Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend

by Robert James Waller

  The motorcycle rental outfit was located in a little garage next to the Cool Cat Coffee Bar with grease everywhere and parts scattered about. Michael felt at home. Two machines leaned against the door, two more were torn down inside. Michael could have either of the two by the door. He looked them over. They were rough as the roads they traveled and pretty well banged up. The old Kawasaki looked like it might run, and after a few kicks he had it going. The proprietor stood watching him, hands on hips, not smiling. Michael pointed to tools on the workbench.

  Ten minutes later he had the chain tightened and the carburetor adjusted. The garage man was grinning. Technical competence always brought respect. Michael paid a fifty-dollar deposit and recalibrated his mind to driving on the left-hand side of the road, then took the Kawasaki out into evening traffic, running easy until he got the feel of driving in what always seemed the wrong way.

  He took the same route back to the hotel as he’d come, picking up two plastic containers of bottled water on the way, and parked the bike in the courtyard. Tonight he’d walk. When the search needed to be expanded or he had to get somewhere in a hurry, the bike would take him there.

  Maigrit greeted him and said what a handsome machine Michael had found. Michael took out the picture of Jellie and said he was looking for her.

  Maigrit looked at it, then at Michael, and asked, “Amour?” Michael smiled and nodded. Maigrit was sorry, but he’d never seen her. “There are many Western women who come here to participate in the ashram. They look for comfort and inner peace, perhaps a new way of life.”

  The Frenchman no longer operated a restaurant in his hotel, but if Michael wanted continental food, the Alliance Franchise was not far, just opposite the Park Guest House. It was a club, though membership rules were not tightly enforced. Simply walk through the gate, cross the courtyard, and go up the steps.

  Michael thought twice about going there. He wasn’t too worried about running into Jellie, because he figured she wanted to sink back into Indian ways and would take her meals at Indian restaurants or, more likely, cook for herself. But word moved fast in these Indian towns, and he had a feeling the Western community would pass the news about a newcomer who wore jeans and sandals and seemed to be looking for someone.

  But he was hungry and wasn’t ready for Indian cuisine yet, so he walked through quiet streets in the direction the Frenchman had directed him. A few people sat on steps in this section of the city, but most of the houses were behind high walls. Two white men with shaved heads and wearing saffron-colored wraps, bare legs poking out from thigh level down, went by in the opposite direction, paying no attention to Michael.

  He turned left on Rue Bazare St. Laurent, missed his right turn on Rue Dumas, and came to Cours Chabrol—Beach Road—running along the seawall. The night breeze was kind, and Michael stood in the shadows at the end of Rue Bazare St. Laurent without crossing over to the seawall. The walkways were crowded with evening strollers. Off to his right, just up the road, was the gated entrance to the Park Guest House, the ashram’s hotel.

  When two Western women in Indian dress came along the sidewalk, he turned around, heading back up the street he had just come down, feeling odd, as if he were involved in an international espionage operation. Jellie, what have you done to me? I was content, if not supremely happy, before we met, and here I am walking the back streets of India looking for you, and in some small part of me not wanting to find you, fearful of what you might say, of what you might tell me you are going to do with the rest of your life.

  A guard stood at the Alliance Franqaise’s gate. Michael pointed at his own chest, then pointed inside and said, “Restaurant?”

  The guard nodded and motioned him through the gate. There were trees and flowers in the courtyard. Off to one side was a cement platform where an Indian woman was dancing to the rhythm of a drummer sitting cross-legged in the shadows behind her.

  No one else was in the courtyard, but he could hear an accordion playing a French song in the building ahead of him. Michael watched the dancer for a moment. She was oblivious of him, stopping after a moment and speaking to the drummer, who then started off again in a slightly different rhythm.

  The first floor of the place had a unisex bathroom and a black-and-white photography exhibition hanging on its gray walls. Music and laughter came from the floor above, and he went up the stairs into the restaurant. Half of it was covered, the rest was open to the night. Waiters were moving rapidly around in white uniforms, and a young Indian in dark slacks and purple shirt came toward Michael, speaking in French. Michael smiled and said, “Dinner, please?”

  “Just one, monsieur?” His English was very good.

  Michael nodded.

  “Do you prefer indoors or outside?”

  “Outside, please.”

  The maitre d’ seated Michael at a small table off in a corner. Michael’s entrance caused a few curious heads to turn, but the laughter and eating and drinking quickly resumed. He ordered beer and a chicken brochette from the open-flame barbecue built into the wall across the room from where he was seated. Stars were out, the scent of jasmine came on the night wind, and he sat there alone, staring at his hands.

  The food was excellent, served with rice and French bread. And chocolate cake with good strong coffee afterward. He was starting to feel somewhat whole again. On his way out, an older man had taken over the maitre d’ role. When Michael walked over to him, the man smiled warmly.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner?”

  Michael told him it was very good, then showed him the picture of Jellie. The maitre d’ looked at it, then at Michael, repeated those two moves, and stopped smiling.

  “Have you seen her?” Michael asked.

  The maitre d’ stared at him and didn’t answer.

  “I’m looking for her; it’s very important I find her.”

  The man lit a cigarette, looked at the picture again, then handed it back to Michael. “Long time ago, maybe.”

  “How long? A week? How long?”

  “Long time. Ten, fifteen years. It’s hard to say; the woman I’m thinking of was much younger. Excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Michael took a deep breath and wondered. The man had looked at him and the photo, friendliness turning to curt dismissal afterward, almost as if the maitre d’ recognized Jellie’s picture and wanted to be done with Michael as soon as possible. Michael walked back to his hotel through dark, quiet streets, still wondering.

  For two days he wandered Pondicherry with no organized search strategy. On the third day he took the bike out to Auroville, but it was spread out over miles, little settlements and houses scattered about. If she was there, he’d never find her. In early evenings he sat on the seawall near the ashram guest house and watched traffic coming for the evening meal. He tried talking with the austere woman guarding the front desk of the guest house, but that was useless. People came there to get away and be left alone. When Michael showed her the photo of Jellie, the woman shook her head and went back to her ledgers.

  He was getting nowhere and asked Maigrit for directions to the college he’d read about in the guide. Maigrit ran his finger along the street map, showing Michael the location and how to get there. Michael wheeled the Kawasaki out of the hotel courtyard, kicked the starter, and rolled north through the city.

  The college was in a shabby section of Pondicherry. Cruising around the small campus, Michael saw a weathered sign reading “Department of Management.” Time to flash the credentials. He introduced himself to a secretary, telling her who he was and where he was from. This was a situation where titles would help. Indians loved credentials and respected professors only a little less than credentials. She went down a hallway into an office, coming back in less than a minute, followed by a short, round, Indian man in his fifties. He wore glasses and a necktie reaching about halfway down his chest.

  Friendly smile. “Ah, Dr. Tillman, how good of you to call on us.”

  He wanted to know all about Michael’s a
cademic life. Michael ran the list of degrees and experience, impatient to get on with the reason he’d come. But India observed its courtesies with a fair amount of pomp, and he was bound to reciprocate. Before long they were joined by two economists, with tea served by the secretary shortly after. One of the professors excused himself, saying he would return momentarily. When he did, a copy of The Atlantic was in his hand. It was opened to Michael’s article on tax incentives. He pointed to the article, then at Michael. “And did you write this, Dr. Tillman?” Michael nodded. The professor smiled then, big smile. “Quite a brilliant piece of work. Very nice indeed.”

  Credibility had been established, Michael was on his home ground, and these were bright, decent people he was dealing with. He told them about searching for Jellie, leaving out the background details, saying only it was extremely important he locate her. They didn’t recognize her photo, but when Michael mentioned Jellie’s interest in anthropology, the department head called to his secretary and spoke to her out in the hall.

  “I have requested my secretary summon one of the anthropology professors to talk with you. There are many projects in anthropology going on in Pondicherry. The French especially have strong interests in those areas, having established an institute some years ago with which our college cooperates.”

  In ten minutes a woman appeared in the office doorway. She was fortyish and wore a pink sari. The department head stood, introducing her as Dr. Dhavale, professor of anthropology. The photo of Jellie, which was becoming a little shopworn after being held by a hundred hands in the last few days, was lying on the desk. Immediately the anthropology professor picked it up, glanced at it, then looked at Michael.

  His heartbeat went up twenty points. “Is there any chance you know the woman in the picture?”

  The professor’s face was cautious. “You say your name is Tillman? Michael Tillman?”

  “Yes.”

  “From a place called Cedar Bend?”

  His pulse jumped another ten points. “Yes.”

  “May Dr. Tillman and I have words in private, please?” She was addressing the department head.

  “Oh, yes, of course, Dr. Dhavale. Dr. Tillman, could we impose upon you to give a lecture or two while you are in town? I know our students and faculty would very much appreciate it.”

  They’d been helpful. Saying no was a problem, a matter of both courtesy and gratitude. “Dr. Ramani, I will be happy to do that sometime. First, however, I must not delay in finding Mrs. Braden. When I have done that, may I contact you and set up the lectures if I am going to be in Pondicherry?”

  “Yes, yes, certainly. We understand, though we are disappointed you must hurry off. Please let us know when you can lecture for us, and we will set up a very nice afternoon with a reception afterwards.”

  Michael said he’d do that and followed Dr. Dhavale out of the building across a courtyard into another building, where her tiny office was located. For the first time in seventy-two hours he did not feel tired.

  She sat across her desk from him, black eyes bold and cool, sizing him up. “Jellie Markham and I became friends years ago, during the time she was here for her thesis work.” She used Jellie’s maiden name and the French pronunciation with the soft j— JahLAY—for her first name. “We have corresponded with each other through the years and have remained close.”

  Michael said nothing but began to understand how dumb he’d been for the last three days, using Jellie’s married name and the American pronunciation of her Christian name. Even if someone had known her, they wouldn’t have recognized the names he was giving them if she’d assumed the French version when she lived in Pondicherry. And that would make sense, given the heavy French atmosphere permeating the city.

  “Dr. Dhavale, I’m forty-three. It took a lot of years for me to be able to feel about someone the way I feel about Jellie. I care for her, I need to find her, I need your help to do it.”

  The anthropologist studied him as if she were deciding on a final course grade. “I do not wish to violate her confidence, so I’m not sure of how much to say, Dr. Tillman. But I know Jellie has strong feelings for you. She has lived a complicated life, more complicated than you can imagine. But those details are for her to tell you when she chooses. She sent a letter to you, giving you my name and address in case you wanted to contact her. But I don’t think she anticipated you would show up on my doorstep. Did you receive her letter?”

  “No. I must have left before it arrived in Cedar Bend. I found you quite by accident.”

  “This is very difficult for me, Dr. Tillman, please understand that. I want to help you, but I do not wish to upset Jellie and ruin our friendship by saying what I shouldn’t. I know she felt bad about not saying a proper good-bye to you.” Chitra Dhavale looked out the only window in her office, dusty window, then turned back to Michael. “She left several days ago for Thekkady. Do you know of it?”

  “No.”

  “It is a village quite near a beautiful place called Lake Periyar. Jellie told me you spent time in south India, so I thought you might have heard of it. She is staying with people named Sudhana who live in the countryside near Thekkady.”

  “May I ask what she is doing there? Do you know?”

  “Yes, I know, but that is part of what is not my place to tell you, and I am afraid I have already violated her confidence by saying what I have said.”

  “What is the best way to Thekkady? The best route?”

  “You could go back to Madras and fly to Cochin or Madurai, taking a car after that. Perhaps a better, though more tiring way is to take the early afternoon train out of Pondicherry. It is a meter-gauge railway, so you ride it just down to Villupuram Junction, which is approximately forty kilometers from here. From there you take the Trivandrum Mail southward and get off in Madurai. After that you can either take a bus or hire a car and driver to take you on to Thekkady. It is an arduous trip, Dr. Tillman, but it is probably the quickest route. Your other alternative, flying out of Madras, may be frustrating. You might arrive there and not be able to find a seat on a flight for several days.”

  She looked at her watch. “It’s a little before twelve. If you hurry, Dr. Tillman, you can catch the one o’clock train to Villupuram. I have a feeling you are anxious to be on your way, am I not correct?” She gave him a warm, Indian-woman smile. “If you find Jellie Markham, please tell her of my distress over this and ask her to forgive me if I have done wrong by telling you where she is.”

  “I will. Thank you, Dr. Dhavale.”

  As he went out her office door, Chitra Dhavale said, “Dr. Tillman?” He turned, paused.

  “Jellie may be using the name Velayudum instead of Braden or Markham. Don’t ask me why. Just accept what I have told you. And I should add this: If you find her, things may seem somewhat strange and perhaps quite disappointing, or at least unsettling to you. As I said before, Jellie has lived a complicated life.”

  So it was the Trivandrum Mail south to Madurai and a car westward after that.

  Eleven

  Thekkady lies on the border between the states of Tamil Nadu and Kerala, in the high country of southwest India. On the edge of town is a gate across the road, a red bar that reminded Michael of the old Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin. The driver halted and went into a small office near the road. Any moment Michael expected to hear Richard Burton’s voice speaking the words from a John Le Carré novel, something about a man coming in from the East tonight.

  All hell broke loose in the office. The driver showed his papers, but apparently crossing from one state to another in this area was pretty much the same as going from one country to the next. From what Michael could make out, the Kerala authorities refused to honor the much trumpeted, all-India driver’s license.

  Michael got out, leaned against the car. More words that turned into shouting and what sounded like threats. He pointed to the bar, lifted his knapsack, and asked with sign language if he could cross. It was more complicated than he’d thought, requiring a
twenty-dollar bill in the hand of the border official to get him through after paying off the driver. Baksheesh, it’s called, and it was everywhere and always had been.

  Cool mountain air and thin yellow sunlight, quiet village in midafternoon, dusty road. Michael walked down it, his boots leaving deep footprints. “Hey, boss, you go lake?” The young Indian man was standing by a jeep.

  Michael looked at a name scribbled in his pocket notebook, then walked over to the jeep man and said, “Maybe. Find people called Sudhana, first.”

  “No, boss, we go lake only.” He whacked the side of the jeep. “Two hundred rupees for ride. Pretty place there.”

  It might be pretty, but that wasn’t where Michael was going. He held up three one-hundred-rupee bank notes. “Find house of Sudhana, first. Then two hundred more if I want to go to the lake.” It turned out maybe the jeep didn’t have to go to the lake after all.

  The young man was in no hurry and started talking to several others hanging around. They looked at Michael and laughed. The young bastards were always brave in groups. They knew he had cash, big cash to them. Stuck in his belt, under his wrinkled bush jacket, was a short-bladed hunting knife he carried in these parts of the world. He could feel the handle pressing into his back.

  A few years ago he’d held the knife against the throat of a taxi driver late one night in Mysore, north of here, when things were getting rough and a crowd of young smart-asses was encouraging the driver to dump him and a female companion out of the cab. When the Mysore driver felt the blade against his skin he let out the clutch as if he were having a muscle spasm, knocking two of the smart boys on their rears.

  An older man came out of a store, shouting. From what Michael could tell, the man owned the jeep and was ordering a general shaping up and getting on with business. There was chatter in multiple dialects, the name Sudhana mentioned several times. The older man sketched on a piece of cardboard and handed it to the younger one, who had called Michael “boss.” He walked over to the jeep, grinning, patting the jump seat, and motioning with his head for Michael to climb in. The young one and another bundle of insolence about the same age got in the front seats.