll take anything you've got."

  "Nothing available, sir."

  What struck Audie was that the young man had not even glanced at the register of appointments, the thick bound book that lay open on the desk.

  "What do you mean, nothing?"

  "Nothing, sir."

  Anna had told him that she would be free in the morning. She said it, as she usually did, like the promise of a romantic assignation, an eagerness lighting her eyes.

  He said, "Anna—is she free?"

  "Not here, sir."

  "When will she get here?"

  "Not at all. Not employed here anymore, sir."

  Only this one man had done the talking—stonewalling was more like it. The other two, he sensed, were watching closely for his reaction, but Audie did not smile until he turned away, thinking, That's it—take the money and run.

  Later in the morning, curious about the route she'd taken the previous night—proud of her initiative, two times down the path to Hanuman Nagar; when in her life had she ever struck out alone like this?—Beth wandered through the bamboo grove and the trees above the laundry, just to see where she'd been. Pretending to admire the jasmine that edged the walkway, she worked her way to the path and saw the raw wood of a new fence with a gate crudely wired to it.

  "No entry, madam."

  A man in the khaki uniform of the grounds staff had stepped from behind a bush to block her way. He held a shiny truncheon.

  "I was just looking."

  "Needing chit for passage. Having chit, madam?"

  "Who are you?"

  "Chowkidar, madam."

  "This fence wasn't here yesterday."

  "No, madam. Put up today morning."

  Testing him, she said, "What if I want to go to the laundry?"

  "Not available." The man, still holding his truncheon, folded his arms over his chest.

  "I gave you money yesterday."

  "No, madam. You gave to Kumar."

  "Where is Kumar?"

  "Gone, madam. His willage, madam." He gestured with the truncheon, then dinged it on the boards of the new gate. "Hanuman Nagar side."

  She could see that the watchman was adamant, that her arguing with him would only give him a greater victory, something he clearly relished. His eyes glittered with defiance, his posture—skinny though he was—that of stubborn authority.

  On her way back to the pool, rattled by the encounter—but why should this flunky rattle me? she thought—she passed the spa to get a glimpse into the lobby. Instead of the usual boy in the chair who received people for treatments, she saw three men dressed in white, standing like sentries. Noticing her, one of them came to the door.

  "Yes, madam?"

  Beth smiled. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

  "You have booking for treatment?" He hadn't smiled back. "Not today." She peered behind him. "Is that Satish?"

  "No, madam."

  "You didn't even turn around. How are you so sure?"

  "Satish is gone."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Charge-sheeted, madam."

  She smiled again, as though she'd understood. "Actually, I was just going to the pool."

  Gone? All that she could think was that he had somehow slipped away, that he was guilty of some sort of thieving. He had asked her for money. With money on his mind he had probably stolen something from the spa's strongbox—some guests paid for their treatments in cash; she had seen the stacks of rupees.

  Beth looked at the big blue pool, remembering the monkeys—how they'd crept around her, snatched her food, frightened her, until Satish had appeared with his stick to scatter them. I have not stopped watching you.

  Slipping off her smock, kicking her sandals to the side of a lounge chair, Beth walked to the edge of the pool, the sun on her face.

  "Take shower first!"

  The voice was so sharp, such a screech, that Beth's whole body jerked as if pushed. She saw at her feet a floppy bathing cap—rubber, with a mass of pink plastic petals attached to it—enclosing a fierce-faced Indian woman she had never seen before.

  "Excuse me?"

  "You cannot use pool without shower!"

  The force of the woman's utterance was shocking, even her big teeth were frightening, but she was not just angry. She also seemed panicky, as if fearful of contamination.

  "Who said I was using the pool?"

  "Foot is in water!"

  It was true. Beth was standing in the gutter that ran around the pool to receive and drain the overflow.

  The woman was probably insane. Indians could seem mentally unbalanced, especially when they didn't get their way. Contamination was always on their tiny paranoid minds. Beth kicked at the water in spite and left.

  Over lunch, Audie and Beth hardly spoke except to remark on the pleasant weather, the sun-flecked veranda, the flowering trees,
the bolder birds raiding the leftovers at just-vacated tables.

  "Lovely place," Audie said.

  He was feeling virtuous again for having resisted the girl, virtuous for having given her money. He had assured her safety. He told himself that he had come all this way and done the right thing.

  "You look happy," he said.

  Beth nodded, swallowed her mouthful of food, and said, "Never better."

  All her questions had been answered. She had braved the risk. She had nothing to compare it to—she did not want to think that it had been brutal, though Satish had been briefly fierce. Food on his breath, his soapy-smelling skin, his teeth reddened by the betel nut he chewed. I am bad, I am wicious. His harshness. She replayed it all in her mind, until What about present, madam?

  "What's wrong?"

  Had she frowned? She said, "Nothing."

  The waiters came and went, refilling the water glasses, using tongs to put warm naan into the basket, and finally slipping the bill to be signed into a plastic wallet and placing it near Audie's plate.

  "So polite," Audie said.

  He found himself whispering, because everyone else was whispering. The angry woman Beth had seen in the pool was hunched over her food, avoiding eye contact, and there were some people eating on the veranda whom Beth and Audie had never seen before at lunchtime.

  That large table near the far rail, for example, was occupied by two men in suits and ties, looking out of place, one of them talking to the man Audie knew to be the manager, a man with an unpronounceable name whom he spoke to every Friday to renew their booking for another week. Today was Friday—he'd be seeing the man later.

  When the waiter approached Audie to pick up the wallet with the signed lunch bill, Audie put his hand over it to detain him.

  "Who's that?"

  "Mr. Shah, sir. Owner of Agni, sir. And his managing partner. Also, as you know, Mr. Rajagalopalachari, manager."

  Audie smiled in the direction of the owner, this Mr. Shah, as businessman to businessman, wishing for eye contact. But the man was still speaking, using the back of his hand, tapping on the table with his gold ring for emphasis.

  "I want to tell him he's got a great little place here," Audie said. He kept looking. "He's got things on his mind. He's working. I recognize that. Taking a meeting."