Dan Simmons - Song of Kali

"Goddammit to goddam hell." I went into the bathroom, flung the pajamas into a bag of dirty laundry, and scrubbed myself under a pounding shower. My hands and legs were still shaking when I emerged fifteen minutes later. My head hurt so fiercely that small dots danced in the periphery of my vision.

I dressed quickly and took four aspirin. Dark stubble stood out against my pale cheeks, but I decided not to shave. I came out of the bathroom just as Amrita returned with Victoria.

"Where the fuck were you?" I snapped.

She froze, her smile of greeting slowly fading. Victoria stared at me as at a stranger.

"Well?"

Amrita's back straightened. Her voice was level. "I went back to the sari shop to get Kamakhya's address. I tried to phone but the lines have been dead. As long as we're staying another day, I wanted to exchange the material. Didn't you see my note?"

"We're supposed to be almost to London by now. What the hell happened?" My voice was harsh, but the anger was already beginning to flow away.

"What do you mean, Bobby? Just what do you mean?"

"I mean what happened to the damn alarm, the cab we'd arranged, the BOAC flight? That's what I mean."

Amrita moved briskly to set the baby down. She crossed to the window, jerked the curtains back, and folded her arms. "The 'damn alarm' went off at four. I got up. You refused to wake up, even after I shook you. Finally, when I did get you to sit up, you said, 'Let's wait another day.' And all this was because you sat up all night reading."

"I said that?" I shook my head and sat down on the edge of the bed. The world's worst hangover still throbbed and threatened to make me throw up. Hangover from what ? "I said that?"

" You said that." Amrita's voice was cold. In our years of marriage, I'd cursed at her very few times.

"Damn. I'm sorry. I wasn't awake. That damned manuscript."

"You said you were going to wait to read it on the plane."

"Yeah."

Amrita uncrossed her arms and went over to the mirror to replace a strand of hair that had come loose. The color was coming back to her lips. "That's all right, Bobby. I don't mind staying another day."

An urgency rose in my throat. My voice sounded strange to me. "Goddamn it, I mind. You and Victoria aren't staying another day. What time are the Air India flights to Delhi?"

"Nine-thirty and one o'clock. Why?"

"You're taking the one o'clock flight and catching the evening Pan Am flight out of Delhi."

"Bobby, that will mean . . . What do you mean 'you'? Why aren't you going? You have the manuscript."

"You two are going. Today. I have to finish something relating to this stinking article. One more day will do it."

"Oh, Bobby, I hate to travel alone with Victoria —"

"I know, kiddo, but it can't be helped. Let's get your stuff repacked."

"It's still packed."

"Good. Get Victoria ready and the bags together. I'll go downstairs and arrange for a taxi and a porter." I kissed her on the cheek. Normally there would have been an argument at any attempt by me to be dictatorial, but Amrita heard something in my voice.

"All right," she said. "But you'd better hurry. You can't reserve tickets over the phone in India, you know. You just have to show up early and stand in line."

"Yeah. I'll be right back."

"Mr. Gupta?" The phone in the lobby was working.

"Hello. Yes. Hello?"

"Mr. Gupta, this is Robert Luczak."

"Yes, Mr. Luczak. Hello?"

"Listen, Mr. Gupta, I want you to arrange a meeting with M. Das. A private meeting. Just him and me."

"What? What? This is not possible. Hello?"

"It had better be possible, Mr. Gupta. Make whatever contacts you have to and tell Das that I want to meet with him today ."

"No, Mr. Luczak. You do not understand. M. Das had not permitted anyone to —"

"Yes, I've heard all of that. But he'll meet with me, I'm sure. I urge you to expedite this, Mr. Gupta."

"I am very sorry, but —"

"Listen, sir, I'll explain the situation. My wife and baby are leaving Calcutta in a few minutes. I'm flying out tomorrow. If I have to leave without seeing Das, I'm still going to have to write an article for Harper's . Would you like to hear what that article is going to say?"

"Mr. Luczak, you must understand that it is impossible for us to arrange for you to meet M. Das. Hello?"

"My article will say that for some reason known only to themselves, the members of the Bengali Writers' Union have attempted to perpetrate the biggest literary fraud since the Clifford Irving hoax. For some reason known only to themselves, this group has accepted money in exchange for a manuscript they claim is the work of a man who has been dead for eight years. And what is more —"

"Completely untrue, Mr. Luczak! Untrue and actionable. We will press charges. You have no proof of these allegations."

"And what's more, this group has despoiled a great poet's name by producing a pornographic paean to a local demon goddess. Authoritative sources in Calcutta suggest that the Writers' Union may have done this because of contacts they have with a group called the Kapalikas — an outlawed cult involved in the city's crime world and reputed to offer human sacrifices to their demented goddess. How do you like it so far, Mr. Gupta? Hello, Mr. Gupta? Hello?"

"Yes, Mr. Luczak."

"What do you think, Mr. Gupta? Shall I go with that or shall I interview M. Das?"

"It will be arranged. Please call back in three hours."

"Oh . . . and Mr. Gupta?"

"Yes."

"I've already mailed one copy of my . . . ah . . . first article to my editor in New York with instructions not to open it unless I'm delayed in my return home. I hope that it won't be necessary to do that version. I'd much rather do the Das story."

"It will not be necessary, Mr. Luczak."

All cabs to and from Dum-Dum Airport were driven by veterans of the '71 Indo-Pakistani War. Our driver had scar tissue covering his right cheek and a broad, black patch over his eye that made me speculate idly about monocular vision and depth perception as we weaved in and out of heavy traffic on VIP Highway.

It was raining again. Everything was the color of mud — the clouds, the road, the burlap-tin hovels piled on one another, and the distant factories. Only the red and white stripes painted around the occasional banyan tree near the roadside added color to the scene. Near the edge of town there were new apartment buildings going up. I could tell they were new by the bamboo scaffolding girdling them and the bulldozers parked nearby in the mud, but the structures looked as decayed and age-streaked as the oldest ruins in the center of the city. Beyond the bulldozers were clusters of lean-tos occupied by huddled forms. Were these the families of construction crews or new residents waiting to occupy the buildings? Most likely the shacks were just the nucleus of a new chawl ; the growing edge of 250 square miles of unrelieved slum.

To our left was the white sign I'd glimpsed at night. This side read —

CALCUTTA WISHES YOU

GOOD-BYE

GOOD HEALTH.

A woman with pans and a large bronze jug stacked atop her head squatted in the mud beneath the sign.

The airport was crowded, but not as insanely so as the night we arrived. The Delhi flight was already filled but there had just been a cancellation. Yes, the Pan Am flight would leave New Delhi at ?P.M. It should be possible to get tickets.

We checked the luggage through and wandered through the terminal. There were no empty chairs, and it took awhile to find a quiet corner where we could change Victoria's diaper. Then we went into a small coffee shop to have a soft drink.