Dan Simmons - Song of Kali

"Hmmm? Where?"

"Mr. Michael Leonard Chatterjee's. He'll send his car. Do you want to go down to breakfast with your daughter and me?"

"Mmm." I pulled the extra pillow to my face and went back to sleep.

It seemed five minutes later that Amrita came through the door carrying Victoria. A waiter in white followed her with a tray. The travel clock read 10:28.

"Thank you," said Amrita. She set the baby on the carpet and tipped the waiter several rupees. Victoria clapped her hands and threw her head back to watch the man leave. Amrita picked up the tray, balanced it on one hand, and put a finger under her chin while executing a graceful curtsy in my direction. "Namastey and good morning, sahib. The management wishes you a wonderful and pleasant day although most of it is, alas, already gone. Yes, yes, yes."

I propped myself up in bed and she dusted off my lap with a napkin and carefully set the tray in place. Then she curtsied again and held out her hand, palm up. I dropped a sprig of parsley in it.

"Keep the change," I said.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, most generous sahib," she sang while backing away in an obsequious series of bows. Victoria put three fingers in her mouth and watched us dubiously.

"I thought you were going sari hunting today," I said. Amrita pushed back the heavy curtains and I squinted in the gray glare. "Christ," I said, "is that really sunlight? In Calcutta?"

"Kamakhya and I have already been shopping. Very nice shop. Quite reasonable, actually."

"Didn't find anything?"

"Oh, yes. They'll deliver the material later. We each bought yards and yards. I probably spent your entire advance."

"Damn." I looked down and made a face.

"What's the matter, Bobby? Is your coffee cold?"

"No, it's fine. Very good, in fact. I just realized that I missed my chance to see Kamakhya again. Damn."

"You'll survive," Amrita said and placed Victoria on the bed to change her.

The coffee was good, and there was more in a small metal pot. I uncovered the plate to reveal two eggs, buttered toast, and . . . marvel of marvels . . . three strips of real bacon. "Fantastic," I said. "Thanks, kid."

"Oh, it was nothing," said Amrita. "Of course, the kitchen had been closed for hours, but I told them that it was for the famous poet in Room 612. The poet that stays out most of the night swapping war stories with the boys and then comes home chuckling to himself loudly enough to wake his wife and baby."

"Sorry."

"What was that conference about last night? You were mumbling to yourself in your sleep until I nudged you."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry."

She taped Victoria's new diaper in place, disposed of the old one, and came back to sit on the edge of the bed. "Honestly, Bobby, what revelations did Krishna's Mysterious Stranger come up with? Was he a real person?"

I offered her a wedge of toast. She shook her head no and then lifted it from my fingers and took a bite. "Do you really want to hear the story?" I asked.

Amrita nodded. I took a sip of coffee, decided not to give a blow-by-blow synopsis, and began talking in a light, slightly sarcastic tone of voice. Pausing occasionally to give my opinion of certain parts of the tale by shaking my head or making short remarks, I managed to retell Muktanandaji's three-hour monologue in less than ten minutes.

"My God," said Amrita when I was finished. She seemed distracted, even disturbed.

"Well, anyway, it was a hell of a way to end my first full day in beautiful downtown Calcutta," I said.

"Weren't you frightened, Bobby?"

"Good God, no. Why should I be, kiddo? The only thing that worried me was getting back to the hotel with my billfold still on my person."

"Yes, but . . ." Amrita stopped, went over to Victoria, returned a dropped pacifier to her hand, and came back to the bed. "If nothing else, I mean, you spent the evening with a madman, Robert. I wish . . . I wish I had been there to interpret."

"Me too," I said truthfully. "As far as I know, Muktanandaji spent the entire time reciting the Gettysburg Address over and over in Bengali while Krishna made up the ghost story."

"Then you don't think the boy was telling the truth?"

"The truth?" I repeated. I frowned at her. "What do you mean? Corpses being brought back to life? Dead poets being resurrected from river mud? Hon, M. Das disappeared eight years ago . He'd be a pretty wasted zombie, don't you think?"

"No, I didn't mean that," said Amrita. She smiled, but it was a tired smile. I should never have brought her, I realized. I'd been so worried that I would need an interpreter, someone to help me out with the culture. Dumb shit . "I just thought maybe that the boy might have thought he was telling the truth," she said. "He could have tried to join the Kapalikas or whatever they're called. He might have seen something that he didn't understand."

"Yeah, that's possible," I said. "I don't know. The kid was a mess — red eyes, lousy skin, a mass of nervous mannerisms. He might have been on drugs, for all I know. I got the idea that Krishna was adding or changing a lot of things. It was like one of those comedy routines where the foreigner grunts and the interpreter chatters on for ten minutes. Know what I mean? Anyway, it could be that he tried to join this secret society and they played spooky games to impress him. But it's my guess that it was Krishna's idea of a scam."

Amrita took the tray and carried it to the dresser. She rearranged the cup and silverware in various patterns. She did not look at me. "Why is that? Did they ask for money?"

I pushed the sheet away and walked to the window. A streetcar moved down the middle of the street, discharging and collecting passengers without stopping. The sky was still painted with low clouds, but there was enough sunlight to throw shadows on the cracked pavement. "No," I said. "Not in so many words. But Krishna ended the evening with a cute little epilogue — very sotto voce — explaining how his friend had to find a way to get out of the city, to get to Delhi or somewhere, possibly even South Africa. He left no doubt that a few hundred American dollars would be welcome."

"Did he ask for money?" Amrita's weighted British vowels were sharper than usual.

"No. Not in so many words —"

"How much did you give them?" She showed no sign of anger, only curiosity.

I padded over to my suitcase and began pulling out clean underwear and socks. Once again I realized that the greatest argument against marriage, the absolutely irrefutable argument against living with one person for years, was the destruction of the illusion of free will by the spouse's constant recognition of one's total predictability. "Twenty dollars," I said. "It was the smallest traveler's check I had. I left most of the Indian currency with you."

"Twenty dollars," mused Amrita. "At today's exchange rate, that would be about a hundred and eighty rupees. You made it out to Muktanandaji?"

"No, I left it blank."

"He might have a hard time getting all the way to South Africa on a hundred and eighty rupees," she said blandly.

"Goddammit, I don't care if the two of them go buy nose candy with it. Or use it to start a charity account — Save-Muktanandaji-From-the-Wrath-of-the-Kapalikas-Fund. Tax-deductible. Give now."

Amrita said nothing.

"Look at it this way," I said. "We can't get a sitter, go into Exeter to see a bad movie, and go to McDonald's afterward for twenty bucks anymore. His story was a lot more enjoyable than some of the films we've driven to Boston to see. What was the name of that silly kiddie film we spent five dollars to see with Dan and Barb right before we left?"

" Star Wars ," said Amrita. "Do you think you'll be able to use any of his story in the Harper's article?"